That place where poets go to bask in the sun that set for the moon in their metaphors, espying the desis and the firangis with contrasting adjectives- lewd and lucid, blasphemous and beautiful. That place which no poet ever writes about. Not an ode to the assiduous sandcastles, to the mother removing water from her I-am-a-little-teapot girl, to the twins wrapped like snakes around their father’s trunks for legs. After sunglass-slipping to nosebridge, slant glances giving to juveniles, the admirers of exotic ethics return to pen on the sapless soil knitting noose for thirsty necks, osseous children with perilous toys of ebullient trends and their pregnant mothers with no flesh, praises for old gods and satires for modern devils but nothing for Kokum Feni Toddy But don’t be so disheartened O’ Vijay’s conquest, I will write a sonnet for the half drowning beachballing kids at Colva Beach, for the rebellious kiss outside Basilica of Bom Jesus, for the camera conscious flamingos of Salim Ali’s, for the Max Cady saint under dudhsagar falls but nonotnever for the poets reclining and engaging in their acts of poetic voyeurisms.