My Last Love Story

by Falguni Kothari

  Yet I sat there and let them ask me impertinent questions. They were guests of my in-laws, after all. I answered as plainly as possible, but cancer was a subject that made most people curl their lips in discomfort or distaste.

  The talk quickly turned toward children, then fashion, then movie stars, and finally, community gossip.

  Who was getting divorced? Who was having an affair and with whom? Whose child was on drugs? Whose mother-in-law was a tyrant?

  Apparently, most of theirs were.

  “You’re so lucky to have Kiran Auntie for a mother-in-law, Simeen. She’s so noninterfering. She lets you do whatever you want, live however you want. My mother-in-law? Oh God, she drives me nuts with her crassness and demands.”

  Oh, these women didn’t have a clue, did they? I didn’t mock them or belittle their troubles. For every person, their own problems were huge.

  But I did comment that I truly wouldn’t mind exchanging Nirvaan’s cancer for a mother-in-law who was a tyrant. Then, I left them to enjoy their tea and talk behind my back.

  I walked as fast as my legs could carry me. I’d, surely, have snapped had I sat there any longer. As it was, I was having a hard time blinking back my tears. This was why we’d left LA—this nosiness.

  I cursed my fate. It was PMS. My period was five pills away, which meant my IVF cycle was scheduled to start in three days.

  Bloody, bloody hell, Nirvaan.

  I sailed into my bedroom—well, not exactly the bedroom but the sitting room leading into the bedroom—and ran smack into Zayaan, who came out from the bathroom.

  “Hey. Easy, easy,” he said, holding my elbows and steadying me.

  He’d showered. His hair was wet, slickly combed off his face, and he looked all crisp and spiffy in dark jeans and a black shirt. And I was all gross and stinky from the garba dance.

  He frowned as I blinked and blinked at him. “What’s the matter?”

  To hell with stinky grossness, clueless women, and bloody, bloody Nirvaan.

  I wrapped my arms about him, pressed my face into his chest, and let the tears fall. He went stiff, but his arms came around me and squeezed me hard. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t have to. Zayaan knew me. He was my friend as much as he was Nirvaan’s.

  At last, the tears stopped falling, but I didn’t step away. I couldn’t, not yet. Neither did he.

  “Better?” He stroked my hair down my back again and again.

  I wanted to purr like a cat.

  “I might be allergic to the female bonding ritual.” I tilted my head back to look up at him.

  He’d stopped frowning. He now looked completely flummoxed.

  I giggled and sniffed at the same time. “You and Nirvaan have spoiled me with your up-front, no-nonsense bullshit. I suppose it could’ve started with Surin and Sarvar. They made sure I played with tin soldiers and not Barbie dolls, but now, I don’t know how to deal with women…friends.” I hoped I was making sense.

  I must have been, for Zayaan’s face cleared of confusion, and he smiled. “You don’t need to, if you don’t want to. You have us.”

  “I know,” I agreed. I have you for now. I had them both for now. With a harsh sigh of regret, I let go of Zayaan.

  But nothing was ever simple. Nisha stood in the doorway to my room, her face unsmiling and accusatory, and all I could think was, Crap. Not her again. Anyone but her.

  Nisha didn’t ask me why I’d been crying in Zayaan’s arms. She drew her conclusions and warned me not to be stupid. Just that.

  “Don’t be stupid, Simeen,” she said once Zayaan had left the room.

  She brought jewelry I’d wear to the party. I took the box from her, and without looking at it, I locked it away in my cupboard.

  I didn’t wonder at the cryptic bit of advice or pretend outrage at her innuendo. The world had never understood the bond the three of us shared, and it never would. Our so-called friends were already fascinated by our living arrangement, making lewd jokes in passing—which, if taken seriously, wouldn’t have been funny at all.

  Nirvaan chose to ignore the comments or join in, depending on his mood. Last night, when some of his LA friends had come over for coffee after dinner, he’d gone on and on about the Tickles episode. Apart from its magic, it’d also disclosed that I’d gone camping with seven men. Never mind that, of the seven, one was my husband, another was my brother, a third was brother-like, one was gay, and two were happily married. No, his friends had looked from me to Zayaan and pinned our names to the top of the Summer Scandals list.

  For that reason alone, I decided to heed Nisha’s advice. From then on, I was extra careful about how I behaved around Zayaan. As Zayaan had said, Nirvaan didn’t have to deal with the aftermath of his actions or wishes. We did.

  Another reason for circumspection was Gulzar Auntie and Marjaneh. Zayaan had been on his way to the airport to pick up his mother, his girlfriend, and his youngest sister, Sana, when I’d accosted him with my hug. With his mother around now, it became easy to maintain my distance from him, especially since he’d moved into the hotel with them. Though, for most of the day, they all pretty much hung out at the house.

  I went so far as to befriend Marjaneh and make her feel welcome and part of the group. I knew what it felt like to know only one person in a sea of strangers and the panic you felt when he left you alone time and again. Though I noticed Zayaan didn’t leave Marjaneh’s side as much as Nirvaan had left mine when we first married. But Nirvaan was a social butterfly, the life of any party, flitting around and holding court, while Zayaan was content to linger in the background, like me.

  Whatever monster I’d conjured Marjaneh as, she actually turned out to be quite the charmer, much like Nirvaan. She was heart-stoppingly beautiful, I acknowledged with a pang. Strict about the sharia dress laws, she kept herself covered in a headscarf and full-sleeved tops and pants.

  Though she wasn’t averse to shedding her conservative attire for modest swimwear, I noticed, when a bunch of us spent a few hours at Laguna Beach on Friday evening. It was too gorgeous a day—upper 70s and bright—to pass up building castles in the sand.

  “He’s making a big mistake,” said Nirvaan.

  I looked up from excavating the main door of my potential sand castle and noticed my husband scowling at Zayaan and Marjaneh. She was chattering. He was laughing. They were waist-deep in the water, standing about three feet apart.

  Apparently, Marjaneh’s offense was that she made Zayaan laugh.

  “Sure. He looks perfectly miserable around her,” I said, returning my attention to my painstaking excavations. My finger dug a bit too hard, and the mound split in half. I took a deep breath, counted to ten, and pressed it close again. Then, with a gentler touch, I restarted my castle building.

  I wasn’t jealous. I wouldn’t allow myself to be jealous. We’d established long ago that I couldn’t have both my guys. I’d have to be content with one or none. And I’d chosen my one.

  Not one to give up easily, Nirvaan muttered, “She’ll stifle him. She’s too rigid in her ways, and she’ll make him just like her.”

  I was incredulous. “Rigid? She’s wearing a swimsuit. And she’s beautiful and smart, in case you haven’t noticed,” I pointed out. A breeze whipped my hair into my face, and I shook my head, as my hands were full of sand.

  My husband tucked locks of my hair behind my ears. “You’re beautiful and smart, baby,” he said very seriously. “He might be laughing, but his body language is restrained. He’s too well-behaved around her.”

  “Honey, explain to me how that’s bad.”

  But Nirvaan had me observing Zayaan, too.

  “You know the darkness in him. He gets too serious. He constantly faces opposition and negativity in his work. It will suck him in. If I…if we don’t show him the lighter side of life, he won’t be our Zayaan for long.”

  I got what Nirvaan was saying. More than once, we’d pulled Zayaan out of a funk during our glory days when he’d been torn between the stricter
dictates of his religion and what he felt in his heart. I also recalled the topics Zayaan was researching for his thesis. But if my husband expected me to take up responsibility for Zayaan’s soul, he was out of luck.

  I shrugged. “He’s made his choice, Nirvaan. He’s not stupid. And we have no right to interfere in his life. Even if you think we have the right, we will not interfere. Okay?”

  “I’m just saying, he’ll be miserable,” my husband said stubbornly.

  But he left it at that.

  Or did he? The thought was implanted in my head now and taken root.

  And why did I get the feeling that my husband was jealous? Nirvaan didn’t have a jealous bone in his body. He was openhearted and giving and magnanimous and wonderful. Wasn’t he? And what did it mean that he wasn’t jealous about sharing me but was about sharing Zayaan?

  “Sana thinks so, too,” he said after he’d fashioned a moat around our castle.

  “You spoke to Zai’s baby sister about this?” I’d been sitting on my haunches, and I plunked down on my butt in shock. Ugh. Now, I had sand inside my bikini. “He’ll kill you if he finds out.”

  “I spoke to him, too, so why would he?” He dropped another bomb, shrugging.

  This was too much. “Nirvaan, stop. Look at me. Explain this now.”

  “I asked him why he hadn’t proposed to Marjaneh already, what was holding him up. They’ve known each other for a long time. Have been dating for a long time.” He paused, his eyes narrowing on my face. If he wanted me to react to this information, again, he was out of luck. Nirvaan went on, “He gave excuses. His work. Her work. His sisters. He wants Sofia and Sana to be settled first.” He snorted in disbelief.

  “Why are those excuses? You know he worries about them.”

  “I didn’t ask why he hadn’t married her. I asked why he hadn’t officially or even unofficially committed to her.”

  I glanced away from my husband’s knowing gaze. I’d wondered the same thing for some time. “So? It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Doesn’t it? I asked Sana. She agrees. Marriage is something their ummi dearest wants rather than what Zai or Marjaneh want. And if we don’t show him a way out, he’ll let himself get trapped in his mother’s schemes.”

  I laughed bitterly. “You think he’ll feel any less trapped by your games? You think he wants us? Wants me instead? Give it up, Nirvaan, whatever it is you’ve planned to safeguard my future, because I won’t have it.”

  I didn’t know what to feel about my husband’s grand plan. I only knew I couldn’t give in.

  I’d never underestimated my husband’s desire to leave his legacy behind. But I hadn’t expected him to go about it in quite such a drastic fashion.

  We had no time after the beach conversation to discuss what exactly Nirvaan meant or meant to do about Zayaan and Marjaneh. Almost all of our out-of-town guests had arrived by Friday night, and things got beyond hectic from then on until the party, and even after.

  The only respite I got was when I went to the salon on Saturday afternoon. We’d booked the whole place, as close to fifty women needed to get their hair, nails, and makeup done and their outfits pinned. It was like my wedding all over again, just on a smaller scale.

  Did I say respite? I erred.

  Somehow, Marjaneh and I got stuck in neighboring salon chairs, and for a good fifteen minutes, we faced each other through the mirrored walls. Of course, we couldn’t simply leave it at a staring match. As polite, functioning members of society, we had to hold a conversation when our lips were free to do so.

  We compared the weather in LA and London and Carmel. I invited her over for a visit.

  “You should extend your trip. Come to Carmel since you’re here,” I said. “Zayaan must’ve asked already, but I’m extending an invitation, too. It’s beautiful there. Very recuperative.” My eyes watered as the makeup woman curled my eyelashes.

  Marjaneh had requested a minimum of makeup, like me—just eyes, a light blush, and lips to match her outfit. “I’ll have to see. Zayaan’s taking us to LA proper tomorrow for a sightseeing holiday for a couple of days. And we fly back to London on Wednesday.”

  “Oh, right,” I said, feeling totally stupid.

  Of course, his family hadn’t come only for the party. Of course, he’d spend his birthday with them. He didn’t celebrate his birthday anymore. Like mine, the day symbolized personal tragedy and loss for him, but still, it was his birthday. And, of course, he was under no obligation to tell me of his plans. I should be grateful he hadn’t invited his family to Carmel for me to wait on.

  Crap. Crap. Crappity crap.

  “He talks about you all the time,” Marjaneh said softly.

  Shocked by her boldness, I turned my head toward her instead of looking in the mirror. The makeup lady squealed and made me look forward again.

  “He’s always talked about you for as long as I’ve known him. You’re very dear to him.”

  I blinked and blinked until my eyes no longer stung. The makeup lady would’ve screamed had I ruined my mascara with tears.

  I didn’t know what to say to Marjaneh, so I lied, “He talks of you, too, all the time.”

  I cannot express how glad I was to leap out of the makeup chair and hustle through the rest of my beauty treatments. Those went by fast and with much comedy and laughter, as befitted a gaggle of half-dressed women of varying ages in a stupendous hurry to look their best.

  My outfit—not a sari, praise Khodai—was a floor-length silk gown of Indo-Western cut in pale gold with pearl embellishments. It was another surprise gift—my husband’s doing—as was the matching pearl and diamond jewelry set.

  I felt like a princess.

  Looked like one, too, according to Nirvaan. He flattered me with his debonair act as he helped me out of the limousine and onto a flower-studded driveway.

  The mansion had undergone its final transformation while I’d been at the salon. A vanguard of trellises wrapped in vines of jasmine and lavender festooned the path to the party area.

  Nirvaan looked like a prince, too, in his dark brown jodhpuri suit. My heart skipped a beat when he bent to kiss my lips, just like he’d done on our wedding day. I had to blink again. I wasn’t going to cry. Not yet. Not just yet.

  Behind him, Sarvar and Zayaan beamed at us like twin henchmen. Dashing henchmen. And there seemed to be a dress code. I looked around and found all the men in the immediate family in harmonized jodhpuri suits, including five-year-old, Armaan. I couldn’t help but smile.

  The whole extravagant affair went off without a glitch. No rain dared to fall on this balmy second to last night of May. We could’ve done away with the tents, but we’d played it safe. We’d asked for an ambience of understated romance, and Neelu Patel had delivered it. Candles and rose petals and candies blossomed everywhere. Electric lanterns swung from trees. And there were balloons, lots and lots of silver balloons. It was a birthday party, after all.

  We put on our show, the entertainer sang, and the DJ rocked the place. Once Zayaan spun Ba around the dance floor, her dance card filled up fast. The food was finger-licking good, and the bar was a limitless ocean. There were three cakes in three different flavors, and we each got a birthday song and a fistful of cake smashed on our faces. The speeches were emotional, but I’d been prepared. I had my tissues in hand.

  When Nirvaan spoke, I didn’t think there was a single dry eye under the tent. Images flashed on a huge screen behind him as he matched comments and pictures and memories, weaving them all into one wonderful bouquet of life. True to his word, he thanked every single person who’d come to celebrate with us. For many, this would be the last time they saw him.

  He didn’t thank his family. It wasn’t because we didn’t need thanks—we didn’t—but because what he had to say to us was private. He thanked us instead through the pictures. They showed the world what we meant to him.

  With the last photograph he chose to display, he revealed what was in his heart. It lingered there, longer t
han the others, and imprinted itself onto my soul. It was a recent one from our hiking trip. Nirvaan and I were sprawled on the boulder, holding Tickles together on my lap. Zayaan was on his knees next to us. I was looking at Tickles in awe. But Nirvaan and Zayaan were focused on me. Their faces wore identical expressions of admiration and joy as they gazed at me. They both looked so very much in love with me.

  I loved my husband, but sometimes, he made my life impossible.

  I dreaded stepping out of my room the morning after the party. But I’d been summoned downstairs to say good-bye to the last of the guests who’d dropped by on their way to the airport or before their drive back to their hometowns.

  Nirvaan hadn’t come to bed at all. He’d tweaked my temper and wisely stayed out of sight. If he thought his mother would buffer him this morning, he had another thing coming.

  I buried my face in my hands. How was I going to face his family? Everyone had seen the incriminating photograph—Marjaneh, too. I felt sick, recalling her face from last night.

  After Nirvaan’s speech, I’d dragged Sarvar up to my room. I’d paced and ranted and had two shots of whiskey. I’d been livid. Embarrassed. Horrified. Guilty. I’d drowned in it.

  Sarvar had tried to calm me. He’d said it wasn’t the end of the world. It was only a picture, and he’d asked why I was making a big deal of it.

  Why? I’d shouted, “Why?” Hadn’t he seen the picture properly? Hadn’t he seen everyone’s faces?

  Enough was enough. I scrubbed my hands over my face, as agitated this morning as I’d been last night. I’d faced far worse things on my birthday and survived. I’d survive this, too. I wrapped a shawl around my shoulders and went downstairs.

  It seemed my worry had been seriously misplaced.

  The minute I stepped onto the foyer, Nikita and Armaan ran to me, screaming, “Happy birthday, Simi mami. We got you presents.”

  They bounced, hugging my waist and bestowing on me the most beatific toothless smiles. They dragged me into the living room, each child pulling one arm, where several gift boxes sat on the coffee table, waiting to be opened. They made me open theirs first—a handmade card with a pencil drawing of what appeared to be Eeyore wishing me luck on its cover and family tickets to Disneyland inside. Apparently, the Desais would be trolling the Magic Kingdom in the afternoon. I kissed them and their presents with due respect. Honestly, I could use a little Disney magic today.