Labels on My Tongue, Logos in My Dreams

(a post-consumerist delirium with capitalist dreams & ancestral aftertaste)

I.
I stitched a Nike swoosh on my third eye—
just do it, they whispered,
but I did nothing.
I bought silence on EMI,
financed by guilt and peer approval,
I wore motivation like a slogan
until it faded in the wash.
My soles carried me into places
I had no courage to name.

I saw a kid etching the swoosh in schoolbooks—
not alphabets, not math, just marks of becoming.
As if success could be summoned
by the shape of a curve.
I became a consumer of belief,
purchasing faith in sweat-proof packaging.
They called it lifestyle.
I called it forgetting who I was.

My Apple Watch pinged me awake at 3:17 a.m.—
"Time to breathe."
But my lungs were buffering.
Every breath taxed at 18% GST.
The Eden it promised?
Already out of stock.
My thoughts are now USB-C compatible.


---

II.
Let me tell you about love—
the kind that smells like Nivea on winter-cracked hands,
where glycerine clings to longing.
It’s not the love that sings,
but the one that rubs your back
when no one’s watching.
That lotion, that scent,
is the museum of every unspoken care.

My grandmother wore a Titan
like an heirloom of precision.
Not just time—but timing.
Her life ticked in gold-plated restraint.
She whispered,
"A good brand is like a good child—quiet, reliable."
Now that Titan lies in a box,
ticking in empty nostalgia.

I drink from a Bisleri bottle not because I’m thirsty,
but because I fear the unknown—
the unnamed bacteria, the unnamed chaos.
It tastes like privilege in plastic.
I imagine rivers choking on promises,
glassy with microfibers and unmet quotas.
I write poems on receipts
while sipping safety.


---

III.
Why do I love brands?
Because they’re lies that hug me like truths.
Because I learned early
that trust could be sold in tetrapaks,
and happiness came with a warranty.

My father wore Raymond to weddings—
his self-worth tailored,
his anxieties pleated neatly.
"The Complete Man," the ad said.
But who completes whom?
Did the shirt wear him,
or did he wear decades of inheritance?

My mother swore by Dove—
"it’s gentle, like you should be."
She scrubbed her sacrifices
with quarter moisturizers
and full expectation.
Now her skin still cracks—
only more fragrantly.

I watched them perform
soft rituals of belonging:
a spray of Old Spice before the interview,
a dot of Fair & Lovely before family functions,
a drop of Santoor in the bucket
to cleanse class.


---

IV.
There was a time I believed in FabIndia.
Khadi-coated illusion,
saffron-stitched in EMIs.
I bought a kurta not for the fit,
but for the fiction—
that I was closer to the land,
even though I had none.

The tag read: Handwoven by rural artisans.
I imagined a woman in Bengal,
weaving resilience into cotton.
She smiled in my fantasy.
But who pays her?
And who gets paid in hashtags?

I wore it to an art gallery,
where white walls hung pain
priced at per-square-foot trauma.
A man in jodhpurs nodded.
“Nice aesthetic.”
And I thought: is identity now curated
by sales associates?

I sipped turmeric lattes after,
in mugs made by machines
that mimic the curve of hand-thrown clay.
Faux-authenticity.
India-lite.
Namaste, but monetized.


---

V.
I shop therefore I confess.
Amazon is my priest—
omnipresent,
judgment-free,
same-day delivery of absolution.

My Wishlist is a soft cry—
JBL headphones to cancel my inner critic,
an ergonomic chair for my collapsing dreams,
a Kindle to read books I’ll never finish.
Each item a bandage
for a wound I haven’t named.

Flipkart is nostalgia in pixels.
My first phone, my first heartbreak,
both bought on festive sales.
I remember staring at the screen,
waiting for the price to drop—
hoping the same would happen to my expectations.

The cart is now sacred,
a limbo of desires
I neither abandon nor fulfill.
Like ghosts of wants
not worth returning.


---

VI.
Why do I love these brands?

Because Cadbury tastes like grammar school recess—
those fleeting five minutes
where no one judged your teeth.
Because Dettol smells like discipline,
antiseptic love
that stung before it soothed.

Because Amul taught me
that butter could speak in punchlines.
That billboards could feel homely.
The Amul girl winked at corruption,
inflation, cricket scores—
a national conscience in cartoon.

Because Paper Boat gave me
permission to remember.
It bottled monsoon puddles,
mango pulp,
the scent of stationery,
and sold it back
as nostalgia concentrate.

Because Tata Salt claimed: Desh ka namak.
Patriotism in crystals.
No more revolutions—just iodine.


---

VII.
Yes, I consume,
but what consumes me?

Netflix—my bedtime lullaby.
Where stories sleepwalk
across genres,
and I become someone else
for 52 minutes.
Each episode another version of escape.
"Next episode in 5 seconds"—
and I obey.

Spotify—symphonies for sale.
Playlists for moods I didn’t know I had.
"Lo-fi beats to untangle your trauma."
I press play.
Healing begins at 128 kbps.

H&M—disposable armor.
I dress like trends,
shedding myself each season.
“Conscious collection,”
says the tag,
made by unconscious hands.


---

VIII.
Oh, but I do love them.

I whisper “Bose” into a quiet room
and the silence listens.
Each decibel is curated,
a museum of absence.
I don’t hear the world;
I hear how far I’ve drifted from it.

Blue Tokai—ink in a ceramic cup.
They roast rebellion
and serve it as hipster routine.
Baristas quote Rumi,
steam hisses like confessions,
WiFi strong enough for existential dread.

Logitech—my keyboard tap-dances.
Click. Clack. Code. Poem.
Each keystroke a desperate drumbeat
trying to summon meaning.


---

IX.
Some nights, I dream I am Reebok,
reinvented,
renamed,
still running.
They can’t pronounce me right,
but I keep moving.
Outrun my lineage,
my branding.

I wrap myself in Uniqlo
and call it minimalism.
But inside,
my thoughts are maximal,
flamboyant, gasping.
Their threads are clean.
My mind—creases of regret.

I wash with Forest Essentials—
bark of an ancient tree,
tears of lavender monks.
I pretend I am healing
while the Himalayas weep.


---

X.
Don’t ask me for favorites,
ask me for scars.

Ask me about the Bata sandals
worn till they wept,
every scratch a story,
every tear a geography.

Ask me about Horlicks,
stirred by tired hands at 5 a.m.,
the bedtime drink for future engineers.

Ask me about Colgate,
brushing away shame,
whitening sorrows,
mint-fresh regrets.

Ask me about Bournvita—
lies in cocoa flavor,
promises of brilliance
in dissolving powder.


---

XI.
My favorite brand is the smell of clothes
dried on a bamboo line,
sun-kissed, unapologetic.
No fragrance added.
No influencer endorsement.
Just truth.

My favorite brand is chai,
served in dented steel,
brewed on coals,
sweetened with pausing.
It cost Rs. 10.
It knew my soul.

My favorite brand is a hand-written letter,
folded like a secret,
stamped with intimacy.
No logo.
Just love.


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XII.
They ask me:
What’s your favorite brand and why?

I tell them:
Because I am a patchwork of promises,
stitched by slogans,
torn by time.

Because my first crush was on a jingle,
my first heartbreak,
an out-of-stock notification.

Because brands don’t just sell things—
they sell futures,
aspirations,
mirrors.

Because when I wear them,
I forget the skin underneath.
And sometimes forgetting
feels like relief.


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XIII.
But when the grid goes down,
and the last ad fades,
when influencers lose signal,
and brands lose oxygen—
I will go barefoot,
wrapped in old memories,
walking toward stories
that don’t expire.

I will be my own brand:
untagged, unsponsored,
whole.

#Consumption #BrandObsession #ModernLife #Poetry #Brands #CapitalismCritique #ConsumerCulture #IdentityCrisis #Nostalgic #MinimalismVsMaximalism #SlogansAndScars