The scent of wrinkles, the scent of an age that has crossed the youthful pleasures of life…

The scent of wrinkles, the scent of time that revives itself making those tender arms dependent once again…

The scent of wrinkles, the scent of all those thoughts decomposing into past… her hair black and white just like a transition from day to night…

The scent of wrinkles, the scent of might that once lasted in those steady eyes, touching her old worn out knits that smelt of soap and gentle memories…, wearing them gave warmth and satisfaction with a tinge of aged maturity…

The scent of wrinkles, the scent of the relics that were few in number but symbolized simplicity…, every time she used them they gained antiqueness and tranquility…

The scent of wrinkles, the scent of a room for guiding the vociferous and the confused…, through her ancient stories of when she was young and vulnerable, too naive to understand what is discernment…

Running to her mother facing teenage complexes, crying silently with a broken heart due to the suppression’s of her old world kins…

Now she wants to relive those times, when she was charming and attractive, protected under her father’s shadow…

All the self-made games, and secrets with a wild streak, gossiping with friends wearing long pleated silk skirts…

I say, her fragrance is better than the scent from a branded store, her thin black and white locks tied into a neat bun, and her old pallor with wrinkles that tell a story…

A story of the life she lived, a story of a life that is yet to be lived…

-NITYA BHATIA

 

 

 

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