LINES AND VERSES

You could shower her with gifts, take her on that trip of a life time, and even be that superman; but if you never let it out in words, she would still be less than satisfied. So, one would dare to wonder: what is in a word for the woman? More often, you will hear a woman say, ‘I know he loves me, but he still hasn’t said it.’ And you may think she is wanting too much. The fact is; she isn’t just going to walk away with that knowledge alone. She is a woman, and more than a lot of things, she lives on, and is greatly moved by words. Long after the man thinks it’s over, or even forgets he ever said the words, the woman still rummages on the ‘I will’, the ‘yes’ and the ‘I love you’. Flimsy as they may seem to the man, the woman would give her heart, and more, to hear them over and over again. And they could be the reason she would leave her entire world to live in yours. Much as words can make a woman glow, words provide the link to the woman’s greatest weakness; her looks. A woman will s

Just one visit, one. That is all it would take. That is what the Manini said. Manini, the head of witch doctors, has to be right, always. Just that... he thinks. He stands and gazes like a stowaway utopist who finally has sighted his paradise land and now languishes in the desire to reach it, feel it. But would he be made be made whole? He starts to forge ahead. Just as expected, he feels a rising in the pit of his stomach, an odd sensation that has become rather frequent in the past eight months or so, it is really nauseating. He slows down to a halt as the feeling reaches his chest, drawing up a cough, a dry cough. He coughs it out, clutching his chest in both hands to ease the choking squeeze in his diaphragm. It is usually short lived and ends with a slimy discharge. He spews it without a second thought. He doesn't need to see it to k now how much blood goes with it. The doctor said this is not right, but he should go to hell with his antiretroviral therapy that doesn't eve

Apart from those chance meetings where things rarely click, as humans – ‘civilized’, we often want to set up another rendezvous with the opposite sex. We want to get to know each other better. So, on that first date, we must look our very best. The man searches out his best wears, or borrows some. If his car isn’t tidy enough, a day for make-over had come; yet he might use a friend’s just for the day if he hasn’t any. Because the woman needs a good treat, maybe some flashy restaurant with impressive service charge would be a great Idea, however unaffordable it is to him. The woman needs to see him as capable, not to mention responsible. The woman isn’t less busy too; this is the right day for the best attitude, and is supposed to be her sexiest, she would do most of the above, but the man has to pick up the bill. On this first date, we are often perfect; looking drop dead gorgeous, saying the right things, making the right moves… what a pretense! Because rather than getting better in-v

IT IS NOT HIS FIRST TIME. He has never done it with others, just that he is broke now. He traces his way through the dingy street, voices of the past, present and future screaming in his head, all protesting nothing in particular – only endless rants. He fears he’s going schizophrenic, yet he knows where the real people are. They are men of the shadows and won’t be visible like every other street person, and he also knows how to find them. That is second nature. Then he starts seeing signs; teenage peddlers with bloodshot eyes, bodies wrapped in thick jackets – sick sons of the drug! He is nauseated by the sight. “Isn’t that me in the black jacket?” he freezes, “God, what am I doing here, slinging in this, this forsaken slum?” Then he sees the skyline of California, "oh, but I am not in the states, I am here, here!” It clears out again. He sighs; he needs to get out of this mess but how to start doing that beats him. Since his return from the good US of A he’d never had it so bad.

Introduction The news is quick in spreading. Just like any story of terror, people cringe and listen with trepidation. Everyone says their quota, each version unique in their horrific embellishments, each twist and angle tormenting and creating another dimension that stretches everyone to their edges of paranoia… Episode one (vice) Out on the street – no names – she sits in this old man’s car, she is not thinking the stranger’s mark, she is thinking the old man’s money. She is only seventeen, and the man is over three times her age. The man has said his mind, and she has no problem with that at all. After all she has done it before, what has she to lose if she does it again, so long as she gets those new pair of jeans, and improves her cosmetic. She feels rather unbeautiful mostly, at least not beautiful enough; if only she looks a lil’ more like Jennifer Lopez, or that other stunningly beautiful super star that sings better and dances better, what’s her name…eh.. Her name is lost on h