Sniff. Whiff.

By Rantideb Mukherjee

This morning when I took the bus to work,

I bought a ride to where all lost smells go.

For first stop, the first flush of kindred sweat

Infused with Spinz or Axe or Set Wet Gel,

Congealed into an unforgotten kiss –

The first that made a second of all else.

Then came the scented lavender alleys,

Between the burning mounds of camphor streets.

Satyrs came to light incense and fags,

Friends and faggots tasted all raised toasts.

The palate cleanser came with coffee breath,

Smelling of urine and dried migraine lips.

I took a right towards lost rings of smoke.

Tendrils of tossed and twisted Ultra Milds

Still haunt the lake that flows but won’t move on.

It wants to kiss a dusk, now in Delhi.

It wants another synonym of night.

I found a bottle of vintage Brut Musk,

Stuck in time, like a spool of cassette reel

Begging pardon of a 6B pencil head.

But when the bus stopped short of Sector Five,

I smelled the stench of days becoming mulch.

Socks and sorrows smell pretty much the same.

Tomorrow smells like yesterday gone sour.

Morning comes in cans of Odonil.

Afternoons are made of biriyani.

Evenings smell of park street nostalgia.

And nights are made of farts and talks of money.

By Rantideb Mukherjee