Smell Tale

There are weird thoughts that appear in your mind when you visit weird places or involved in weird activities. I suffered from one such bout of weirdness today. Considering the nature of weirdness of this incident, it is not even worth a mention. Yet I am writing a post on it.

It happened so, that I entered a toilet. I would not like to mention which toilet I visited or where was it located, since such data isn’t of much meaning. And if you fell it is of meaning, then with little effort even you can create the magic of that toilet at your home. Just don’t flush of pour water in your loo after you use it for a day or two, and keep visiting make it a point to visit it often during the day. To make it more interesting, you can invite over some of your relatives and friends and feed them nothing but water, till their bladders about to burst. You can also use social media like Facebook and drop an invitation to everybody on your friend’s list like this –

Pee in XYZ’s Loo!
You have been invited by XYZ to pee in his loo
as a part of social experiment
Would you like to pee in his loo?

Confirm / Ignore

Now, coming back to our post of the day, after I entered the toilet, a gush of stench entered my nostrils almost suffocating me to death. For a moment I felt it was an attempt of my assassination carried out by some unknown secret organisations like CIA. But I stroked out that possibility, assured of my uselessness to any secret organisation worldwide. It could have been Pune University, for I didn’t appear for exams even after paying exam fees, which kind of hurt their ego. But they were too lazy a lot to take any such step.

I had consumed too much of water, summer being the season of this spring. So, under any state of distress, I had to pee! That left me with no other option than bearing the stench and proceeding with my ritual.

However - after a few moments - to my extreme surprise, the stench transformed into a sweet odour that began tickling my nasal hair. When I realised that, I halted for a moment in my ritual, out of shock! Then through the rest of it, I pondered over the transformation of a stench into an odour, like that of Jassi into Jaspreet. My first guess was that some diabetic had peed there, emptying all his saturated sugar into the provided space. Hence the sweetness.

As I gave it a serious thought, I realised that urine had ammonia in it. The same ammonia which we used to sniff and get a bogus high, whenever we had a chance to lay our hand on it when we were in our chemistry lab. No way I was going to do the same here, but what was important was its peculiar bitter sweet stinging odour. Some of the regular sniffers of ammonia, who had later resorted to their loos for the same, after being thrown out of college for trying to steal a barrel of ammonia from chemistry lab, had informed us that ammonia leaves a sweet after taste one you are done with filling your lungs with the exact amount of it. That nudged my mind as sharply as the stench of ammonia.

A question mingled in my mind in the last phase of my ritual. Why sweet?
I tried to remember the chemical formula for ammonia. It was NH4 I correctly remember. Not because I am intelligent, but because it resembled with the name of a National Highway. NH4 means Nitrogen and Hydrogen. None of them smell sweet. Or do they? How do they smell. Or even taste in that matter.

Our science teacher once told us a story, as she shabbily scratched he back with the end of a pencil she had borrowed from the class topper, of a scientist who wanted to know the taste of sodium. Now sodium, like some elements and unlike some elements is not appropriate for human consumption, till it does not find itself another eligible suitor element like Chlorine. But the scientist seemed too fond of tasting elements and stayed adamant on having a bite of it. So one fine morning at the tea time, he sat down with his daily newspaper, his cup of tea, a pen and a pad, in case the taste was fabulous and he was tempted to write an essay on its taste. In his last moments or the moments of life after the tasting ceremony. He sipped tea and read newspaper – he didn’t want to miss any of the worldly events in case he lost his life during the tasting regime.

After wrapping up all his daily chores, he finally took a bite of Sodium, guess what – He died on the spot!

But before he crashed dead on the floor, or the table, or whatever, he wrote something on the paper. It was ‘S’! Nobody till date has been able to decipher what that S meant.

As I washed my hands, I tried taking a guess what it must have meant.

Sweet – Sour – Salty – Sugary – Sexy – Sex (Because it was his last time) – Solid – Superlative – Same! (He had tasted something similarly disappointing before) – Sucks – Shengdana – Superb – Satiating (since he died) – Sensuous (He died out of arousal) – Smacking – Shitty (considering he had consumed it earlier out of his undying urge to taste everything) – Sad – Simple – Senile – Smooth (Since it gave him a quick death.) – Scratchy – Saleable (If he had been a hired scientist, paid to test if it was saleable or not. Or he was into market research) – Sundar (If he knew Marathi then) – Sushi (If he had tasted Sushi before that) – Saliva (You don’t even need to guess the reason) – Shahi (If he was closely associated with Moghuls) – Sadiyal – Satyanaash (again as he died)

Someone came up to me and gently whispered in my ear “Please don’t waste water”.

I closed the tap and left the bathroom. But the question that still remains is that, what was it that ‘S’ specified.

And yes. Also why the stench turned sweet.

HA HA HA HA AND YOU THOUGHT SOMETHING INTERESTING MIGHT HAPPEN IN THIS POST!

A Post on Post

Ideally this should be my first post. What happened yesterday wasn’t a post. But Since I’ve posted it. It’s become a post!

Post word reminds me that Post used to be the most dreaded institution of my life. Not to deny, it still continues to be the most dreaded institution of my life. With Post, I mean the Postal Department and not what people hold in Police service. That is ‘Posht’.

Thanks to people like Sabeer Bhatia who deleted Post’s presence from my life. One fine day he walked into Bill Gate’s office wanting to sell a porn site ‘Hot Male’. It also had a mail program in it. Bill Gates kept the coding for mail program with him and paid him its cost. The program was later called Hot Mail to avoid pervert people from taking wild guesses about what it was.

The rest of the site was sold in parts to Elton John and George Micheal, since none of them could afford Bhatia’s prices completely. With that money Sabeer Bhatia bought an island in Pacific Ocean, where he could shoot for his all other upcoming porn sites on Hot Males in peace. Vijay Mallya and Atul Kasbekar also go there to shoot the highly confidential ‘Queenfisher’ calendar for drag queens.

The mail program however got more famous than the porn site. There was a notable shift of the young masculine audiences from ‘female’ to ‘email’. (The later stage is ‘Gmail’, which men perceived as a mail box in the shape of a G-string and women as a satisfying web application since it had both ‘G’ and ‘Male’ in it.)

This mail program was later copied, lifted, spoofed or imitated by many other website offering similar Email support. And thus Emails made a silent below-the-door entry into every household around the world. India being the forerunner, as secrecy in postage had been a matter of utmost concern to every generation of young men here. Imagine a copy of ‘Garam Jawani’ being dropped at your doorstep after being scanned through by your local postman. Imagine the ‘I-know-what-you-read’ smile on his face each time you crossed paths with him. And imagine the same postman delivering your report cards home. This time with a ‘I-know-why-you-scored-such-marks’ smile on his face.



My fear of Post was predominantly related to Report Cards. My school had a sharp sadistic side to it. It began with morning assemblies where late comers were asked to publicly apologise and occasional cane whippings from teachers of various subjects on a rotating basis.

As an extension of this year long sadism, our school used to give us empty envelopes at the beginning of the vacations (or end of the year, however we may take it). We were supposed to write our postal addresses on it and give it back to our class teachers. They would then use these envelopes to mail us our report cards in the middle of the vacation, exactly the day before Dad was going to buy the video game you were yearning for since you had developed fingers.

And guess who would bring home the bad news? Yes! The bloody postman! Well, not all had this ill fate. It was the day of triumph for some. Their report cards were filled with unbelievable two-digit figures which started with 9. All my hyper-intelligent cousins included. More marks they got, more music I faced. I have forgiven them, but my heart still has a fizzed off grudge in it. And there was only one institution to be blamed for it. No. not the education ministry but the Post Office.

Several times, I tried hard to scribble my address in the most illegible scrawling, such that the post man had no other option than to give my report card to some squatter to wipe his excretory orifice after defecation.

But that human with 20-20 or 24-24 eyesight, read it correctly and delivered it right to my doorstep, every damn vacation! This didn’t satisfy him. After this, he also asked for a ‘bakshish’ since I had been promoted to the next class. I used to be in a too miserable state at that moment to be enraged at him and devise a mechanism like thrusting ice cold iron rods up his nose so that his sinuses are frozen into rocks. As dad’s hand held my report card, I used to transform into a convulsed woolly lamb from a striped white tiger on the playground. Such are the pains that have been inflicted upon me by the Post.

And this did not end here. In my later stages of boyhood, they used to deliver inland letters with puzzles on them, which upon solved, would avail me a Television Set absolutely free. Yes, I did rummage through all my mathematics books and solve them correctly and sent those accurately filled letters back it to them. And I did win a TV Set as a prize too. But the inland (yes, an inland this time too) which proclaimed my victory, also asked for a money order of Rs. 90, as delivery charges for the gift.

I swear to god, the money which I paid was hard saved. But the Television Set hasn't arrived till date. The postman changed after 4 years. And every new TV Set entering my building premises was scrutinised by me till the time we shifted from the place. But the promised TV set never arrived. I still nurture a doubt that the Postman or the Postmaster has kept the TV set for himself and is till date using it, maybe in his bedroom now, to watch Astha channel as the first thing when he wakes up in the morning with Asaramji Bapu preaching the value of honesty in his hypnotic somnolent sermon. (I have always wondered why people want to start their day that heady buzz! Doesn't it drive them to sleep again at the time they should be pushing themselves towards something that is just the opposite of it? )

Later, my coaching classes used to send even horrific report cards of weekly exams home through the same Postal service. Let me tell you, these were the exams in which I had often created records on lowest scores, of which -2 in Mathematics still lies unbeaten! Even though I deserved an applause for that from my parents, I never asked for it from them. I was quite confident that they would land it on some integral part of my body, like my cheek.

Somehow, after this, Email crept into our lives, and everything went online. And the moment of ecstasy arrived when it delivered exam results online. Internet packed my colossal failures into my ‘Inbox’ which I later directed to ‘Trash’.

Even now the postman arrives with some volatile paperwork like Credit Card statements which fill themselves in such a way that the reader feels he has also paid for 'Sulabh Toilet'usage with his credit card. Or telephone bills which indicate that the payee had chosen to ask to person sitting next to him in train to move a bit so that he could fit his fourth butt on a bench for three- on a telephone call. And To justify this, they have a long list of digits which look like the title credits of ‘Matrix’. And yes, who can forget the bank statements which only state about the bankruptcy of my account and fines deducted from the remaining Rs.34.67 for maintaining a low balance, bringing it down to Rs.00.02. Banks have some really spirit crushing rules.

Lately, I have enrolled for online payments, banking, billing, drilling, thrilling, killing, spilling, milling and all other such online services that billers provide these days. No more does the slithery postman appear at my doorstep with a scary bundle of papers and a hideous smile on his face. No more does he ask for 'bakshish' and now he no more is aware of what porn I receive. It’s a wonderful life!

Very soon, the word Post will be completely eliminated from my life. But I will still keep on posting some blogs on and off.

Sorry!

Previous post was a joke.

Okay!.. Let’s start again.

When does a person blog?

Ans: When he is alone.

Alone here has many connotations. Not exactly here. Everywhere. Everywhere it has many connotations. (I was going to use the ‘word’ meaning. But I compulsively wanted to impress some high-headed readers and hence, I took assistance from Right click – Synonyms. Sorry to those who didn’t understand the meaning of the word connotation. The meaning of connotation is meaning. Which also implies that connotation of the word meaning is connotation.) Fuck! Where was I?



Yes. The connotations of Alone. Alone could be mentally alone, physically alone, economically alone, strategically alone and other such alones. But what I am referring to is predominantly tow Alones. Alone without family and Alone with family. When you are without your family, which also includes people attached to you like the tentacles of an octopus and not just the usual limbs of your family. It includes your friends, enemies, shopkeepers, friend’s wives for some. Your girlfriend or boyfriend or both in case you are a bisexual and your ‘kaamwali bai’ in case you are a bai-sexual (and I am not referring to someone from the Ahuja family who ‘Shines’). There is an alone which points towards the absence of these species in your life. The other Alone directs towards the overt, indulging, interfering and irritating presence of these or similar species in your life, from which you constantly distance yourself due their unending ability to bore you using heinous techniques like disowning, disregarding, taunting and advising – all of which are of course futile on your thick rhinoceros branded skin.

In both cases, the blogger wants to be heard. This urge to speak out aloud somehow cannot be fulfilled in the real world because police arrest everything that is ‘loud’ after 10.00 p.m. That includes loud voice, loud volumes and loud make-ups. Loud police sirens are somehow exempted from this as they are supposed to alert the loud in a loud manner.

So people write blogs to be heard!

Also some write blogs to be famous.

A few names to mention:
-Aamir Khan
-Amitabh Bacchan
-Anurag Kashyap
-Priyanka Chopra (Huh?!)
-Shahrukh Khan
-Shatrughan Sinha (does he have a blog?)
-Uday Chopra (He has a production house which he uses as a blog to make movies with
him as a central character.)
-Sanjay Dutt (one fake name always works)
-Fake IPL Player
-Shammi Kapoor (sorry! Was falling short of names on d list!)

So what if they are already famous?… They blog because they want to be more famous.

Then there are people who blog to show off . Some to gain popularity. Some to write. Simply write. Anything. I have seen people writing about the ‘ml’ in which they urinated last night.

And some guys blog because they simply want to vent it out.

This new blog I’ve started is an outcome of two factors from the above mentioned reasons.

I do not guarantee you that it would make sense each time. In fact I do not guarantee you it would make sense at all…

Please do not expect superior grammar and absence of typos because I am writing this just to punch the keys on my keyboard to form readable sentences, since I cannot punch people who enrage me, in their faces. Neither them who cause situations in my life. Nor those who are responsible for me. Nor the people who are responsible for anything. Nor people who are responsible. Nor people who are. Nor people who. Nor People. Nor. Knorr soups. (One of my old seniors had loved its hoardings because the corn on it was attractively yellow. I don’t know if it was corns or the yellow that had enticed him. If it had been corns, I would’ve taken him to meet my granny. She has got corns on her leg.)

That’s enough to begin with I think!

Finally, please keep reading this blog. I want to be famous while being heard when I am venting it out to show off!

Blog 1

Blog 1

When does a person blog?

When he wants to blog!