Every night the road to home is a dull smoky path where breath is stifled by madness of pedestrians and their abrupt crossings in a zig zag pattern. One such night turned out to be an alarm in disguise. It was novelty of the experience.Late in the evening these pretty young girls were dressed to live.Thin bodies covered in modern attire. Some in skirts, some in salwar and few in pants.Lips were painted. How different were they from all of us? I dress to be presentable. In order to be an achiever I strive hard till late hours of the day. I get back home to see them lined up on the small uphill of life. I can't talk. I just look. When they are talking to men who get off from their bikes and negotiate on a price. Those wide eyed faces fleeing at the sound of a siren.I tell a friend that I've never seen something like this before in my life. I was told they are transvestites. Not all. I now pass them, look at them, think of them. Maybe someday I'll talk to them.Depends.
Watching milk white fog Painted across the hills Tried to find a bridge Crossing a needy heart Squinted eyes hurt In search of water Gushing down far away Like tears of forlorn soldier The kind Sun stepped Bore the misty clouds Quenching his thirst He smiled upon the old man Diamonds drifted Like near heavens Of a love spectrum Bowing to ‘Pa His three telescopes Were no companions Two were dead sons But this one fed him
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