The milk sat on the blazing stove as graciously as it surged into its holder. Dignified was the word, given the relentless burn underneath did nothing to deter the liquid cringe from its original form or volume. Occasionally, it shook its head marginally in response to the momentary sway of a breeze. Else, all was well. The burner continued to beam angrily to test the milk’s threshold. As if, the former wanted to tease the latter for its patience, lest the fluid was on the verge of a breakdown. The milk would have given in ultimately; it wasn’t willing to let go of the morality it possessed. However little that was. If not for one’s razor-sharp observation, that slight creasing could have been missed. When the milk was warming to boil, layers marshalled its surface. It was convenient to mistake this second’s worth of resistance from the milk for its weakness. If only one knew, the liquid was satirising the maker of the fun!
Laughter they say is an effective way to keep one’s heart and age conned into feeling young. As a therapy, it isn’t difficult to adhere to its act. You fold the easiest of those side curves where the cheekbones call it a closure and release a reverberating expression. As simple. Minus this resounding expression is a smile. Which is helpful too, for the wrinkled
curves are nothing short of a sign of invitation. A concurrence to proceed in the quest to an achievement. Similar to that peal of laughter, a smile bright enough to light up a room, comprises of deep folds on the sides at the lower end of those cheekbones. Moreover, they are genuine. Just like the furrowed stretch marks privileged to a lady after delivering a newborn. The highlight of any smile, however, is the layered crinkles at the edge of the eyes; a sign of its wholeheartedness. A smile could be the beginning of a conscious attempt eventually shepherding into a religious routine. After all, this therapy of folded curves could be an aftermath of shrunk lungs, curtseyed by many coffin nails.
A pug comes with layered folds. So does a Chinese shar-pei. But then, that’s how they are meant to be, for their beauty lies in their creases. Drawing their baths can result in shrivelled skin, owing to a prolonged immersion of the hands in water. In the process,
ignorant are those stories that lie beneath a burnt or wilted patch of skin, and the howl following a puckered pinch. Whatever said and done, the skin can take what it can up to an extent. Age in many stances is a number; nonetheless, it equally is a cheeky jerk. For, no sooner the crinkled and greasy milk fat materialises on top, than the skin reciprocates to its owner. In similar thresholds as it is treated to in the first place.
Wrinkles. Of the cutesy little fetishes. Of the umpteen defining moments. Wrinkles. Of those multifold layers. Of journeying through the craft of storytelling. Wrinkles. Of the elegant process of ageing. Of oodles of barter in a lifetime. Wrinkles. Of the miles-worth of tucked in wisdom. Of the priceless journey of one’s experiences.
Wrinkles. Of the facial creases and folds that hold untold stories. Just like a crumpled piece of paper.