Stranger

Stranger: Hey, do I know you? [Blows out a gust of smoke, throws cigarette stub on the ground and crushes it with the sole of his shoe]

Me: I’m not sure, perhaps you do. But I don’t know you.

Stranger: I think I’ve seen you somewhere. [Squints in remembrance, hand occasionally brushing against his cheek].

Me: Perhaps at the poetry shows. Have you been to any?

Stranger: What poetry shows? I never heard of any. Besides, I hate poetry.

[I’m caught up by the boldness of his response]

Me: Why do you hate poetry?

Stranger: [Frowns in concentration] Poetry evokes deep emotions. It can easily make you sad. It forcibly connects you with that which you don’t necessarily want to connect with. [Takes two steps towards me - cigarette stench – I take two steps back.] Poetry is very subjective and so I think it should not be shared with the public. It’s like imposing ones thoughts into our minds. This is pure pollution. Poets are con artists.

Me: You remember that stub?

Stranger: What stub?

Me: See? You’ve forgotten it. But you ground that cigarette stub on the ground – under the pestle of your shoe. When you did so, you had no feelings whatsoever towards that stub. But when you bought it, you craved for a smoke. So you cherished the cigarette. It was your antidote. You walked along, blowing clouds into the air – feeling like an angel while polluting the environment. Your smoke pollutes – not poetry. And...

[Interrupts]

Stranger: Wait a minute. Where are you heading to?    

Me: [Ignores the question] Then the cigarette dwindles into your lungs. You feel contented. No more craving. Without even a thank you, you throw down what is left of it and step on it. You step on it the way you would to a troublesome roach.  Then you forget about it. At least for a little while. You forget that the cigarette is the fuel of your engine. It is that which makes you move. I’m not imposing any thoughts into your mind – I’m telling you truth that you might not know. Now tell me, when someone evokes feelings like this, would you hate them for that? Would you call them con artists?  

Stranger: [Closes his mouth which has been agape and licks his lips] You are a poet, aren’t you?

Me: Maybe a con artist. Now, did you say you know me?

Stranger: No. Go away.