This Saturday, for the first time since I’ve been living in Elsewhere, there’s a street festival on Broadway, the avenue along which I live. It’s supposed to commemorate Columbus Day, the second Monday of October, but Saturday suits everyone’s schedule better.

Bins is all excited. His buddies on the street have asked him to participate by dressing up as the Sesame Street character called Elmo. “Finally I will get a chance to mingle with the natives!” he says. “It won’t be any fun,” I warn him. “You’ll be stuck in one place and you won’t get to see anything.” But of course there’s no dissuading him. So at 12 noon he sets off to the police station, which was where he was told to collect his costume.

I wait till a little later in the afternoon before venturing out. I am amazed at the number of people out on the street. It’s like a mini-carnival: there are food stalls selling sizzling hot dogs and clouds of cotton candy. There are balloon-sellers and tables covered in trinkets, children’s toys and clothes. There are three rock bands, spaced well apart, with one near Dunkin’ Donuts, one near the church midway down the street and one at the far end. Each one is belting out hits from the ’60s and ’70s, and doing a great job of channelling the Stones and Jefferson Airplane.

The air smells of burnt caramel and women’s perfume. Little children are being carried on their fathers’ shoulders, making them into giants. Lots of them have stopped by at the face-painting stall, their little faces coloured green and blue. At the church, a wedding is in progress, with a beaming bride dressed in a long lacy white dress posing for a photograph next to a man who is crying so hard, he can only be her father.

I reach the police station, where two squad cars have been left with their blinding blue-white-and-red lights blinking and their doors open, for children to crawl in and out of — which they are thrilled to do. Right next to the squad cars is the shaggy fluorescent-red figure of Elmo. Bins is completely invisible inside the costume. As I watch from a short distance away, the illusion of a tall friendly creature is so complete that even though I know Bins is inside, all I can see is Elmo! He has become a magnet of solid, furry love. Kiddies are scampering up to him to get a hug and a pat on their heads, their eyes shining with happiness. Some of them have to be literally dragged away.

I don’t want to disturb the love fest so I go further up the street to where the Mad Hatter, my local bakery, is doing brisk business. I buy two cupcakes, one for me and one for Bins. But by the time he staggers home a couple of hours later, he is too tired to eat. “I had my life’s quota of cuddles,” he says, in a watery voice, “Wooah! What an experience, huh? A love overdose! A hug-tsunami! I might never recover!” Then he bites into his cupcake and gives a sheepish grin. “The best way to die.”

Manjula Padmanabhan , author and artist, writes of her life in the fictional town of Elsewhere, US, in this weekly column

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