One night under the sun…

One night under the sun.
There wasn’t really anything.
When it was all meteors and stars.
Limelight was then hogged by Ferrari cars.

One night under the sun.
The poet and poetess got verse and verse.
No commas, no pauses, no apostrophes.
Trust me, it was a night of only catastrophes.

One night under the sun.
The grass just kept getting greener.
Thought the dude, he would do the dope.
Shit, it was just only a futile high hope.

One night under the sun.
She stepped out in her dungarees.
Then people cared no two hoots.
And she got so many boots!

One night under the sun.
It was so mundane, and Monday.
When it started pouring.
Just then, a tiger came roaring.

One night under the sun.
There was this footballer.
And next to him was a big bucket.
Got up, and he quickly kicked the bucket.

One night under the sun.
I was looking for the moon.
It was dark, darker and darkest.
Suddenly I realized,
it was actually One night under the sun.

Sniff sniff.

The Quick Fragrance Guide.
A Perfumer’s Parlance and More.

Sniff sniff. Sniff sniff.

The Hierarchy
Top Notes.
Middle Notes.
Base Notes.

The Highs.
Seduction.
Conduction.
Induction.

The Big Names.
Issey Miyake.
Yves Saint Laurent.
Ralph Lauren.

The Sub-names.
Romance.
Envy.
Pleasures.

The Pulse Points.
The Nape (for men).
The Cleavage (for women).
The Wrists (For both.)

NB: For extra sniffness, recollect your fetishes.

The Lows.
Alcohol.
Exorbitance.
Allergies.

And now, choosing a good fragrance.

1) Spray the fragrance on a blotter strip, or ideally on your wrist (if it’s not already adulterated).
2) Wait for a few minutes (about 3 to 4) for the top notes to fade away.
3) Bring your wrist / strip closer to your nose.
4) Sniff. Sniff. Urrgh. / Sniff. Sniff. Aaah.
5) Now decide.

Inference: If it provokes you, then that’s the one for you. If doesn’t, try taming your sweat glands.

Sniff. Sniff.

The Sun. The Screen.

Probably, one of the most intelligent ingenious inventions is the Sunscreen. Never mind if it alters the dermatological DNA of the face, but its got to be around. On the shelf. Or in the wardrobe.

Mostly found in the tote bags of oh-my-skin-will-get-tanned ladies, it’s more of a facial issue for them. Probably, this is what they consider this: the modern day substitute for a gold ol’ umbrella. Ladies beware, “it’s not!”

I wonder, and even pity sometimes, that after traveling for eight god-dammed minutes to hit the ground, Mr. Sun Rays are promptly sent back by this man-made layer of chemicals and not-so-chemical compositions. Cursing it must be, though.

Found in different forms, predominantly as SPF 15 and 30, it’s meant to tame the ultraviolet. But does it, really?

Anyways. It’s the Sunscreen. ‘Applicable’ under the sun.

Bambino Gulab Jamun Mix

K-Serials. Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaawnnnnnnnn.

Circa 1998.

Uncle.
Aunty.
Their first son: Married with 2 kids.
Their second son: Single, but still mingling.
Their first daughter: Married. Divorced. Semi-married.
Their second daughter: College-going seedhi-saaddhi item.
Their third daughter: Just fifteen, but behaves like fifty.

Circa 2008.
Uncle + 8 years.
Aunty + 8 years.

Their first son: Married with 2 kids. But has had co-marital affairs with 3 women, who’re dead and gone by now. Found their place in another K-serial (courtesy: Balaji Telefilms)! Fortunately, the era still believes in rebirth. And then, you never know what or who’s going to ‘come up next’.

Their second son: Single, but has had multiple affairs (just like multiple fractures – broken and disjointed). Doesn’t like to compromise when it comes 'positions’. Ask Kashish, Karishma, Kavita, Kanishka, Kanaka, K… (amnesi, it’s a boon sometimes).

Their first daughter: Married and divorced. Once. Twice. Thrice. And you never know how many more times.

Their second daughter: College-going seedhi-saadhi item. With a kitty of 5 boyfriends. And one husband.

Their third daughter: Twenty-five by now. Still the same.

And then…

Plus Tears. Drama. Melodrama. Punches. Action Plays. Reaction Replays.

The K-Serials. Life of ndia.
From 2 pm to 5 pm. And 8 pm to 11 pm.
Everyday.

Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaawwwwwwwwwwn!

Bird Phooooop!

Bird Poop. To those my-English-is-poorer-than-yours, this phrase actually was a bit of a surprise. And surely you can count me one among them. Well… I then looked through the good ol’ dictionary. And there I was, saying “Shit!”.

I thought for a moment, why do I need to pass through the insanity of recollecting those bird poop ‘moments’. Yes, I prefer to call this a moment. ‘Cause a moment is something you either want to experience again, or just pray that it never comes. And yes, this one belongs to the latter.

Any way, this piece came up as a Mundane Monday Morning job – oh yeah, it was actually the weblog topic for Monday. (Call it coincidence or call it Monday Morning Shit, nevertheless, it means the same. More or less.)

Bird Poop. This again reminds me of Late Dr. Salim Ali, (referred to as the “Birdman of India”) India’s most celebrated – and probably one of world’s most celebrated Ornithologists. I wonder how he would have dealt with ‘shit’ like this.

With due respects to him, and the victims of ‘The Great Bird Poop Fall’, here’s just twowords: Shit happens! (as someone with unfathomable levels of Poopism, coined it.)

The Password

************.

Hello this is me. Password. And cussword sometimes. The best thing about my life is change. I change. And more often than you think. You’ll find me in various incarnations. Men remember me for their girlfriend, ex-girlfriend, wife, ex-wife, and whatever is easy for them to remember. And women, oh they’re different lot. A ‘numbered’ lot I should say. Primarily, they’re all about dates. And you know what I mean by dates, don’t you! Let me elucidate. The First Date. The First Anniversary. The First Night. The First Light. The First Cup. The First Hiccup. The First Coffee. The First Toffee. The First Encounter. The First Ticket Counter. The First Kiss. The First Miss. Period.

Surprisingly, you’ll never see. I’m encrypted. But still, I’m a star *