The Fair

“How much for your time?” Navika’s fingers curled around the small, glowing orbs of care in her pocket while she looked at the trader curiously.

“One token for five minutes.” Behind the man, flashy neon signs advertised exclusive experiences and personalized offerings for consumable happiness. To Navika, who grew up in a world of love and abundance, they felt both absurd and intriguing.

Wondering whether she should exchange her precious care for the trader’s time, Navika’s gaze wandered around the vibrant festival grounds. Booths filled with shiny products (“Buy two, get one free!”) and pre-packaged food items lined up alongside each other, promising instant success and a healthy lifestyle in exchange for care.

The Capitalism Fair served as a historical reminder of a world where accumulating money and power mattered more than genuine connection, reducing care and well-being to mere commodities. Reenacting this bygone era, fairgoers dressed up as greedy businesspeople and materialistic influencers to catch a glimpse of relics once valued as status symbols: luxury watches, designer clothing, technical gadgets.

Navika could not help but think of the fair as a haunting memory of a society that had it all but never understood what truly mattered.

Intrigued, she decided to explore and handed over some of her glowing orbs in exchange for thirty-five minutes. “Remember, losing track of time comes most easily here,” he hissed.

The icy undertone of the trader’s warning echoed in Navika’s head as she passed through the turnstiles. She worried she would unknowingly fall prey to Time’s entrapment. From birth, Navika was taught to live in accordance with human need. Obeying the ticking of a clock felt alien and disquieting. And yet, the booths looked so very inviting from afar.

The Capitalism Fair had attracted a boisterous crowd. Everyone pushed and shoved each other along the conveyor belt that was Consumption Street, edging in to catch a glimpse of the exhibited products. Without a chance to exit, Navika followed the stream leading to the Dome.

Mesmerized, she entered. It was an over-enhanced cabinet of mirrors, a sensory cornucopia of screens displaying a dizzying array of pop-ups, limited-edition offers and quick fixes. Overpowering chemical perfumes and pseudo-friendly bots competed for your attention, suggesting the lifestyle you needed and did not have.

Navika sensed her lungs tightening and pulse racing. This was the subliminal side effect of the Capitalism Fair: acute stress.

Feeling the stress intensify, Navika decided to seek relief. At the end of Consumption Street, she spotted an old-fashioned booth, its wooden sign reading The Time Garden.

Inside, Navika encountered a small garden with unique, vibrant flowers in full bloom, creating a peaceful sanctuary amidst the frantic pace of the fair.

“I see you have already found our time,” a gentle voice observed. Navika turned to find an old woman smiling at her.

“Your time?”

The old woman nodded. “Indeed. Outside,” she gestured toward the entrance, “time is commodified. The clocks never stop and neither do people. They buy overpriced products, short-lived technology, extravagant experiences—paying with moments of their lives. Moments they had once traded for money. But here at The Time Garden, we cultivate our time, growing beautiful, rare hours that last a lifetime. You can even smell them.”

Navika closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. The scent wrapped around her, and she felt the tension leave her body.

“Are your flowers for sale?” Navika asked when she opened her eyes again.

The old woman smiled knowingly. “Time isn’t something you buy, dear. It’s something you cherish.”

Later, when Navika left the little garden, the fair felt different.

Navika’s steps slowed as she left The Time Garden. The bustling fair seemed transformed. Stalls once dazzling now appeared gaudy, their goods over-advertised and strangely hollow. The relentless energy of Consumption Street pulsed on, but she no longer felt compelled to match its rhythm.

Her fingers brushed a small, pressed petal tucked in her coat pocket—a token the old woman had given her. “To remind you,” the woman had said, “of what truly matters.” Navika replayed her words: “Time isn’t something you buy, dear. It’s something you cherish.”

She passed the Dome she’d entered earlier, remembering how it had held her senses captive. Now, the thought of exchanging coins—and especially her glowing orbs of care—for something so fleeting felt absurd. Instead, her eyes drifted to a quiet bench at the edge of Consumption Street.

As she sat, the world around her seemed to soften. The frantic energy of the Capitalism Fair buzzed on, but for the first time in what felt like years, Navika tuned in with herself. She watched the sunset stretch across the horizon, each moment vivid and unhurried, like a rare bloom. It was her own small piece of cultivated time.