Bughum’s Nose

              The day his nose lost its innocence, Lwoyoblrig Bughum had tea instead of coffee. “My nose was indifferent,” he sadly told me, “to the fact that my body wasn’t probably as sick.” The incommensurability between Bughum’s nose and his body, hitherto existing in nothing but convivial camaraderie portended calamity. He remembers walking out of his cave to a bright night, wet in kitschy sepia of streetlights.

“As a child I was taught – as everyone else – that noses aren’t special. They are as normal as one’s thumb. And I – as everyone does – believed it. But it wasn’t true.” He came to know that noses live in a world of their own. They all meet somewhere behind, in the human head, and do not care what happens before them. He came to know that noses talk.

“A nose talks to itself and to other noses. It does not have a large vocabulary. To be frank, it is pitifully scarce. It talks in a wayward way, mumbling, making no sense at all. But when it does make sense sometimes, it is extremely hard to make any sense of it. The pertinent question here is, how does one make sense of what one’s nose is trying to say when it is trying to say something sensible?”

On a long road that could have been shorter, and on a bright night that could have been darker, Bughum saw a cat perched on a car. He smiled. So did the cat. It was furry and brown. Bughum carried it in his hands, and brought it near to his face. Their eyes met. And their noses fell in love. They did not.

He tried to kill the cat and the cat in turn chewed away his thumb. There was blood on cat’s nose and Bughum’s shirt.

Bughum sneezed. His nose did that for the first time.


Lwoyoblrig Bughum is an out-of-work balladeer. To know more about him click here.

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