So what, I didn’t 
	speak Dzongkha 
nor she English? 

She stood 
	in front of the hedge 
and smiled, 

her betel juice-
	stained mouth 
a deeper red 

than the color 
	of her shawl draped 
over the left shoulder, 

the deep lines 
	on her forehead 
almost geometric, 

almost mirroring 
	the patterns on her blue 
silk jacket, 

milk-white hair 
	cut short, beaded 
garland, earrings, 

eyes glinting 
	through aviator 
sunglasses, 

gaunt fingers 
	resting on her cane—
then she left, 

making her way 
	to the prayer wheels 
of Punakha Dzong. 

Bio: Eugene Datta