Lest We Fall Asleep Deep Down There

by Shrutidhora P Mohor

LEST WE FALL ASLEEP DEEP DOWN THERE

Over a pot of simmering boiled rice next to a miniature Pompeii on a glass display tray, 
you and I became man and wife.
Why this? You had laughed out loud, or was it a smirk?
So that when molten lava threatens to engulf all that you have ever wished for, the hunger to survive the ruins of a buried city keeps you together, explained the Grand Old Men and Women in the family. 
Smell food together and you will stay together. Volcanos die after a while. 
Marriages, like cities, are reborn.
 
You are a city at daybreak, 
the murmur of hopes folded in duvet layers, the chit-chat of your liner and the sunscreen, the stitch of the salwaar over the buckle, the wrist watch like a harness waiting to be put on, the drawl of commitments, the drape of promises, the drool over black coffee.
I am your only inhabitant, 
awake but sleepy, the mark of fabric on my cheeks like the dried wheel marks of horse-carriages on mud pits, you the lifeline of a choking city, guarded inside pompous curtains, your gloved fists, the pointed toe of the ballerina, the swish of your gown.
I am your knight, a knight I am.
Entry is on me, I am at the entrance, sword, shield, fake eye-patch in place, let’s play “I scared you, Mademoiselle! But I protect you too!” Just as often the home is a demon, the city a crematorium.
You are ancient, outdated! You roll your eyes. 
Medieval, honey, I amend. Ruins come alive, even coffins stir, I point out. You shudder.
You are a city at midday, 
the honk, the bonnet kiss, the stench of leaking diesel, perspiration rolled up, clients and projects, memos and reminders, the screen, the screen once more, the screen all the time, the scream of your head and heart, your knight, your saviour, at your service.
I aspire to be your only inhabitant, in vain though. A million millipedes up your chest, me a lame saviour. 
The city is a tired dame in the evening, that’s you, you are it, heels tossed away, bare feet up on the horizon, you dare the crimson sky to linger;  
home is your thukpa, or ramen, or the one-pot meal, with a side eye at me, you offer me a spoon, smell food together, you echo our ancestors.
You are my city at midnight, 
the fire in my famished stomach, the neon green on my eyebrows, the dipping temples on my face, my Adam’s apple alive, the rising temples, thirsty me, hungry me, is the rice done?
I bury my nose into your pillow as the last and final call for departure, metallic, indifferent.
Up there is a plane, let’s hope, and not a drone, and the cityscape writes on the terrain of your tanned body, wake up, lift your dreams and carry them next door, for, cities, like marriages, are often buried asleep.

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Shrutidhora P Mohor (born 1979, India) has been listed in several competitions like

Bristol Short Story Prize, Oxford Flash Fiction Prize, the Bath Flash Fiction Award,

the Retreat West competitions, the Retreat West Annual Prize for short story 2022,

the Winter 2022 Reflex Fiction competition, Flash 500.

Her writings have been nominated for Best Micro fictions 2023 and the Pushcart Prize

2024.

A collection of short stories titled A Moon-Measure of All Things (Alien Buddha

Press, February 2025) is her latest publication.