I have been going to Numaish almost every year since I learned how to walk. My parents would take me there to do two things: walk endlessly and master the most important life skill, saying no.
Numaish was my first exposure to rejection, negotiation, and dust.
As a child, I wanted everything. Especially magic toys, plastic guns, remote-controlled vehicles, and key chains that served no purpose other than existing. I would stop at every stall and ask my parents to buy me the shiniest thing on display.
Instead, they would buy me cotton candy.
Cotton candy is bad for teeth, but my parents understood something crucial. It would keep me quiet until I finished the pink cloud. That is why cotton candy is such a massive hit at fairs. It is cheap, it looks exciting, and it can occupy a child long enough for parents to peacefully buy a roti maker, onion cutter, or lemon squeezer that will stop working in two weeks.
As a child, I always believed that when I grew up, I would come back and buy everything I wanted. And one day, I did. In fact, I do it every year.
The problem is, everything I buy still disappears in two weeks.
I have a theory. Numaish products have life inside them, like the toys in Toy Story. They stay with us briefly, then start silently disappearing by July, only to return in January at the same stall, pretending nothing happened.
That is why these products exist only in my memory, never in my house.
As a kid, I was allowed to go on only a few rides. This was before videos of people falling off giant wheels due to loose screws became viral. Safety, back then, was still operating on faith.
But one risk I take every year, without fail, is the Wall of Death.
In life, many things have come and gone. But the Wall of Death remains untouched by time, inflation, or common sense. The law of diminishing marginal utility simply does not apply here.
It was thrilling when I was seven. It is thrilling now. Mainly because nothing has changed.
The same wooden structure. The same Maruti 800. The same RX 100.
Sometimes I wonder what will happen to the Wall of Death when these vehicles finally go extinct. Is there a secret Maruti 800 factory operating exclusively to support Numaish riders?
And the riders themselves are still the coolest people at the fair. Handing them cash directly gives me an unreasonable amount of joy. That moment generates more dopamine than a good Instagram reel.
I even stop before parking to withdraw cash from an ATM, just so I can hand out hundred-rupee notes. The way the rider takes the note from your hand feels oddly ceremonial, like a paywall to the Wall of Death.
And the sound, the accelerator with no silencer echoing inside a wooden cylinder, reminds you that you are alive. It drowns out the inner voice asking uncomfortable questions like, if there is an emergency, how are all of us getting out without a stampede? Different reasons. Same Wall of Death.
There is nothing at Numaish that I need anymore. But I still go every year to feel excitement the old way, listen to sales pitches I now reject, and eat street food lightly seasoned with dust.
Things break. Logic disappears. And for a few hours, so does adulthood.
Sandesh
@msgfromsandesh
(This comedian is here to tell funny stories about Hyderabad)
(The writer’s views are his own)