Smells evoke emotions, at times strong definitive ones. They’re a reminder of the things past, memories, people and places. There are strong associations to different kinds of smell, all of them personal, some intimate. The smell of Boroline for example, takes me back in time to Saharsa, to the glass medicine cabinet I once could not reach and to Nanaji’s soft cream-applied hands. I remember the smell of Marlboro double burst or the taste or a mix of both. And no, it was not just tobacco and no, I do not smoke, never have. I remember it from a kiss. It reminds me of a beautiful night in Florence, the quiet deserted streets and of one of the best friends I’ve ever had. Crushed tobacco reminds me of Baba, bright idle noons or dull evenings and draws upon my mind a picture of me in his lap, convulsively sneezing every single time he clapped his hands. But this piece is particularly about my summer mornings and Old Spice.
Crusty eyes that woke up to childhood summer mornings always had a lot to look forward to. Out the frosted window, wind and wishes, cheeping birds, a heart full of small fluttering desires, the setting moon, the breaking dawn, things to do, always the same, always full of surprises. Hollering and waking everyone who was still in bed, overseeing the sweep of verandah and the dishwashing by the handpump, collecting wild flowers for Nanima’s puja, chasing crows away, attending the first serving of family tea, strongly brewed, waiting for and gulping down a hard-boiled egg with toast (for us it was a delicacy that mother denied us back home) and running to sight the first train of the day, chugging across the fields, puffing smoke and whistling, we got ready, brimming with excitement and doing absolutely nothing.
Now, to the old ‘Old Spice’.
Sun would be radiant in a clean blue sky, we would loiter about as idly as the fleece-like summer clouds and at some point, Nanaji would ask to check if the newspaper had arrived. We would race to the balustrade facing the red compound gate, peer down and tug at the jute string, which ran along the corner and disappeared through the leaves of the pomegranate tree. We would try to feel its weight for the paper. Nanaji would sit in his chair on the verandah with a pervading sense of familiarity, the green mirror propped upon the blue-grey stool or the wooden cot. He would then methodically draw out from his yellow box, a shaving brush, an Old Spice shaving cream, lemon scented, a weighted handle metal razor that he would unscrew and fit in the blades drawn from a stack. The metal razor, a pack of two, he once told me blushing, was received as a wedding gift from Nanima’s side. After all these years, he still has them. He would pour some water into the small mug, also green, begin applying the cream and make a clean shave. The faint scent of lemon in the air. A small bottle of Old Spice after-shave lotion would be unscrewed, stopper removed, clear liquid spilt on the palm and dabbed at his soft cheeks. It was musk scented but to me he would smell of spices, just like the name said. I would also splash some and would feel the cool stream trickle down my cheek. Sharp, biting, tangy. Old Spice had a nautical theme, a lone surfer riding waves. The brand presented grown suave men and in lofty tones made popular the tagline ‘the mark of a man’. My Nanaji, handsome, gentlemanly and a wee bit young, certainly fit the mold. Interestingly the brand had started out as a fragrance product for women, inspired by the scents used by the founder’s mother.
Now back to me.
Nanaji would chew upon a small serving of betel leaf, have the day’s newspaper spread out in front of him, while he mindlessly but with precision, went ahead with his daily ritual. At times, news and songs would play out on the cranky old radio. As you would have guessed, I would be around, playing on the cot or trying to read the newspaper from the other side or out on the verandah, going back & forth on that swing with green clapboards. Nanima would sit on the far side, her back against the wall, holding a book in her hand or with a basket of fresh produce from our farm, peeling peas, breaking cauliflower into florets, holding a bottle gourd, iron vegetable cutter under her foot, shouting commands to the household in general and our domestic help in particular and time and again asking us what vegetable we would like to eat for breakfast or lunch. This last part, is one of the many things that confounds me in life. Of the vegetables, one can only choose what not to eat, how can one choose with active interest, what to? After a point, it all tastes the same. However, just then I had a different pressing concern. I kept a watchful, safe distance from Nanaji, in the mortifying fear that he would catch hold of me to trim my nails using a razor-blade. He would chase me around, take hold of my fingers in his hand, press tight and pare the nails down to the nail bed, almost revealing the red skin underneath. Still gives me the shivers.
Now back to Old Spice.
The first time I got my hands onto the red bottle, it was placed under the ledge, upon the sink outside on the verandah, probably left there to be discarded. It still had some liquid in it. I was ecstatic. I ran my fingers upon the smooth texture of the bottle and took a blissful whiff off the nozzle. The logo on the bottle, was the picture of a fully rigged ship, full blown sails mounted upon masts, groovy handwritten-like letters curling to spell the name, Old Spice. I pressed on the bottle and a thin cool stream of liquid spurted out. Those days we (my sister and I) had been watching the cartoon, ‘The legend of Zorro’, the masked hero, the swashbuckling swordsman fighting the evil tyrants, riding his white horse, monogramming the initials ‘Z’ on those who he overpowered, all the while leading a quiet dual life as a meek cowardly boy. It was me. It was power, to hold on to the nice smelling magical bottle. It was now, my sword, a tiny sword and I jumped and danced, swishing around the house, marking everyone and everything with a harmless cool, fragrant spray of ‘Z’. All summer long, a scrawny little boy fought off imaginary evil with his Old Spice.
My First Old Spice Purchase
It was not until long after in 2017 that reminiscing the old times, I decided on my first purchase of Old Spice. And incidentally, also came across a case study in business school on how the iconic brand reinvented itself to connect with a younger audience. They came up with a series of quirky advertisements and followed it through the years with wildly entertaining engagement. Through Isaiah Mustafa’s “The Man Your Man Could Smell Like” campaign they spoke to women, astutely acknowledging that most purchase decisions for men’s grooming products were primarily driven by women. They also managed to break through the clutter of “the boy gets the girl” ads being run by their competitors. Their ‘in the face’ advertisements made fun of masculinity while shrewdly depicting an overdose of just that. From being a serious brand, it became one that did not take itself or the world too seriously.
Today, the ivory white buoy-shaped bottle of aftershave lotion and the red deodorant adorn my shelf. I was not the quintessential target segment, quite the contrary my possession of Old Spice stems solely from nostalgia, on being introduced to it by its prime user of the yesteryears ‘the Old Spice grandpa’, the very image that Old Spice had been trying hard to shed.
Below is the brilliant copy of the Old Spice Super Bowl ad that went viral and is talked about till date for its short quippy lines.
“Hello, ladies, look at your man, now back to me, now back at your man, now back to me. Sadly, he isn’t me, but if he stopped using ladies scented body wash and switched to Old Spice, he could smell like he’s me.
Look down, back up, where are you? You’re on a boat with the man your man could smell like. What’s in your hand, back at me. I have it, it’s an oyster with two tickets to that thing you love. Look again, the tickets are now diamonds. Anything is possible when your man smells like Old Spice and not a lady. I’m on a horse.”
The mention on the Old Spice Shaving Cream reads:
“Dear man, your hands were not made to carry shopping bags or stroke furry kittens however cute they may be.” Ouch.. “No, your hands were made so you can sculpt statues of yourself. Or squeeze out a handsome amount of this man-friendly tube of old spice shaving cream. Buy it and all else will be forgotten.”
Disclaimer: Though it looks like, it’s not a brand endorsement. Also, not exhorting stereotyping of genders, though I personally view the commercial and the subsequent ones in the series as over the top, satirical and poking fun at its competitor brands.
Somesh | Katyayan 