The suburb where I grew up in, remained quite uneventful throughout the year. Aside from a few stray rumours and formulaic gossip, not much drama cropped up around there. Until the summers arrived and the gravel roads began sticking to the soles of people’s shoes and the metal fence that surrounded a tiny rugged field started to look like vibrating tuning forks from afar, during the daytime. 

Summers in the suburbs are notoriously long, irksome and humid. The affluent ones are somewhat shielded by air conditioning while the rest struggle to cope with the effects of the hot exhaust air being belched out of a variety of cooling devices. The summer heat has a certain intoxicating effect on everyone. One can see people losing their temper the moment they step out of their homes, losing control of their motor skills if they stayed in the sun too long, and chugging lots of fluid after they are back inside the comfort of their homes. Even cats and dogs, forgetting their fabled animosity, are seen huddled inside whatever nook and cranny is available that provides respite from the very real heat. 

Emotions are at an all time high during suburban summers. With decreasing attention span and patience, the only thing that can successfully pacify a hot-headed, sweaty person is a plate of perfectly ripe mangoes, maybe with the lure of a second helping as well.

The mangoes, the sticky and grungy feeling, the high temperatures was quite commonplace in our semi-town. The unique event arrived a little later in the season.

Just like bougainvillea petals that sprout from the tips of the branches, the most queer looking shops cropped up during the last week of the first month of the year, according to the Bengali calendar. This was only the teaser to the actual bloom that was coming our way. The shops were a mere structure fashioned out of bamboo and huge water-proof plastics and were home to mountains of fried snacks like sand-roasted peanuts, salty cashews, green peas that were definitely not naturally tinted and many more. Men in sleeveless shirts with holes in them spent the whole day tending to their sweet and savoury goodies. No one really knew where these men or their shops came from or even bothered to ask. We simply accepted their appearance like we accepted the flora and fauna of the summer season.

On the very first day of the hottest month of the year a tiny fair sprung up on the people back home— like a pink periwinkle shrub growing on a random patch of the ground, its head jutting out in between tar and bricks. This was no surprise for the folks, rather a highly curated annual affair cued right in time when the heat became unbearable and the humans craved some distraction while they waited for the first signs of rain.

More than the fair itself it’s the anticipation that excited me more. First, van-loads of bamboo and canvas were unloaded followed by pieces of metal structure that would be assembled into merry-go-rounds for kids followed by the wares that the sellers would be putting on display soon. The rugged field that looked like a bald spot on the map, would become the epicentre of all the fair-action.

The actual fair lasted for only three days but the days leading up to it and the days after the frenzy had passed, fuelled our quiet town’s grapevine for weeks. It wasn’t too shabby for the suburb-mice and their much awaited Cinderella moment. At the strike of the metaphorical gong the crowd arrived in multitudes. Human bodies packed into narrow streets and alleyways. Public transport was banned for several hours in the evening while the highly public event remained in full swing. The only priority was the fair and all those who came to make it the biggest sensation of the year.

The fair was a living, breathing creature that let its presence known from quite a distance. The local club, handling the logistics, would be blasting welcome greetings and warnings, over giant megaphones, lining the main street, all in the same breath which could be heard from at least half a mile away. As one stepped closer to the grounds, one became a part of the creature. No matter how many times one had the fortune to experience this affair, everyone had this starry-eyed look on their faces as they scanned the shops to begin the haul. 

And there was a lot to choose from.

Kitchen equipment and imitation jewellery were always a big hit. The women couldn’t get enough of the tea cups. When I was younger I would get impatient with the waiting while my mother tried to choose between two black cups. As I grew up I realised the activity was weirdly calming and eventually joined the club. Fake flowers to adorn the fake wood vases, toy fans imported from China, miniature statues of superheroes like Spiderman and Gautam Buddha sitting side by side, keychains— everything that was cheap and in trend were on display for sale.

Good business and fussy children aside, there was one other constant— street food. There were the staples, ice cream booths, multicoloured popsicles corner, nine chat shops with thirty seven kinds of mixtures between them with varying degrees of hot and tart flavours, momo dumplings with underwhelming fillings, egg rolls, pop corn and cotton candy stalls and hot jalebis for dessert. Fair food came with a fair bit of gamble and the prerequisite of a tough tummy.

The real fun, however, was in the stroll, preferably in amicable company. The right company meant you could let the extrovert drive a hard bargain, let the tasteful one pick the prettier necklace, let the famished lead the group to the faloodah man’s cart and promise to be there at the same time next year. 

The entire neighbourhood would be in attendance, without fail. That was the law. It was sometimes hard to believe so many people lived where I lived. They took casual leaves from work, called off classes, missed out on appointments and cut corners on domestic duties to gather at this yearly spectacle called a fair.

Esha Ganguly 

17.06.26

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Esha is an aspiring journalist. She is a part-time introvert and a full-time dreamer who sees the world through the lens of her favourite authors and filmmakers. She often seeks refuge in her “mind place” and music while figuring out life in all its chaos and glory— with a head full of stories to tell and a book in her bag, for company.