THE STRANGER IN THE COFFEE SHOP

The following is a poem that I penned during an ‘open poem writing’ competition which got splendid response.

                                         THE STRANGER IN THE COFFEE SHOP

  

                                                                   

Glued in the chair I stayed 

For the coffee I ordered                                              

Among the folk

A minute or two ago.

There came in a stranger

With a smiling face and bald head.

Nothing remarkable he wore

But a red shirt and a plain short

Gently with the pace of breeze

He walked to the counter

Took the ears of the lady behind it

And whispered a word or two

And with her head nodding

The matter seemed approved.

He turned to face us

And to address,

“Ladies and Gentlemen, one may come and one may go

But today, I shall go forever.

For never have I found a reason

And a meaning of my existence

Never could I do anything remarkable.

Hence, I must finally go

But not a coward’s death

But a death of a hero

With this last act of mine! ”

He took a graphite-black pistol

Placed its cold muzzle on his temple

Took a deep breath

And with that smiling face

Ended his life with the pull of the trigger.

But to this day, I ponder

If his last act be a hero

Or just another imprudence?

Not only had he been a stranger

For a day in the coffee shop

But a stranger for eternity.

being bhutanese?

Few years back, early in the morning my dad had received a call that a man had died in a nearby village when a falling stone hit him during the construction of a new lhakhang in that village. Such news were hot for we lived in a small community and such news were rare. I knew none of my friends at school would have heard it and that morning I had something hot to tell to my friends.

During the interval I went to a group of friends who were basking in the sun and started narrating the incident but to my dismay they weren’t even interested in it. “It happened in your village” I said to Sonam, but he wasn’t interested either. “why the hell should I care when people die in my village. When time comes everyone has to go!” he declared.

It was strange. Of course you also need to go someday, but when somebody dies in your village you got to wonder who that person might be. Someone you knew? Or your neighbor perhaps. Even if you cannot do anything you could say a little prayer instead. But he had an attitude. Who-the-hell-cares type. But I tell you, that attitude isn’t good. Common, we are Bhutanese and by default we are not suppose to have that attitude. And even if one is not a Bhutanese, one is human, be human.

But later that afternoon Sonam had sent a leave letter to the class and left for his village, which read “…..have to go home due my father’s death…….”