The Conspiracy of Us

Mili Doshi
Sep 8, 2018 · 3 min read
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I do not know whether the sun conspired for or against us that Wednesday evening.

As we cruised our way through the rickety lanes of the town, it slithered down strategically through a stubborn mass of clouds, leaving us wallowing in its blazing afterlight.

By the time we reached the dimly-lit diner, our regular midweek destination, the seething saffron ball had vanished completely.

We seat ourselves in the usual economical way — no questions asked, no sentiment exchanged. Mohmen finally comes by to save our grace.

I run him through our usuals (a scalding serving of oolong for you, a bite-sized shot of ristretto for me). I sit back and allow myself a sneaky glance at the two of us.

You in your unwrinkled Thom Browne shirt, and I in my grubby old sweater I bought from the charity shop next door — it is as if our outward sartorial appearance perfectly defines our paradox inward:

You smell of expensive cigars and I of cheap perfume,

You an image of structure and constraint, and I a mutant of dystopia and disdain.

Yet, 13 years on, we are here,

Striving, (almost) thriving, sharing the same space, breathing the same air.

What, however, has shifted, is this:

The air between us was once thick with mystery and carnal headiness

Now, it has diluted. It has reduced to a reek of wont and vanity. A patterned predisposition.

Our beverages arrive on the teak table, and we drain them in familiar fashion. We put together a few crumpled bills in the rusted wooden money holder.

I charge for the door but before I could make it, you hold it open for me — the usual show of chivalry which I once found endearing.

Outside, it’s pitch-black, the inky sky distorted by silhouettes of night herons taking flight. Something in the air makes me shudder, and with profound precision, you cup your right palm around my right shoulder blade, only out of a pressing obligation to shield another human when cold.

Within squarely seven minutes of reaching home, we make love — your movements calculative, my moans unimaginative. These are times when I cannot help but wonder how you have tamed my insolent spirit, even in bed. With you judiciously inside me, I cannot help but ask myself how we have come so far along the mundane road. But I am afraid, some questions get answered only when it is too late, while some do not get answered at all.

As we wake up the next morning, there is a certain sense of banality to us. You march towards the bathroom and wash me off yourself. I look out at the sun through the stained lace curtains with imploring eyes.

And there it stands, a teasing reminder of the impending evening, a hated routine. Just like everyday, forecasting the cold correspondence that will unfurl between you and I. In that moment, enticing me with a sense of warmth which has long since been lost.

Mili Doshi

Written by

Midsummer readings, meaningful magazine journalism, and everything in between. muckrack.com/milidoshi

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