The Village & The Bubble - Part III

Old Spice, in New Bottle

© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆

In my cluttered cranium, the lightbulb is getting dimmer by the minute. There are jingles, those ear-worms that vex me to no end ("Daddy has a frightful cold, dear, dear me!" "Lifebuoy hai jahan tandurusti hai wahan...") There are some dramatic scenes from life, probably more vividly imagined now than when they actually happened. Those fierce debates, the war of words, sharp and intense hurt, are dull aches now, mostly forgotten as to why we had them in the first place. But the one thing that that lingers on is that fragrance, long after the bottle is gone. Never forgotten. You probably know it well, too.

For many of us who grew up in The Village in the 1960s and 70s, that was the scent was Old Spice Aftershave. The fragrance of fathers, uncles, and older cousins who carried themselves like the heroes from a different age, as in those black and white pictures looking sideways, upwards, not directly at the camera. The headshots without smiles, often in formal western suits or traditional ceremonial attires. Surely you get that whiff emanating from those dusty, old, faded pictures.

I can still visualize that unique bottle as clearly, the old mirror above the Hindustan Sanitaryware washbasin. Heavy, ceramic, solid and cool to the touch, the color of pale ivory, smooth conical shape on the smooth cylindrical body. It had a quiet dignity that no cheap plastic can ever imitate. On its top sat a hexagonal blue-grey stopper, slightly sticky from use, guarding that mysterious potion within. And on the front, a blue sailing ship with many sails proudly full as if it were catching the wind straight from the Arabian Sea, and beneath it, Old Spice written in bold red ornate font, both foreign and familiar at once.

This wasn’t just aftershave, it was a symbol of achievement. In The Village, few luxuries made their way past the acceptance criteria for respectable men. At one time early in my childhood, this potion as not available in the local shops in our town. Most men who shaved themselves just used fitkari, so the local shops probably didn't see the need to carry it on their shelves. But somehow every household in my memory seemed to have an Old Spice bottle, usually brought home by an uncle who worked in Bombay. Or an older cousin returning from some exotic location after their post-graduate studies. They would regale the adults with tales of those uncultured phoren wala's exhibiting uncouth behaviors. And those mem sahibs, who had no inhibition shedding their clothes, donning something that sounded like zucchini wukini in hot weather and, oh, those ladies who smoked openly and brazenly. The only woman that I ever knew who smoked in those days was an ancient, wrinkled old lady who helped my mom do the household chores. She would puff on a bidi sometimes, and dozed often huddled up in a corner. None of it was of slightest interest to me compared to the box of chocolate that the cousin had brought. It said Cadbury's, but was darker in color, not as sweet, not as sticky.

The Old Spice bottle stood on the bathroom shelf beside the tin of Godrej shaving cream, fitkari and the ceramic mug for rinsing the razor. And the Lifebuoy soap. The morning ritual was always the same. The men would finish their shave with a flourish, a few brisk strokes, a rinse of the safety-razor, and then the moment of bravery: the splash of Old Spice. You could hear the "oooh ahhh" before you smelled it, that sharp intake of breath, the hiss of a man pretending to enjoy it, pretending it didn’t sting. And then the air would fill with that unmistakable aroma: spicy, cool, a little sharp, and completely confident.

The fragrance would drift out of the bathroom and into the morning, mingling with the smell of chai, coconut oil in hair, and the faint smoke from the coal-fired chulha working overtime, with moms and household help preparing breakfast. It was the reassuring sign of normalcy of our weekday mornings, of clean white shirts hung out to dry, of the fathers and uncles heading out to sabji mandi for the freshest vegetable of the season with freshly combed hair, parted sharp and clean and a sense of purpose. Us kids mostly kept busy avoiding adult attention, pretending to finish homework, pretending to be taking baths on cold winter morning, desperately looking for opportunity to sneak out for some quality play time before heading off to schools.

For us children, that bottle had a kind of magic. We weren’t allowed to touch it, of course. It belonged to the grown-ups, to that mysterious brotherhood of men who shaved every morning and spoke of things we didn’t quite understand. About non-alignment with phoren camps whatever that was, the constant threat of atomic bombs vaporizing us all, and so on. Sometimes, when no one was watching, I would sneak into the bathroom and lift the bottle of Old Spice, its cool ceramic weight transforming me instantly. It was a fleeting brush with coveted adulthood, that stage in life that seemed to be freedom, without any restrictions, without the annoying, relentless interference from The Village. Little did we know. I would pull out the stopper, breathe in deeply, and for a moment I too was ready to take on the world like my father and other adults.

Today, Old Spice comes in plastic bottles, apparently competing with thousands of other choices, domestic and phoren in The Bubble. Most have unfamiliar fragrances with unfamiliar names that sound like jungle safari, dreamt up by smart young lads on crack Marketing teams who can break out the demographic data in nauseating detail... but are not old enough to shave yet themselves. None of them seem to smell quite like that Classic, from the old ceramic bottle, the one that carried not just a scent, but a story. Because Old Spice, wasn’t just about grooming. It was about aspiration. It was the aroma of the modern world arriving in The Village, a whiff of confidence acquired from Bombay, or some place beyond the horizon with an exotic name, brought home in a battered leather suitcase with many stickers slapped on it. Wrapped in newspaper and in a rolled-up white banyan. To protect it from the bumps, shakes and rattles during the journey from its original destination to the shelf in our bathroom. It was the fragrance of fathers and uncles who believed that looking sharp was not about vanity, it was just part of being respectable. That a man’s scent should say something about his place among the bhadralok of the society but quietly. For men with gravitas who exuded subtle personal aroma, armed with weighty opinions. Old Spice aroma without the correct worldviews lacked class. Worldviews without the Old Spice aroma were considered mere hot air.

These days, I don't catch that familiar whiff in the air in The Bubbles around me. Only in my mind, and I’m instantly back in that bathroom with marble floors, with the sun streaming through the window up high, watching my father slap on his aftershave, wincing, peering, smiling into the mirror, and starting his day with the quiet assurance that comes from smelling like the very best version of oneself. Many other gents in The Village stepped out from their homes in a similar fashion. The Village was all that - shared words, shared newspapers, shared jingles. Shared incidents and interactions, shared opinions about the price and quality of the freshest daily produce, the shared views of national and international geopolitics of the day, the shared concern about the shape of the world that their children would be unprepared and ill-equipped to navigate. And the shared odor of Old Spice. I am not sure if any of the modern-day competing pretenders in new, sleek, plastic bottles in The Bubble will ever evoke the same feeling in today's young'uns.