People are just so nice, man.

I went to the convenience store behind the PG, and the man there - I fondly refer to him as Peter Pettigrew #1 (the story of Peter Pettigrew #2 shall be saved for later) - told me had a present for me.

"A present?" I said, surprised.

He opened the fridge where he keeps the soda and took a piece of chocolate, carefully wrapped, out.

"My friend got me a box from Thailand. I saved one for you. It's filled with wine."

"For me?" I was so touched, I nearly blubbered.

"Try it,"

And I did, and wine exploded in my mouth.


I gave him a thumbs up, talked a bit about Thailand, and, throwing will power to the wind, bought a pack of cigarettes. I  figured it was the least I could do.

What can I say? The world has its fair share of nasty people, but there are also those who surprise and delight and they matter so much more. 

The Trip That Wasn't: Part II

"Are we going to Agra this evening?" I said to Mawii, when we woke up the next morning.

"I suppose," said Mawii, putting a pillow over her face.

"Right!" I bounded out of bed, brushed my teeth, and opened our door to cross the garden to the main house to get some breakfast. I blinked. The sun was pouring down, the sky was impossibly blue, everything was still and oppressive and...hot.

It takes less than thirty seconds to cross the garden but I swear by the time I did, I was already sweating.

"That's it," I told Mawii, over Times Trends. "I'm not going to Agra."

Mawii looked relieved.

"But I really don't want to waste this weekend sitting in the PG," I continued, despondently stirring my coffee that comprises a pinch of coffee powder and a lot of milk and therefore isn't coffee at all but it sort of grows on you. "I want to do something."

Mawii was silent. She wanted to do something too.

"Why don't we have a weekend in Delhi?" I suggested after a moment (or maybe she suggested it, I don't remember, but I'm telling the story).

"Doing what?"

"We could go to nice places to eat, we could visit places we haven't been to yet. Like Humayun's Tomb and the Purana Quila."

Mawii brightened. "We could do that!"

And this was what we decided: it really was unbearably hot and it was already ten o'clock, so we'd watch a nice movie together that afternoon, a mindless romantic comedy, and then, in the evening when it got a bit cooler, we'd go to Dilli Haat and cheer ourselves up by buying out the place, and then we'd go to Hauz Khas village for dinner. And then, the next day, which was Sunday, we'd wake up really early in the morning before it got hot, and visit Humayun's Tomb and Purana Quila, and then have a nice lunch at Big Chill because the thought of cheesy pasta just then was inexplicably comforting.

Excellent plan. At least we were doing something, we were taking initiative, we were being pro-active, instead of feeling sorry for ourselves. Alright, we were still feeling sorry for ourselves, but at least we were going to feel it while shopping and eating and absorbing History, instead of sitting around in our room drinking ourselves into a stupor.

So we watched Mama Mia that afternoon - and sang along with gusto if not finesse - and then we had a bath and we put on nice clothes, and slathered on eyeliner and a bit of lipstick and lots of mascara. Mawii looked beautiful, as always, and I looked quite attractive too although this was possibly because I had only one contact lens on (no way was I going to be wearing my glasses) and so when I looked in the mirror, my features were blurred and I couldn't see my nose properly. But why quibble.

And off we went to Dilli Haat.

We got out of the metro station and asked an auto driver where it was.

"There," he said, pointing towards it and heaving a sigh that seemed to imply he thought we were imbeciles.

"Where?" I said, squinting. I couldn't really see much. Just the sky, already fading to pink, and a few blurry shapes I assumed were cars, and other blurry shapes I assumed were people.

"I see it," said Mawii. "It's ten steps away."

She took me by the arm and guided me firmly. I closed the eye that didn't have a lens in it and that helped my vision. I also told myself that it made me look like a one eyed pirate. Lying to myself is what keeps me going.

"Oh look," I said, pointing to a couple of women in brightly coloured saris who were busy wrapping strands of people's hair in shiny ribbon. "I want to get that done." I was thinking of the time I got my hair braided in Bali, and how happy I'd been there, and I figured that getting strands of my hair wrapped in ribbon would bring me close to that happiness. I know. My logic bewilders even me sometimes.

I actually meant to get it done on the way out, but I made the mistake of making eye contact with one of the women while we were buying tickets to enter, and she strode determinedly up to me, wouldn't take no for an answer, insisted that by the time I came out all the hair wrappers (not braiders) would be gone, and that my life would lose all meaning if I went around with the hair I currently had.

So we mooched over to the low stone grey wall where the hair wrapping was going on. Mawii declined to get her hair done, I picked blue and purple ribbon (it was more like shiny string) for mine, and the woman started wrapping. She stood on the wall behind me, grabbed a chunk of my hair, twisted it, and then started twisting the paper around it, taking very good care to yank my hair as hard as possible. I don't want to be mean, but all this while she was bargaining with Mawii and the more Mawii insisted she bring down the price, the harder she tugged at my hair. After she'd done one lulu, Mawii took a picture and I decided to get only one more. Four, which I'd originally planned, was going to be too much. The lady accepted my decision with very bad grace, but I think she had quite a good time pulling at my roots so I'm sure all was not lost.

Look, you can see that my eye is rolling in pain.

Anyway, we went in after that, and it was already dark, and the Haat was looking lovely with all its colourful stalls and lanterns and faery lights (man, I love faery lights. They make me so happy) everywhere. Mawii made me swear that I wouldn't let her buy more than once piece of jewellery, but as it turns out, I was the one who went beserk.

I went to the first shoe stall I saw, tried on four different pairs of shoes, told the guy (who was already growing impatient because I kept saying, "Eesh. So ugly" to a pair, only to try them on two pairs later) I'd come back and buy a pair on my way out. A lie.

Mawii was roaming around all the jewellery stalls searching for rings because that girl is obsessed with rings. She bent over the displays intently, examining each piece with precision. I leaped in, bought the first necklace I saw, and leaped out again. I was also going around taking bad photos with my phone.

The chess sets really tempted me. They were so pretty. Luckily for my - well, my mother's - bank account, I realised just in time that I don't know how to play chess, so I refrained from buying one. But that didn't stop me from buying other things: shoes, that seriously look like slippers the Sultan of Turkey would wear, two heavy lead pencils (I bought one for Mawii but she said she'd used them before and they wrote badly and wouldn't take it. Ungrateful chit), a green patterned skirt (It took me fifteen minutes to choose between the green and a red one, and I actually held one against Mawii and the other against a mortified salesboy and well, the green looked good on even the salesboy so I figured it was a winner), the necklace, and - a pipe. I bought a pipe! Dark polished wood. It was beautiful. I spent ages looking for an ashtray, but couldn't find one, so I ended up buying a tiny little wooden coffee cup that matched the pipe (bada bing bada boom!) instead. 

"What are you going to do with a pipe?" said Mawii grumpily. She hadn't bought a single thing yet even though she'd been round to all the jewellery stalls at least twice. She was being too careful in my opinion. No point shopping for frivolous things if you're going to be careful. 

"I'm going to use it to quit smoking," I said proudly. 

"Come again?"

"I'll stop buying cigarettes and instead, whenever I feel like I'm about to die because my lungs feel too clean or whatever, I'm going to put a little tobacco in this pipe and light up." I didn't add that I thought I'd look extremely cool going around puffing away at it. 

The nice thing about Mawii is that she plays along with my idiotic notions, so apart from a brief snort, she didn't try to dissuade me. She also refrained from mentioning that I'd bought an ashtray (or at least an object I intended to use as an ashtray) which was a pointless purchase if I was going to quit smoking. Then again, she knows I lie to myself a lot, so perhaps she was just playing along. 


We finally left, me lugging three heavy bags, and Mawii empty handed. It was a turnaround, I can tell you. 

Then we headed to Hauz Khas village because Mawii had heard of a really nice restaurant there where you get South East Asian food and we both felt like eating with chopsticks. We got an auto to drop us off in the middle of a dark street. 

"Where is it?" I asked her.

"I'm not sure," Typical Mawii. 

I googled the name on my phone and got an address and we went around from person to person asking where the restaurant was. 

"Never heard of it," said a man, scratching his beard, when we asked him where the restaurant was. 

"It's at number 45?" I said. 

"Number what?"


Blank stare, and this was followed by many blank stares, so we decided to forgo the chopsticks and ended up at The Living Cafe (?) and it wasn't too bad at all. Dim lighting, lots of candles, dark wood, a very nice bar (we skipped the cocktails) and one of those menus where you kind of have to go, "Hm. I'll have this. Or should I have this? Or this, or this, or that? Alright, I've narrowed it down to this, this, and this. What do you think?" 

The food was delicious, and then we went to this tiny little terrace outside and had coffee there, with a cigarette (I'll quit tomorrow, I told Mawii) and by the end of it we were in a very good mood because mountains or no mountains, that's what shopping, good food, and people who don't get on your nerves even though you spend practically every waking moment of your existence with them, do to you: they put you in a good mood.

We were even humming on the way home. 

"Tomorrow," I told Mawii as we got into bed, "tomorrow we'll wake up at seven thirty and go sight seeing. We'll be tourists." 

"We'll be tourists." She agreed.

"First thing in the morning,"

"First thing in the morning." 

"It's going to be - "


Haha. Ha. 


The Trip That Wasn't: Part I

September 2011.

Mawii and I had been having a rough couple of months. Things in college hadn't been going all that great, and to be honest, nothing else had either. We'd both lost money because our PG seems to be harbouring a thief who knows exactly when we leave our room, even if it's just for ten minutes, and the exams had been a complete disaster (the only bright spot: we both passed Hindi), and there were a million other things going wrong, and nothing at all going right.

What we needed was a break and accordingly, we decided to give ourselves one.

What sort of break? A mountain getaway. Away from college, away from the city, away from familiar faces, away from the heat, away from it all. Invigorating air, that's what we needed, and lots of trees, and long walks, and maybe the occasional dancing stream and the odd cafe perched at the end of the world.

So, after a lot of deliberating (and googling) we decided on Naukuchiatal: the place with the nine sided lake, or something similar. It looked like something very close to Paradise.

The weekend we planned it though, our department decided to make its annual trip - to Dalhousie.

"Should we cancel Naukuchiatal and go to Dalhousie instead?" said Mawii, as we lay sprawled on our beds one hot afternoon, both staring blankly at the ceiling.

"Well, it is our last year of college." I conceded.

"Last class trip,"

"We probably won't see most of these people again,"

"Naomi's going."

"And Naomi never goes on trips. I'd like to go on a trip with Naomi."

"But then on the other hand, it won't just be Naomi."

"It will be lots of people."

"I'm kind of sick of people."

"Alright then. Where are we going?"

"Naukuchiatal, obviously."

We were proactive. We went to Connaught Place after college one afternoon. I googled Travel-Agencies-in-CP from my iPhone and felt very cool. I even looked at the map.

"Can you read this?" I asked Mawii, as we got out of the metro station.

"Sure. I can read maps."

Mawii looked at the map, a tiny little network of blue and red blurbs on my screen, interrupted by a long crack (one of the many results of my usual ham handedness).

"Where's the travel agency?"

A brief pause.

"Let's just walk around a bit, shall we?"

"Sounds good."

We walked with a purpose though, because Mawii had been to a travel agency in CP before and she vaguely remembered the direction. After a little asking around, and a lot of climbing over rubble, we found ourselves outside a travel agency (not the one she remembered but c'est la vie) and we walked in.

We were the only customers - I should have known. That should have warned me. The walls were plastered with photos of white Ambassadors. That should have been another warning.

"Naukuchiatal?" said the travel agent.

"Should we go by bus or by train?" said Mawii, adopting an efficient business like air, while I sat back and looked at her admiringly.

"Bus. Train. Both."

"Which is quicker?"

"Both quick. Both good." A beatific smile.

"Wouldn't it be quickest if we took a train?"

"Train...yes. Bus...hmm."

We settled on a bus. We booked our tickets, got them printed, handed over the money, got the details of our pick up point, and scarpered.

"This is good," I told Mawii. "This is really good."

"We've had such a bad time, things can only get better from this point on," She agreed.

How wrong we were.

I phoned my mother that night.

"We're going to Naukuchiatal."




"It's a place near Nainital, or in Nainital, in the state of Uttaranchal."




"It has a pretty lake," I added feebly.

"Are you two going alone?"

"Bo might come too."

"I don't like the thought of you girls travelling on your own."

"I have a Swiss knife with me. I can buy pepper spray too, if you want."

"What have I told you about being facetious?"

"Well, we've already got the tickets, and I'm sure it'll be safe. These places are always safe. Anyway it's only white people who get murdered on holiday and that's usually in Goa.We'll find a place to stay, and we'll walk a lot, and we'll visit the lake, and we'll communicate with nature. I've had a difficult term, I need to communicate with nature. It's not like anyone else has been communicating with me."

A disbelieving snort and then a grudging, "Make sure you call Anjali. She's from that area, she'll probably be able to recommend some places you two can stay."

I did call (my aunt) Anjali. The night before we were due to leave.

"Where are you going, love?"






"Haven't you seen the news?"

I hadn't been near a television set since leaving Calcutta in July so the answer was no.

"Thirty six people have been killed in landslides there this week!"

Goodbye Naukuchiatal.

I frantically called Mawii who was at home and told her to check the news. She called me back equally frantic. The news was bad news (like it could be anything else). People were being swept away by landslides left, right, and centre. Swish, swoosh, and the sound of silence.

"We could go anyway," she said unenthusiastically.

"NO." I was adamant. I have no faith in Mawii's survival skills, and I have less faith in mine. The only reason I've made it this far is because of sheer dumb luck and I really wasn't trusting luck to do it for me this time round, at the rate things had been going. (There was an earthquake in Delhi last month and Mawii and I felt it and we both sat up in bed clutching each other and mumbling incoherent things, only gathering the wits to run outside long after the earthquake had stopped.) So no.

"Can we please just go somewhere else?" I asked.

"I'll go to CP tomorrow, cancel our tickets, and we'll go somewhere else," she promised.

But we couldn't go anywhere else. She called me the next morning - I was in class and ran out in the middle telling my professor it was an emergency which it totally was because my mental health was at stake - and she grimly told me that there were landslides in Uttaranchal, Himachal Pradesh, and basically all the nice mountainous areas we wanted to travel to. Rain everywhere.

Except of course in Delhi.

"Rajasthan? What about Rajasthan?" I said, clutching at whatever straws I could. Came up short as usual. We'd discussed the possibility of going to Rajasthan - Pushkar, perhaps? - and though it couldn't match up to the mountains, we comforted ourselves with the thought that we could spend the weekend riding camels. That's something, right? Camels?

"Everything to Rajasthan is already booked."

No camels then.

"AGRA!" I shouted in desperation. "WE'LL GO TO AGRA."

Mawii was not too keen on the idea of Agra, but it was still only Friday, and we could leave for Agra on Saturday evening and then return on Monday and perhaps we could even visit Fatehpur Sikhri. Also, my father had told me about Akbar's tomb which is on the way to Agra, and about how a ray of sunlight always falls on it, no matter what time of the day it is (not after the sun sets. Obviously). That didn't sound too bad. A ray of sunlight on the great Mughal's tomb was better than nothing at all.

But it was Friday and our class was leaving for Dalhousie that evening and we had nothing. Nothing. We could still go to Dalhousie but we didn't really want to.

"Tell you what. We'll dress up tonight, bring out those swishy little skirts and floaty little dresses and put on some lipstick and we'll go somewhere fancy for dinner - and maybe a couple of cocktails. Just the two of us," said Mawii.

I felt just a little less devastated at the sound of that plan.

And so that night, I had nice bath (a bucket bath, obviously, because it's too much to ask for, oh I don't know, a proper working shower in this bloody city) and I dried my hair and I even brushed it, and I'd laid out a little blue skirt, and I was in my towel, putting on one of my contact lenses, when it dropped. The contact lens. One minute it was in my palm, and the next minute, it had vanished. I scrabbled around on the floor, crawled under the bed, made Mawii fetch a torch and explored all the dark corners of our room, hoping against hope that it had bounced its way somewhere. Although contact lenses don't bounce. And then I stood in front of the mirror for twenty minutes, poking at my eyeball just in case it had disappeared up my eyelid. It hadn't - or if it had, it's still there.

That was really more than I could handle. It ended with me bawling on my bed, Mawii's arms around me, both of us feeling weighed down by darkness, despair, de-everything.

"Get into your pyjamas," Mawii told me, finally, "and order a pepperoni pizza. I'm going to go to Mocha to get us some dessert, because we deserve dessert, and then I'm going to come back, and I'm going to roll a joint, and then we're going to get stoned."

I cheered up a little.

And so that's how we spent the first night of the trip that didn't happen, the trip that didn't manifest, the trip that was a complete, er, washout. (Har har.)

Just as we were on the verge of passing out, Mawii got a text from Dhruv. Our class was still on the bus, stuck, stranded, because of - wait for it - landslides.

Perhaps we shouldn't have, but we chortled ourselves to sleep.


The story of a dream untold.

She always found it sort of embarrassing to admit she had dreams. In college, most of her friends didn’t talk about dreams – they were too busy crafting blueprints, reading assignments, drinking beer, finding love and losing it. Sometimes though, four or five of them would get together in the tiny little room she rented  above the busy marketplace. It would be quiet then, because it was after midnight, and even the market area, usually so crammed with college students with Kants and Hegels and Juliets swirling in their heads, and young men and women who’d just stepped foot into the real world, and beggars who’d known the real world since they’d been little children lurking outside coffee shops, and shopkeepers who could tell just how torn a money note had to be before it was deemed totally unacceptable, even this area, so crowded and spilling over with all these lives and the accompanying sounds, sights, and smells – it was quiet then. A couple of dimly lit street lamps cast the obligatory harsh orange light on silent streets, a few dogs dutifully curled up near gutters along with shapeless bundles that during the day were something close to human beings.

Anyway, they’d meet, about four or five of them, and they’d have a few beers and they’d light a few joints, and in between talking about all the regular stuff, they’d also sometimes lower their guards down, just enough to speak some sort of truth about themselves, about what they thought, about what they wanted. One night was the same as the other really; they were almost seamless, the way they wove into one another, marvellously forgettable and infinitely timeless.

Seven years later, she’s standing at the corner of a pavement, waiting for the signal to turn green so she can cross, and she is filled with a deep joy that can only be explained slowly, in bits and pieces, and for some reason, with the sun shining on her, so bright that she has to wear sunglasses although she always feels a bit of a fool in them, and her sleek mobile phone clutched tight in her sweaty hand, she remembers one of those nights, and all of a sudden, it is very clear, a photographic memory, even though she’s not sure whether it’s the result of many similar photographs coming together, or a single, brief snapshot, catching her unawares, as yet another taxi sails past her, and the light continues to remain stubbornly scarlet.

She was twenty one years old then, and like most twenty one year olds, she had the world at her feet. They all did, and they knew it, and the thought exhilarated them and terrified them and for the most part, they tried to bury it away because to contemplate it was frightening: too much was at stake, too much was unknown, and it was all too much, sometimes.

“Do you remember when you were little and you used to play that What-I-Want-To-Be-When-I-Grow-Up game?” A said, and though she hasn’t seen A in six years, she can recall her face as if she’d seen her just yesterday. Big trusting eyes (are they still trusting?), a sharp little nose. Pretty, unremarkable, earnest.

“Oh gawd,” drawled M, leaning back on her elbows: a graceless position to be in, but nothing M did could ever be graceless, because M was one of those people who are born to movement.

“I remember,” said C, eyes flushed with cheap wine. “I wanted to marry our electrician.”

A shout of laughter.

“Why?” She’d asked curiously, stubbing out vague memories of the time she was six years old and wanted to marry a carpenter.

“I don’t know,” said C, uncomfortablv. “He was cute. And he always made the lights come on. I guess I just liked the idea of being with someone who could make darkness disappear.”

There was a pause that very briefly threatened to grow serious before she snorted with laughter and soon they were all rolling around the bed and the floor, shrieking with mirth, and that was why she loved them, that was why they were different from all her other friends.

“What do you want to do now?” said M, stubbing out her cigarette and lighting another. She watched M’s face, its angles thrown into sharp relief against the feeble flickering of the flame.

Fine bone structure, dear.

“After college? I want to go to Oxford,” said C dreamily. “I want to go and read a lot and then I want to find a niche and learn all about it and think my own thoughts about it and then I want to write realms and realms of useless papers on it, and teach ‘em all to students...and I want a garden of my own that grows really nice roses.”

She could see C doing that: leading a quiet academic life, revolving around libraries and gardens, and silver rimmed glasses that lay forgotten on polished wooden tables, and she felt a pang of envy.

“Mine never changed. I wanted to write about war and soldiers when I was little and I still do, I guess.” A shot a secret look at M, and she didn’t understand it then and she’s not sure if she understands it now while crossing the road – the light has finally turned green – but either way, she reckons it isn’t important.

That had been the first time she’d heard about A wanting to be a war correspondent  and it surprised her because though she could see M doing it, A was the sort of person who just...well, she just sort of floated along, and it sounded terrible to her then, and it still sounds terrible to her now, but that didn’t make it any less true.

“I am going to scram to one of the biggest cities in the world,” said M, not drawling for once, but she suppressed a smile anyway because the thought of M not wanting to live in one-of-the-biggest-cities-in-the-world would have been as ludicrous as the thought of A traipsing around in the middle east or wherever wars happened, dusty and earnest, with a forgotten pen tucked behind her ear and a state of the art laptop swinging from her side. “And once I’m there, I’m going to get a job publishing – or in fashion, I just can’t choose, damn it – and I’m going to make a lot of money and marry someone incredibly handsome and ambitious, and have the perfect family, and deep down all the while, I’m going to be incredibly miserable.”

“Why would you want to be miserable?” asked C incredulously.

She saw the corners of M’s mouth turning up. A secret little smile. “Oh come on, you lot. Like I’d ever be happy if I couldn’t be miserable.”

Laughter filled the room – no stranger to it – once again.

“What about you? You’ve been surprisingly quiet, love.” C turned to her, drawing her in, which was a little odd – she can see it now, as she pauses briefly outside a clothing store to admire the red coat that warms the cold mannequin – because she was usually the sort of person who dove right into things. Or pretended to, anyway.

But they were talking about dreams.

They knew her well so she had to put up a good performance and the only way she could do that was by half convincing herself that she was about to tell the truth.

“I want...” she paused for a second, and took a deep drag of her cigarette. “I want to be a travel writer. I want to travel all over the world and I want to write about what I see – half funny, entirely forgettable stories that make people laugh, just then, when they’re reading it. And eventually, I want to meet the love of my life – maybe have children, maybe not – and keep travelling and exploring and...” she trailed away.

“That’s perfect for you,” said C enthusiastically, clapping her hands and forgetting she had a glass of cheap red wine in the left one. While they were all busy cleaning it up, and laughing hysterically at their own incompetence, M’s eyes met her own. M knew she was lying, and if ever eyes could talk, hers did then.

Pretend I’m telling the truth, don’t ever ask me, don’t ever probe, just play along.

M turned to look at A who was hiccupping uncharacteristically and her eyes crinkled with laughter. M, aggressive, untactful, full of curiosity, had somehow, incredibly, received her message. For a brief moment, she wondered if she’d been imagining it, but when M glanced her way again, she realised that she hadn’t, and felt a surge of overwhelming gratefulness.

And now it's seven years later and she's walking down the road in a city she's always wanted to live in - and now she is, she really is - and the sun is bright and the breeze is sharp enough to add colour to her colourless cheek, and her eyes are brighter than they have been in a very long time, her shoulders are mingling with other shoulders, her legs are becoming part of a world of legs, her future is being lost in other futures, and then she turns a corner - the light is dazzling - and she can't be seen anymore. 


On the stage.

The line between tragedy and comedy is a very thin one. It's easy to cross, it's just a matter of twisting perspective.

If in the realm of tragedy, don't stay there. Tragedy is all very well in literature - it has nobility, it has transformation, it has reflection, it has long cold nights under the stars where the world revolves around you, and only you, and the rest ceases to matter.

It is pointless.

We are all actors on our own stages, but we have no real audience. And why should we? Everyone has their own spotlight, they have no time to pause for someone else's except for a moment: a brief glance, a brief smile, a brief sigh.

So you're alone with your own life, your own problems, your own stage and with an audience that is truly made up of no one but yourself.

See the funny side of things, realise how unimportant the important is. Be dazzled, be bewildered, be surprised, astonished, and bemused at the way the script slowly unravels itself, the ink curving its way into sense only a drop at a time. Look back at the second that has passed and realise that you've survived it, you've lived to speak another line, and be grateful.

Oh yes, and laugh.

If you're on your own, you might as well hear the sound of your own laughter, and it is the easiest sound in the world to live with, for among other things, laughter can be silent too sometimes. 


Before December.

They cannot touch you in the sky,
Those things that made you cringe,
That you disliked. 

Shrill voices, suffocating smoke
coiling its way from crushed half cigarettes.
Poisoned words, cloaked.

Tottering girls on magic pills,
Blue inked poetry, smashed guitars asleep on pavements,
No, they never will.

No, their claws can't reach that high,
So I shall softly stroll a beach,
For neither can I.

Under the stars, suitably grieving,
Sand crunching underfoot, suitably dressed,
Suitably singing. 

Grey ash spewed out by a chlorined fountain,
Drowned in murky water. Or perhaps merely asleep,
On some immortal mountain.