ONE banner reads "The world's highest". Another proclaims "The world's most watched". Thousands of spectators throng around streets blaring with loud music; the action is about to begin. Heads poke out from balconies, a few boys are perched on a nearby tree and a phalanx of cameras representing various news channels take position as a commentator introduces the players. The crowd cheers, as a six-year-old child balances himself high above the street on the shoulders of a slightly older mate—who is standing on a swaying pyramid of bodies, two tiers tall. The youngest child’s safety equipment consists of a cycling helmet and a swimming float. The crowd gathered below, at Thane, a suburb of Mumbai, has come hoping to see this team break the world record. It belongs to another Indian team, which managed in 2012 to build a human pyramid that stood 43.79 feet high. This year however there is no chance that any challenger will come close—nor even halfway there.

But this street carnival matters more than the statistics can measure. It celebrates Janmashtami, a Hindu festival to honour Lord Krishna. All over the state of Maharashtra men form human pyramids to reach, and hopefully to break open, a clay pot filled buttermilk and hung at some vertiginous height. Their game is a tribute to some antics from the naughty childhood of the beloved deity. To temper his appetite for butter, Krishna’s mother would hang jars a few feet from the ground, just out of his reach. Yet he would snaffle them by climbing over his friends, who would play along gladly.

The game is named dahi handi, for the pot of curd at which the boys aim. It’s a fiercely competitive business with a knock-out format. Each mandal (group) gets two attempts to show how high up it can pile its men. In the end, the best team gets a final crack at the pot. They train for months to master their routine and then travel by the truckload to dahi handi hot spots, where their balancing act can win hearts and money. Police are always on hand, usually to cordon off traffic for a few minutes at a time, as each team has its go. Local politicians reward the most intrepid with prizes worth up to $200,000. The dangers are real too. Every year, a few people are killed, usually from falling down onto a metalled road.

In an attempt to make the event safer, last month the government of Maharashtra declared dahi handi to be an “adventure sport”. As such it will need to comply by strict regulations. Children below 12 years of age, for instance, cannot participate, and those between 12 and 18 will require written permission from parents. Players will have to be insured. A safety harness will be made compulsory for pyramids breaching a certain height—which, anyway, will be capped at 20 feet.

“Such rules have killed the fun out of the festival,” grumbles one participant, who brandished a trophy that his team had won at another local competition (in Thane, one hardly needs to walk 3km to find another streetside game going). Grand cash prizes are becoming less common, laments another. An ambulance driver, who hasn’t made any trips to the hospital today, is not complaining however. He stands by and joins the crowd to watch the six-year-old kid squirreling all the way up.

With the alacrity of a tightrope walker, the kid pulls off the feat and, from up high, blows a nervous kiss. The boozy crowd goes delirious. On Monday the Times of India reported that this year’s celebrations were the safest in recent years. Fewer than 150 participants across Mumbai were treated for injuries, all of them minor—less than a third the usual figure, and with no fatalities among the players. The crowds’ interest has waned, admits a policeman on guard. But he is pleased that neither records nor bones were broken under his watch last night.