I was at the neighbourhood store today, shopping for after shave. Yours truly shopping for after shave is something of a joke, as my better half says. It does happen to be funny, because I shave once in a blue moon. More often than not, I wander around looking like an unshaven bum. I do this for many reasons – for one, I like to irritate my better half. I also happen to be lazy. For some other insane reason, my favourite brand of after shave has been off the shelves for some time now. I was a staunch user of Nivea Balsam, and was willing to die unshaven if only I could get hold of a bottle or two of the sweet smelling stuff. A wait of more than two months yielded no results with all known peddlers of this liquid. I was deeply sorrowed, for Nivea was the only blessed after shave I knew of that did not sting. I absolutely hate the sting of alcohol on freshly shaved, vulnerable skin. Left without a choice, I decided to pick up a different after shave today. Hence my presence at the neighbourhood store. I settled for a sleek black cardboard box labelled “Mercury”. The labelling said that it was a gel that contained a moisturiser. Anything that contains a moisturiser shouldn’t sting much, I thought. The other side of the box screamed at me in bold lettering – “HARMFUL IF TAKEN INTERNALLY”. I thought back to high-school chemistry and methanol, and hooch deaths. I shrugged, and paid the price for my choice – it was twice as expensive as what it ought have been. I cursed myself, the people responsible for the Nivea shortage, and the world in general (in that order) and went home. I lifted the covering flap, prised open the lid to the bottle, and sniffed. I choked. It was one of those overpowering fragrances that trails its wearer like a comet’s tail. Or a dog’s. I gingerly lifted the bottle out, and laughed – it was shaped like a hip flask. I never did understand these designers. Anyway, the bottle being shaped like a hip flask lessened some of my guilt at having splurged a couple of smiling blue Gandhis – something designed with a sense of humour deserves appreciation. After much ado about my face with the Gillette, the other Gillette, water, and a pair of scissors, I proceeded to my rendezvous with the after shave. I up-ended the bottle above my palm, to little avail. The ridiculously small opening in the bottle was blocked by a bright bluish-green jelly-like liquid, that was reminiscent of radioactive waste. The smell was tempting, however – so I shook the bottle a little, and managed to extract some of its contents into the hollow of my palm. I repeated the procedure and recapped the bottle. Evenly dividing the gel between both my palms, I proceeded to make contact with my cheeks, and was promptly stung. I didn’t know where the hell the moisturiser in the gel was – it stung, and it kept stinging. Bloody hell, they named it just right – Mercury is closest to the Sun. My inner self was screaming at me to run to the bathroom and wash the after shave off, but something – perhaps it was foolish pride, or perhaps it was the cinnamon, aloe vera and whatever crap in the after shave – prevented me. I looked again at the black hip flask. Only a demented mind could have imagined such a perverse prank. The thought that I’d paid up what was a small fortune ten years ago stopped me from throwing the hip flask into the garbage bin. Maybe the cinnamon, aloe vera and assorted crap also contributed to that decision, I wasn’t too sure.
I’m roaming the streets again for that elusive bottle or two of Nivea. These days, the only Nivea product for men on the shelves seems to be something called Nivea Whitening Moisturiser For Men. The insecure adolescent male’s equivalent of Fair and Lovely. Who in his right senses wants that crap? Not me. Ugh. Shudder. Oh well, hopefully my cherished Nivea after shave hits the shelves soon.
The bright green light on my ADSL modem has been highly indicative of the schizophrenic mental processes within. It’s been winking at me for the past hour or so. At times it is peaceful and appears a solid green, this is when I like it the best. At times it gets angry with me and shuts off. At other times, it goes crazy and flashes invective at me in a code that I cannot understand. It’s not Morse, I did my Code Practice in the high roofed attic that housed the Coimbatore Amateur Radio Club, more than a decade and a half ago, and I haven’t forgotten. Yes, it’s true that electronic equipment have rights, that they can’t function like mindless machines day in and day out, that their masters must be considerate towards them – BUT THAT’S NOT WHAT I PAID FOR, DAMN IT. I seem to have gotten my message through, because the DSL light is now a bright green. At least for now. I feel like a manager – but yes, we all have to do evil things now and then.
Tomorrow I find out what it takes to get a BSNL connection
