My Last Love Story

by Falguni Kothari

  “Happy birthday, Wife,” wished Nirvaan as his arms stole about me from behind, pulling me against his body in a hug. His voice was rough with too much talking, too much drinking, and too little sleep.

  I melted, like cheese fondue. Who wouldn’t around this man?

  But he had to be reined in.

  “Good of you to remember I’m more than just a woman you love making a spectacle of.” I turned in his arms to berate him but winced at the awful shadows under his bloodshot eyes. I ended up kissing him instead.

  “I didn’t mean it like that, Simi.” He looked properly chastised.

  I supposed his mother or Ba must have lit into him on my behalf. So, I forgave his lie.

  I was too tired for anger. I needed a massage—we both did—especially in preparation for Disneyland or perhaps after.

  He let me go as the family came into the room to wish me joy and luck on my birthday, each handing me a prettily wrapped box or envelope accompanied by a hug, a blessing, a kiss, and a joke. I got jewelry—gold and diamond earrings from Ba, a tennis bracelet from Nisha and Aarav, a Patek Philippe watch from my in-laws. From Sarvar and Surin, I got investment bonds. I was a rich woman today and not only in the way of money.

  My mother-in-law wished me last but the hardest. We clung for more than a few minutes, gaining strength from each other’s bones. Neither of us spoke as we hugged; we didn’t even try.

  At last, we went into a shockingly empty dining room where the housekeeper had laid out a hot Sunday brunch. After three days of constant hustle-bustle, this felt like an apocalypse.

  “Did everyone leave already?” I asked, sitting down next to Nirvaan. I declined the juice offered and poured myself a mug of coffee.

  “Yep. Radha fui and her family are off to San Diego. They’ll be back late tonight, in case you’re missing them already,” said Nirvaan, shooting me a tired, and yet thoroughly wicked, grin.

  I took a sip of my coffee, so I wouldn’t have to answer. I didn’t ask about Zayaan. I gathered he’d left for the LA sightseeing tour, too, and I figured we’d see him in Carmel later in the week.

  But I was wrong. He brought his mother to the house. She wished to say good-bye to my in-laws and to thank them for their hospitality. My mother-in-law wouldn’t let them to leave without sharing a last meal with us.

  Zayaan hugged me and wished me a happy birthday. It was awkward. I realized I’d always be awkward with him on this day. He looked tired, too. We all did. Maybe it was just the aftereffects of the party. Maybe the silence at the table had nothing to do with the photo.

  “Daddy, did you know that Nirvaan wants to sell the land Bapuji left him? And to that character Ram Ali? You know he sounds shady,” said Nisha out of the blue.

  Her voice was unnecessarily loud, like a gunshot in the night.

  She turned to Nirvaan when her father made eyes at her to shut up. “I don’t understand it. If you need money, why not borrow it from Daddy?”

  Blame my poor reflexes on sleep deprivation, but it took me a while to react until I heard Nirvaan’s, “What the fuck is your problem, Nish?”

  I swept my gaze from a livid Nirvaan to a cheesed-off Nisha to my expressionless in-laws. Nirvaan and Nisha started a full-blown battle after that, which my father-in-law tried to referee with no success, no matter how loud he got as well. Nisha’s husband took his children out of earshot of Nirvaan’s increasingly foul language.

  “I’ll do what the fuck I please with my own fucking land, understood?”

  “I won’t let you screw up the family holdings on some hero complex.”

  “Sister or not, you won’t fucking tell me what I can or can’t do with my property. Bapuji left it to me—”

  “Exactly, with the understanding that it would remain in our family. Blood is family. Get it, Nirvaan? You’ve set up a substantial trust for your wife to maintain her current lifestyle. How much more does she need?”

  Shame crawled through me. I stared, unseeing, at my gripped hands on my lap. I couldn’t bear to look anyone in the face. This was worse than the photograph. “Please, I don’t want anything. Please, Nirvaan, don’t fight. Please, just let me go,” I whispered.

  He did the opposite. He wrapped an arm about me and pushed my face into his neck. “Fuck you, Nisha. I didn’t want any of you to know, but we’re trying to have a baby.”

  I moaned when he said it. He’d promised not to tell anyone until the IVF worked. We didn’t want anyone to hold false hope. I wanted a back door to run out from. Guilt stung my gut, and I wanted to puke.

  No one shouted after that. No one spoke either. I imagined they were all staring at us—at me—in horror. If I got pregnant, they’d be stuck with me forever.

  “Baba, son, is this the right time for this?” Kiran Desai asked in a cool, calm tone.

  I loved her for that alone.

  “If not now, then when?” said Nirvaan, suddenly sounding deflated.

  I shifted in my chair so I could look at his profile. Anger had made his skin sweat and turn pinkish. But his eyes…they looked defeated.

  “Simeen?”

  I didn’t want to turn to my mother-in-law but forced myself to.

  “Do you want this?” she asked. There was no judgment on her face, only concern.

  “Of course she does. We’ve already started the procedure,” Nirvaan said in irritation.

  “I’m asking Simeen. You will kindly let her answer.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Mom. You should be happy for us. Don’t you want another grandchild? My child? A part of me to hold on to? Or are you so used to not having me around that it doesn’t matter?”

  I sucked in a breath. My in-laws had left two small children in India when they came to America, and the next time the family had reunited, the children had been teenagers. Nirvaan and his sister had grown up as orphans, even while having parents. It didn’t matter that Ba and Bapuji had been wonderful to them. Nirvaan had felt abandoned, and sometimes, the issue would boil to the surface.

  Nirvaan was hitting everyone below the belt, and I didn’t understand why. He was getting his way in everything. So, why was he angry?

  Zayaan stood up and walked out of the dining room. He’d had enough, it seemed. I wished I’d had the guts to walk out like him.

  “Here’s where you live,” said my mother-in-law, touching her breast above her heart. “Here’s where you will always live, Nirvaan. And I speak for everyone who loves you. We don’t need your child as a physical reminder of you. We won’t forget you. We will never forget. But, at the same time, I think this should be Simeen’s decision. Raising a child in a two-parent family is hard enough. Single parenthood will be a hundred times harder. Do you understand what you’re asking of her, my son?”

  I didn’t deserve them. I didn’t deserve this much love and support. I had to repay them somehow.

  “I want to make sure you guys will be okay. I want to make sure Simi will be okay. That’s all,” said Nirvaan.

  I assured everyone that I wanted this baby. And since the cat was out of the bag, Nirvaan told them the rest. That he wished Zayaan to be the baby’s godfather. That he wanted to sell his grandfather’s land, so his child and his wife need never worry about money again. That he wished me to have the freedom to live my life as I saw fit. He emphasized, “However and wherever she chooses to live.” And he expected his family to support my decisions.

  He apologized to his sister, asked if she thought he was wrong. She had nothing to say.

  No one had anything more to say, and we sat there quietly, trying hard not to look at each other.

  It had been an emotional weekend, and the confrontation had drained every sap of energy I’d preserved. I excused myself and went up to my room, promising the kiddos I’d be ready for Disneyland by noon. I’d barely closed the door when Zayaan’s mother pushed it wide open and followed me inside my bedroom. So much had happened this weekend that I wasn’t even surprised to see her.

  She accused me of all t
he things she’d always blamed me for. That I was a witch. I snared men in my web of deceit and destroyed them. I was responsible for Rizvaan’s death. I was responsible for Nirvaan’s ill health. Did I want to destroy Zayaan, too? I was a seething nest of bad luck, and I should do the world a favor and stay out of everyone’s way.

  “Zayaan has worked hard to bring our family’s honor to a respectable position, again. He’s made a name for himself in London. He has a bright future. Our community needs leaders like him. He’s found a lovely woman he can proudly call his wife. You will destroy him if you trap him in your wiles. Think about his reputation. He cannot be responsible for you or your child. Hear a mother’s plea, and release my son from this madness.”

  She considered me an unlucky person. I probably was. But, right at this minute, I felt blessed beyond belief that she wasn’t my mother-in-law and that Kiran Desai was.

  “Don’t worry. I want nothing from your son.” I held up a hand when she opened her mouth to interrupt me, to call me a liar again. “I release your son from everything. You can tell him I said so. He’s free to go back to London with you. I know you don’t believe me, but I truly wish him and Marjaneh well.” Then, I asked her to leave.

  My calmness surprised her. She’d expected me to defend myself, to care what she thought of me. She’d expected tears and explanations. She’d expected a repeat of what I’d done twelve years ago. But my cries had fallen on deaf ears then, and I was a quick study.

  After the rape, I’d remained on Zayaan’s bed, shaking like a leaf, while my limbs had turned to stone. Rizvaan had finished packing and left the room. I’d heard voices outside. I’d gone numb, and every word had sounded like gibberish, but I recalled people shouting outside. Then, Gulzar Begum had come into the room. She’d been crying. She’d stood over me, looking down at me much like Rizvaan had. I’d stared at her without seeing her. She, like so much of that hour, was still a blur. Just a shadow in memory. She’d pulled me up and carried me to the bathroom. She’d washed me, dried me, and made me wear someone else’s panties.

  By then, I’d started to regain my senses. I’d started crying. She’d held me to her, and we’d both cried. But when I’d begun to tell her what Rizvaan had done, she’d told me to shush. She hadn’t wanted to hear it. She’d said no one would believe me because Rizvaan never came home. He’d run away. I’d been in shock, but I’d argued that it was not true. Finally, she’d told me to have mercy on her family. Her husband was dying. She’d never see her firstborn again. Did I want Zayaan to carry a stigma for the rest of his life? Did I want to shame my own family in front of the whole world? She’d said she would pray for my soul if I just kept quiet.

  I’d told her I wouldn’t say anything. I couldn’t ruin Zayaan’s life.

  She’d helped me home herself—not up to my flat, just down the building. Sarvar had opened the door, and I’d burst into tears right there. Surin had been away on business, which was a good thing. If he’d been home, the night would’ve unfolded differently.

  Sarvar called our family doctor for a home visit. I hadn’t allowed the man to check me. He’d advised Sarvar to take me to a lady doctor immediately. Our cousin was a gynecologist in Mumbai, and Sarvar and I’d left on the first train out before dawn. He’d insisted I file charges. I’d refused. I’d told him I didn’t want to think about it ever again.

  I never wanted to see Zayaan or his mother again. I hadn’t wanted to see Nirvaan either. I never wanted to think of that night again.

  I didn’t know what I would’ve done if Rizvaan had lived through the night, had the police not gunned him down in an encounter. I’d like to believe I would’ve found the courage to press charges, make him pay for what he’d done to me. But I couldn’t be sure.

  I’d taken a long time to stand looking at my reflection again. My body had healed with my cousin’s help. My mind had healed with Dr. Asha Ambani’s help. I’d grown strong in spirit because of my brothers’ relentless faith in me. But it was Nirvaan who’d given me back my soul.

  I wouldn’t let this woman crush me again.

  I waited until we were back in Carmel before I brought up Zayaan.

  “He can’t live with us anymore,” I said to my husband. “Tell him to go back to London. We can ship his things out to him.”

  We lounged on the deck, sipping on coconut water. It was sunset, and the ocean looked as if it were on fire. A fire burned inside me, too.

  Peace is an inside job, read the sign on the parish church today.

  I tried hard to make it true.

  A sigh rattled in Nirvaan’s chest. “Can we please not fight about this? I made a mistake with the photograph and have apologized for it.”

  “I don’t want him here, Nirvaan. I don’t want to be talked about. I don’t want his help in any way, and you shouldn’t either.”

  “Be reasonable, Simi. This is not his fault.”

  “I don’t care whose fault it is. I don’t want him here.” I raised my voice to a shrill.

  “Doesn’t matter what you want!” Nirvaan shouted back in frustration.

  “That’s right. What I want has never mattered to you, has it?” I let all the venom that had been festering inside me for months, for years, pour out.

  “Damned if I do, and damned if I don’t, is it?” he asked.

  I accused him of being a bully and a tyrant. I told him what I thought about his Titanic Wish List and where he could shove it. If manipulation or force failed, I pointed out his nasty habit of buying his friends’ obedience. It was a side effect of his abandonment issues. My father-in-law had overcompensated his absence by showering his children with money. Until the cancer, Nirvaan had thought money could literally buy anything.

  “You’ve always lorded over Zayaan with your money, and now, you’re setting the same trap for me with the trust fund.” I rubbed the Awesome Threesome in his face. “I want to know why you’re so desperate to have Zayaan live with us. Say it out loud, so there won’t be any confusion.”

  Nirvaan let me shriek without interrupting even once. When I was finished, he was just as brutal with his comeback. “Do whatever the hell you wish from now on. Have a baby, or don’t have one. Talk to Zai, or treat him like a leper. If you want to let a few nasty comments dictate your life, it’s your prerogative. I’m going to enjoy what little life I have left on my own terms and to hell with society and you.”

  Zayaan came back before the end of the week. And I got my period.

  This happened to a body primed for a hundred-meter sprint. The gun shot off, adrenaline rushed through the system, and the body sprang forward. Momentum carried it until the last hard push to the finish line.

  My period was the starting gunshot for the in vitro athletics program.

  I’d already begun a regime of prenatal vitamins and baby aspirin, as per Dr. Archer’s instructions, and continued taking my birth control pills. Two days before my period, I’d started injecting a chemical into my stomach to suppress ovulation. This was so Dr. Archer could control and monitor my ovaries into maturity for a successful IVF.

  In a way, keeping my mind occupied by medication schedules kept me from going bonkers around the guys. Both behaved as if nothing had happened last week, as if the last week itself hadn’t happened—except they would make fun of random guests or bring up a funny incident I hadn’t been privy to. Of the scandalous photograph or the argument with Nisha, neither one mentioned a thing.

  Zayaan did not talk about his family or Marjaneh at all even though his mother had taken to calling exclusively on the home phone to reach him. To constantly remind me of her importance in her son’s life, I supposed. So far, I’d been lucky. I hadn’t been around the phone when she called. I hadn’t been so lucky when Nisha called, and I’d been forced to make stilted conversation before handing the phone to Nirvaan. Of course, brother and sister had forgotten all harsh words exchanged, and all was well in Sibling Land.

  It was enviable, the way Nirvaan and Zayaan compartmentalized thei
r lives and feelings. Everything and everyone had a designated place, and somehow, none of it overlapped. It made being with them easy. But with my hormones going crazy, I didn’t want easy. I wanted a down and dirty fight, and they wouldn’t give me one.

  So, I spent the first day of my IVF cycle nursing my nonexistent cramps and existent angst. I read and napped and pouted and only stirred when I heard the guys giggling out on the deck. And, yes, they were giggling like a couple of schoolgirls would around Bollywood superstar Shah Rukh Khan.

  I rolled off the bed, slipped on my flannel robe, and walked out onto the moonlit deck. I blatantly looked for signs of debauchery and found not a single bottle of beer, scotch, or champagne lying around—birthday gifts we’d brought back with us.

  “What’s the matter with you?” I asked, glancing from one giggly man to the other.

  Even behaving like asses, they were attractive. It had been a lovely, summery day, and they’d spent most of it shirtless and in the water. Apparently, they wished to spend the night like that, too. I sniffed and sniffed, and at last, I spotted the culprit in a dead skunk smell.

  “You’re both high.” I planted my hands on my hips and tried to look unamused.

  Nirvaan tapped his head. “Medical marijuana, baby. Good for my brain bomb and the seizures, prescribed by the good ole doctor.”

  He grabbed me around the waist and pulled me onto his lap, smiling gruesomely like a Jack Nicholson Joker. I shuddered when he blew smoke into my face.

  He offered me the pipe, and I gave him a stern look. Had he forgotten that I’d just shot myself with hormones, so we could have a baby, or did he just not care?