Labubu Love

Fads & Cycles

Last week, I was rummaging online for birthday gifts for my godson. When you’re picking presents for a five-year-old, a touch of razzle-dazzle is essential — especially when you’re trying to inveigle yourself into being his third-favourite adult. (Pro tip: Never try to claim the top two positions in a child’s life. These podium places — typically reserved for the parents — come with onerous responsibilities and are, therefore, best avoided. Third place is where you want to be: all vibes, no gripes.)

A Hot Wheels Track Set was already in my shopping cart. I’ll admit there was a good deal of transference at play here. As a kid, I had the privilege of owning an enviable collection of Hot Wheels cars: the die-cast, scale model toys that were indestructible. You could fling them out of a third-storey window, bury them deep into a flower pot, wedge them inside the freezer — I had a taste for the apocalyptic when I was young — and they’d survive with nary a scratch. I loved my cars, but the Track Set was the stuff of dreams. For years I coveted it, stealing glances during every visit to a toy store. I never did get my hands on one, but what was denied to me would not be denied to my godson. If that meant I would have to be the one to teach him how to play with it, all the better.

I mean, look at this beauty. Image Source.

I was browsing Amazon for other items that could be added to the gift hamper when I saw the image of a grotesque gnome-like doll. The figure was terrifying, its face reflecting a depth of evil I had rarely seen in all my years. It wore a ghastly grin and its row of sharp, chiselled teeth looked ready to sink into human flesh. It had rabbit ears and a furry fringe that accentuated its menacing expression. The packaging — no doubt designed by someone who did not have eyes — was labelled ‘Cute Time’, and identified the creature as ‘Bubuda’.

I felt a shudder as Bubuda’s pitiless gaze bore into me, and wiping the cold sweat upon my brow I read the description to learn that Bubuda was a ‘Labubu Action Figure’.

Don’t look into its eyes. Image Source.

If the word ‘Labubu’ means anything to you then you must be one of those enlightened souls of whom Plato spoke so highly. I, on the other hand, have been living in a cave. I dismissed it as gibberish and moved on. But the algorithms had noted my unsettling encounter with Bubuda, and over the next few days, Labubu-inspired news kept rearing its ugly head on my timeline.

I discovered — with mounting horror — that this Labubu thing is a multi-million dollar industry. Fanned by TikTok and celebrity patrons, this decade-old range of plush toys has become a ‘global pop culture obsession’. Pop Mart, the Chinese company that sells these monstrosities, has seen its share price rocket in the past months, rising by over 1200% since January 2024. Last year, Labubu dolls earned Pop Mart around $400 million in revenue. And earlier this week, a ‘human-sized Labubu figure’ fetched more than $150,000 at an auction in Beijing.

‘None of this makes sense,’ I grumbled to my wife, one evening. ‘There are dozens of Labubu varieties, and they sell them in “Blind Boxes”. You don’t know which one you’ve bought until you open the box. The rarer types of Labubus — which, I suppose, are more hideous than usual — are sold at a premium on reseller websites. And people are desperate to get them to complete their collection. It’s bizarre!’

‘What’s the big deal? My friend Aneesha is mad about Labubus too. Live and let live, man.’

‘Absolutely not. These people need to be rescued from themselves. This is a classic case of corporate brainwashing feeding a consumerist frenzy. Remember the Stanley™ Cup? Those thermos flasks that became a rage? At least they were useful. Can a Labubu keep my coffee warm? Not unless it goes back to Hell. I don’t get it. How can these obnoxious oversized keychains be collectibles?’

‘Labubus make people happy. That’s what counts, all things considered.’

‘Nonsense. This is a passing trend. Today, people are spending thousands to amass these toys that have no intrinsic value, but soon they will forget all about it. Mark my words — less than a year from now, these oh-so-valuable Labubus will lie discarded in a forgotten corner of the closet. It pains me to see good money go to waste like this. It is really quite unconscionable.’

‘Tell me,’ Simran responded, narrowing her eyes, ‘when was the last time you used your cycle?’

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A few months after I moved to Mumbai, my flatmates and I bought bicycles in a bid to get more exercise. We would head out for leisurely rides after work or on weekends. The scant calories we burnt on these excursions served as an excuse to order an extra portion of fries with our burgers. Over time, the fries and burgers remained, while the cycling dwindled into nonexistence. When we moved out of the apartment, four years later, we left the cycles behind.

Wise men warn us that if we fall into bad company, suffering is bound to be our fate. They know what they’re talking about, these chaps. After all, if it wasn’t for the pernicious influence of some friends, I would not have returned to cycling in my thirties — and I would certainly not have registered to participate in a duathlon. (A duathlon is a running-and-cycling race and the distances for each leg can vary. In an Olympic or standard duathlon, you run 10 kilometres, then bike 40 kilometres, and then run another 5 kilometres until you reach the finish line, at which point you collapse to the ground and crawl to the closest can of Relispray.)

Image Source.

In my first duathlon, in Hyderabad, I was zipping along a highway when I realised my biking gloves were still in my pockets. Perhaps it was the adrenaline, or the wind in my hair, but I was confident I could don the gloves without stopping the bike. I took my left hand off the handle, fished out a glove and wriggled my fingers into the appropriate apertures — pedalling all the while at a fair clip. High on hubris, I sought to repeat the procedure with my right. Unfortunately, a right-handed man trying to control a hurtling cycle with his left hand is a little like a rich megalomaniac kindling a bromance with another rich megalomaniac, who also happens to be the President. It can only end in ignominy.

The handlebar wobbled, my feet got caught in the pedals, and as the cycle swerved left and then tumbled below me, I went flying to the right, spending interminable seconds being airborne before landing — palm first (one gloved, the other bare) — on the tarmac.

Just a flesh wound. Image Source.

A reasonable person would have packed it in right then, of course, and thanked the Almighty for keeping his neck intact. But since I have never been accused of being reasonable I completed the race with bandaged hands — and then decided if I was to do this more often, I needed a better bike.

I spent the next few weeks immersed in the world of bicycle minutiae. I pored over websites describing the pros (and cons) of carbon frames in agonising detail. I became an evangelist for disc brakes and a keen student of cranksets. I was steeped so deep in bicycle lore that I even learnt what a derailleur does, and how to pronounce the damn word. Before long, my research led me to bikes that belonged in a Star Wars movie set, and were more expensive than my car. While I was not foolish enough to fork out such vast sums for a vehicle that had the obvious disadvantage of lacking an engine, I did end up spending a pretty penny on a new bike.

In the months that followed, I was a diligent cyclist. Every week, I would pedal out into the world, always keeping an eye on errant cars and cursing drivers who seemed determined to run me over. I would oil the gears and refill the tyres. I even wore that ridiculous biking helmet, the one that announces to the world that you have no self-respect — though, I must clarify, I never stooped so low as to wear cycling tights.

It was going swimmingly until the pandemic hit. The enforced containment put an end to my cycling habit, and when the restrictions were lifted I found it difficult to restart. I would resolve to be regular but every attempt would hiccup to a close. Since then, sporadic rides have been followed by long stretches of abstinence. These periods of neglect have taken their toll on my cycle. I have spent thousands — on three separate occasions — to repair the bike, but now, it leans forlornly against our compound wall; its tires flat, its spokes cobwebbed, and its seat a playground for baby lizards.

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In a 1988 research paper, Prof. Russell Belk argued that our possessions are an extension of our sense of self; they contribute to and reflect our identities. This theory posits that we seek to ‘express ourselves through our possessions’ and the objects we acquire become totems representing our personalities. The things we buy reaffirm our notion of who we are, and also signal to the world the persona we want to project.

A Garmin watch on your wrist, for instance, will have your colleagues believe you run 100 kilometres every week, when all you actually do is hit the snooze button every morning. A cycle in your parking spot will mark you out as a fitness enthusiast. And a Labubu dangling from your backpack will proclaim you know “what’s in”.

Image Source.

Prof. Belk’s thesis also describes what drives collectors, the enthusiasts who hoard stamps, coins, or for that matter, dolls. We begin collecting things, he says, because:

…we find some joy in that. Joy in bringing order. Joy in creating a collection that adheres somehow…. We may not have control of our careers or our behavior or our jobs, and we don’t have control of much of the exterior world, but we do have control of this collection, and it brings us joy when we’re able to expand it and we’re able to improve upon it.

By this measure, the utility of the item being collected is irrelevant — its value lies in it being a collectible. Its ownership alone is what offers joy to its collector. It may not keep your beverage warm and it may not be a means of transportation, but it is still worth something to those who care.

And what happens when this interest dies and the collector discards the once-beloved possession to a corner of the closet or the back of a building? Nothing, really. The item has already served its purpose. In the end, then, one person’s bicycle may well be another person’s Labubu.

I do understand this, at an intellectual level. But something about these vile toys just makes my skin crawl.

Do I now believe Labubu-love is of a piece with the waxing and waning of my own materialistic desires, and thus, does not merit condescension? Yes.

But will I, when I next see a Labubu, yank it off its perch and stamp on it for many minutes before dousing it in petrol and setting it on fire? Also, yes.