This weekend, read today, I went to the Kukdukoo Fest with two toddlers.

One is my son, who turns three in a week. The other is my niece, who turned five last September which basically makes her the senior citizen of the toddler delegation.

The moment we entered, I realised something was off. Not with the kids.

With us.

Because everywhere I looked, there were tired children… and even more tired parents pretending they were “having a family moment.”

You know the look. The fake smile. The one that says: “Yes, I paid for this.”

The stage had artists performing, unfamiliar artists. Very unfamiliar. So unfamiliar that even Google would’ve said, “Did you mean… someone else?”

The kids didn’t care. They were busy running toward balloons, bubbles, and chaos.

We, the parents, stood there clapping politely, wondering whether this was a concert or a school annual function sponsored by capitalism.

And then came the stalls. Ah, the stalls.

Every single one decorated beautifully to gently and lovingly just put a hole in your pocket.

₹450 for popcorn.

₹600 for something that looked like cotton candy but tasted like regret.

₹1,200 for a toy that would be broken before we reached the parking.

At some point, I saw a Comic Corner.

Instant nostalgia hit.

I picked up two comics the kind I used to read lying on the floor, ignoring homework and life responsibilities.

For a moment, I smiled. Then I realised something terrifying. It didn’t feel the same. Not because the comics were bad but because I wasn’t ten anymore.

I wasn’t reading them to escape homework. I was reading them while mentally calculating school fees, nap schedules, and whether the kids had eaten enough protein.

That’s when it hit me.

Remember when we used to go to concerts? We’d come back exhausted.

Sweaty. Smelling like someone had secretly puked on us. But we called that great times. Now we come back exhausted, sweaty, smelling like milk, snacks, and emotional burnout and we call it “family outing.” The kids slept in the car. Peaceful. Angelic.

The parents? Silent.

As I sat there, holding my comics, watching my son drool in sleep and my niece clutch a free goodie bag like she’d fought a war for it, I realised: Somewhere between childhood concerts and toddler festivals… we didn’t grow up. We just got upgraded responsibilities.

Ahh. The pangs of old times. May I find peace.…preferably somewhere quiet. With no stage. No stalls. And absolutely no popcorn costing ₹450.

Later