My Last Love Story

His smile expanded, and he sat up to rumble in my ear, “Guess what we were up to all night long?”

“Nothing good, I suppose?” The fine hairs on my body stood to attention when he brushed his lips across my cheek and took a gentle bite of my jaw.

Nirvaan was such a tease.

He gave a sinister chuckle. “Depends on who you ask.”

I leaned back a fraction and stared into the twinkling depths of his eyes. “You did not take the Jet Skis out without me!” I exclaimed, forgetting to whisper. I would’ve heard the commotion of the motors, surely?

Nirvaan tried to look guilty. The failed antic gave up his game because I knew him well, too. I buffed his shoulder with a fist and rolled my eyes, sure now that they hadn’t ridden anywhere in the dark. Nirvaan rocked back against the lounger, his shoulders shaking with quiet mirth. He, too, was mindful of keeping mum during Zayaan’s prayers.

“The photos have been scanned and uploaded, Simi.” He took my hand and brought it to his lips, gloating with accomplishment.

“What? All of them?”

I was impressed. On Nirvaan’s request, a few months ago, his parents had brought back a suitcase full of old photos from India. They were pictures of Nirvaan mostly, from his birth onward, but about a thousand of the three of us were bundled in the lot. I’d been sorting them out in chronological order for the past many weeks and getting damn frustrated by the sheer volume of the task. Plus, critical and unimpressed by my younger tomboy self, I’d threatened to burn the ones with me in them. I’d been joking, but Nirvaan wasn’t taking any chances, so ever since, he’d housed the suitcase in Zayaan’s room. I wasn’t aware he’d been doing something with them.

“Is that what you’ve been doing on the nights you don’t come to bed?” The borderline accusation in my question gave me pause. I sounded jealous, like a shrew-wife pissed off at her husband for spending more time with his mistress than herself.

It had been my job to sort out the photos, and I hadn’t done it. It was my job to make my husband happy and comfortable, and I wasn’t managing that, either. Couldn’t I do anything right?

Nirvaan gave me a sharp glance but chose not to answer. He groped for the tablet hidden beneath the blanket and switched it on before handing it to me. The pictures hadn’t only been uploaded but sorted, dated and organized into albums, too. He’d even made movies from some.

A funny, fluttery thing awoke inside me when I tapped an album titled Jab We Met. The title was stolen from a blockbuster Bollywood rom-com. The album, not the movie, was about the summer the three of us had met. I’d fallen asleep thinking of that summer. It sometimes spooked me how in sync Nirvaan and I were, how in sync all three of us were.

The first picture was of us blowing candles on a giant chocolate cake. I looked dazed, which accounted for my total memory loss about this part of the night. I couldn’t remember cutting the cake even though the picture was irrefutable proof that I had, and from the looks of the subsequent photos, I’d enjoyed smashing some of it on the guys’ faces.

“My Frooti was spiked. It had to be,” I declared, yet again in defense of my actions.

Nirvaan pleaded the fifth, as usual.

I frowned into my empty mug. “I need more coffee if we’re going to rehash our lives, one picture at a time.”

Rehashing the past was on The List, too. Nirvaan wished to recount and relive every moment of his life. He was creating a slide show to play at our birthday bash and wanted to make sure he didn’t forget a single person or event he was grateful for. I found the whole idea unnecessarily Hallmark-ish and morbid. Plus, you couldn’t really sieve the good moments out without stirring up the bad.

But it wasn’t my biopic, was it? I snorted, thinking if I ever got sentimental enough to create one, mine would play out in five pictures flat. Okay, maybe six.

“Wait. It’s almost light, baby.” Nirvaan tipped me onto his lap when I half rose from the lounger to get more coffee.

I usually had two mugs before breakfast.

I waited, shifting to get comfortable against my husband’s chest. His arms came around me along with the blanket, and I felt warm even though I hadn’t been cold in my thick flannel robe and woolen socks. My husband warmed me from the inside out. He always had.

I raised the tablet high and took a picture of us.

“Dawn of the Dead,” said Nirvaan, critiquing my handiwork when I showed it to him.

I ignored the fact that he was right. “Shut up. You’re ruining the mood.” I clicked another one. It was an improvement, and with a bit of photo editing, we wouldn’t appear so insipid. There.

Not to be outdone, the sun rose majestically, and in a never-ending flash, it brought the sea, the beach and the gulls in front of us into the light.

For all its ugliness, the world was a beautiful place.

I didn’t think I’d ever tire of watching a sunrise. I knew I’d never forget the feel of my husband’s arms around me. And though I wanted a second cup of coffee quite badly, I stayed put until Nirvaan’s stomach gurgled against my back.

We started another day on a laugh.

Pleased and heart-happy, I stood up and made my way back into the kitchen where the coffee machine diligently refilled my mug. I propped the tablet on the counter and set it to display a slide show, grinning fondly at a picture of the three of us in our youthful folly, piled one behind the other on a bright yellow Vespa, blasting hapless pedestrians with cold masala milk from cheap plastic pistols. I had been the instigator and the driver of the Masala Milk Adventure. It’d been my scooter, after all.

Just as I began to prep for a batch of semolina veggie waffles, the house phone rang. We’d installed a landline, as cell phone reception was a bit wonky in some parts of the house. My cell worked only near the front door and in the kitchen.

“Hello?” I chirped into the cordless instrument, sandwiching the phone’s receiver between my ear and shoulder. I pulled out peppers, carrots, peas and some other stuff from the fridge, keeping one eye on the slide show. I wondered suddenly if Nirvaan had included Sandwich Anu’s pictures in the album. I was not going to be a happy beach bunny if he’d dared.

“Hello?” I repeated with impatience into the static silence of the phone. It was too early for telemarketers, so I checked the caller ID. London codes. Crap. It was too much to hope that it would be one of Zayaan’s sisters or colleagues and not his mother.

“Simeen, I’m trying to reach Zayaan. He’s not answering his mobile. Is Nirvaan okay?”

The softly anxious voice had the same hair-raising effect on my nerves as a live telecast of a terrorist beheading. Forget Sandwich Anu. Gulzar Begum Mohammed Ali Khan was the true bane of my existence. And there was no way Nirvaan hadn’t uploaded her photograph into the tablet as part of a nice Khan family portrait. Khodai! Did that mean Zayaan’s bastard brother was in there, too?

I closed my eyes and counted to ten. I would not let evil thoughts poison my day.

“He’s peachy, Gulzar Auntie. Zayaan dua bole che, so his phone might be off.”

I didn’t add that she should’ve checked the time difference between England and California before calling us at the crack of dawn. It wouldn’t have gone down well if I had. Zayaan’s mother did not like me and was civil to me only because her son would stand for nothing less. I reciprocated in kind for the same reason and because my mother had taught me to be polite to my elders—even bigoted, rude ones who’d raised a monster and let him loose in the world.

It was Zayaan’s father who’d adored me, approved of me—inasmuch as a pillar of the Khoja community could approve of a non-Muslim girl his son had brought home one day. I didn’t know if I would’ve converted to Islam had things worked out the way we’d planned. I knew Zayaan had expected me to when we talked of marriage. Aga Khani Muslims were a liberal lot, and for the most part, they followed very different customs and weren’t considered real Muslims. But Zayaan’s mother belonged to a staunch branch of Sunni Khojas, and to please her, her family had strictly practiced certain Islamic customs.

I’d sometimes imagine myself married to Zayaan because that would mean that night had not happened. I’d sometimes imagine my parents were alive. They would’ve approved of Zayaan but not of a religious conversion. They would’ve adored Nirvaan. My parents, devoted Parsis though they were, had been broad-minded people. Bottom line, they would’ve wanted me to be happy.

A sigh shuddered out of my mouth. It was pointless to think about the past, but I couldn’t seem to escape it. Maybe Nirvaan was right with this slide-show business. Maybe we were the sum total of our memories...and fantasies.

“Have him call me when he’s finished praying.” Zayaan’s mother’s exasperated voice broke through my musings.

She’d been talking, but I’d tuned her out.

I peered through the patio doors. Zayaan’s eyes were open, his head turned to one shoulder. He was almost done, but I held my tongue.

“Of course,” I said, preparing to hang up.

“How are you, beta?” she asked before I could.

Compassion rang in her voice, and her use of the endearment beta, or “child,” rendered me speechless.

I wanted to smack her down with a flippant, Oh, I’m peachy, too. So looking forward to widowhood. Any tips on how to get on?

But I forced the bitchiness back into my intestines. “I’m fine. Thank you,” I answered instead.

How dare she. How dare she offer sympathy now when she never had before. How dare she call me beta in that sickly sweet tone.