The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly
ruffled down the bushy mustache
covered his upper lip and
two slender streams of them joined his beard.
I wondered if he’d faced any trouble while eating.
A wrinkly face. I’d seen those marks right after
waves hitting the forehead and leaving arts on the sand
at Cox’s Bazar, through the eyes of Mr Cox.
I’d also noticed a hair--very tiny and barely seen, alone.
Just on his nose top.
It must be a wiry grass, I said.
22 September 2012