8am My younger one and I are debating who gets to hang the Coke-wielding Labubu on their bag today. This is unprecedented in our household — she usually leans toward Mr Beast sweatshirts, and my sartorial attempts are an ambiguous puddle of mostly Zara, sometimes what the Devil Wears (Prada), and God’s favourite (if she hasn’t lost everything in the stock market) Hermes. My daughter wins this contest with a simple fact, ‘Mom, Labubu is a toy. I’m a child. You’re an adult. It’s like me wearing your big gold ring to school. It’s not OK for your age.’ Shamed by my own child, I give in. She hangs it on her backpack and rushes off to school.
ILLUSTRATION CREDIT: Chad Crowe (USA)
For the blissfully unaware, Labubu is a creepy elf conceived by the Hong Kong-born Kasing Lung and turned by Chinese toy retailer Pop Mart into a fuzzy cultural phenomenon. Everyone from Rihanna to schoolgirls in Mumbai are desperate to hang one on their bag. Pop Mart CEO Wang Ning’s fortune jumped $1.6 billion in a day because of these stuffed dolls. Trump may keep imposing tariffs on China, but clearly, the Chinese are fighting back one creepy doll at a time.
10am I call my sister to blame her: ‘You made me buy this Labubu, and now I’m hooked. In the mornings, I’m studying philosophy. In the evenings, I hang a Labubu on my bag. I don’t know who I am anymore.’
She replies, ‘I do. You’re an idiot. You’ve always been one. Who thinks so much about a bag charm?’
11am I call my older one. Considering he studies fashion, he should have some insights into this Labubu phenomenon. His verdict is, ‘I don’t get it, Mom. It’s ugly.’
I try to explain, ‘You know, yesterday I just read a bit about Socrates once taking part in a beauty contest. He argued anything is beautiful if it fulfils its function. So, by that logic, Labubu is beautiful. It’s designed to evoke nostalgia and the same emotional response we experience when seeing babies or puppies. Acha, forget all this and go to Oxford Street, line up at Pop-Mart and get me some more.’
My son reports that it’s a futile quest. ‘Mom, it’s pointless. BBC said that Pop Mart’s stopped selling Labubus at high street stores because of all the chaos outside with queues and squabbles.’ It’s good to know that the BBC has found time between Gaza and Ukraine to cover Labubu sales.
3.30pm Scanning the news in amchi Mumbai, I note a ruckus at the Byculla zoo over the names of three newly hatched penguin chicks — Noddy, Tom, and Pingu. BJP’s Nitin Bankar is leading a protest demanding that the penguins get Marathi names. If you ask me, they really should retain ‘Pingu’. It fits with our cultural tradition of affectionate ‘u’ endings. Akhilesh Yadav is Tipu, Hrithik Roshan is Duggu, and Rahul Gandhi is Pappu. Then why not Pingu? Still, it’s now a matter of national importance.
4pm A close friend recently diagnosed with a serious illness sends me a picture of her seven Labubus gifted by friends to cheer her up. A furry toy doing the job of Sadhguru and Sri Sri by mitigating the uncertainty of mortality.
4.30pm I come across Sydney Sweeney selling soap made from her bathwater. Better than the influencer who sold her farts for $1,000 and landed in the hospital after producing 97 jars by eating beans and boiled eggs. If Sydney wants her soaps to sell, she should harness the secret of Pop Mart’s success — the thrill of surprise. Labubus are sold in blind boxes, so you don’t know what you’re getting until you open it. It reminds me of that Gold Spot contest when we were kids. We had to collect bottle caps with ‘Jungle Book’ characters. I don’t even remember the prize. We were just chugging Gold Spot. The thrill of discovery trumps the actual reward. Robert Sapolsky, a neuroscientist who trained monkeys to recognise a light signal for a reward, concluded that the unpredictability of reward increases anticipation and dopamine. That keeps the monkey pressing the lever. Or the adult standing in line at 4am for a Labubu.
6pm My perpetually stiff neck has me lying on a hot water bag, interpreting Rorschach patterns on the damp ceiling. If we’re being metaphysical, may I suggest that every man who turned out to be a headache began as a pain in the neck. As I reflect on this theory, the man of the house bursts in with two bags and lots of squeals. Like Santa with six-packs, he’s pulled strings from Mumbai to Hong Kong to get us Labubus. Now we have an assortment. The purple one in a gold dress I christen ‘The Sindhi Labubu,’ as she looks like she is off to a wedding to outshine the bride. My headache disappears. My daughter’s thrilled. And I realise I now own a collection of things I wasn’t even trying to collect.
7pm I hang three Labubus on my bag as we leave for dinner. When my husband asks why I’ve taken them from our daughter, I say, ‘For philosophical, anthropological, and psychological reasons. You know we’re wired to find big-eyed things cute, whether they are penguins with or without Marathi names or Labubus. That reminds me, are you having trouble with the casting of ‘Hera Pheri 3’? Forget human beings. Cast the three penguins. Rename them Raju, Baburao, Shyam. The politicians will be appeased, and you will save money on costumes, too, as they are already in tuxedos.’
‘Please leave films to me.’ he says, ‘Focus on your creepy dolls.’
I try explaining that a Labubu is simple to chase. Not like ambition or profit margins or self-worth. Real reinvention takes effort — therapy, sabbaticals, new degrees. Fashion is the lazy shortcut to reinvention. The reason we shift from skinny jeans to flares, ballet flats to jelly shoes. Or hang a fuzzy monster on our bags in a quest to update our identities.
‘Labubus are the new recipients of my platonic love.’ I tell him, ‘In Plato’s ‘Symposium’, Socrates says love for a person makes you vulnerable. They may leave or die. But loving a concept: astronomy, justice, literature can’t hurt you. It won’t leave. That is the origin of the term ‘platonic love’, by the way. Labubus can’t love you back but they can’t leave you either. Unless they are stolen. Hey, should we insure our Labubus,’ I ask.
‘Does this Labubu chap also sell blind boxes for new wives,’ he says with a sigh.
That’s why I prefer platonic over romantic love. The object of your affection, along with not leaving you, doesn’t talk back either.
Views expressed above are the author’s own.
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