My Last Love Story

Smriti and I resided in Ram Bhuvan B, and besides her and a few of her friends, I knew no one.

“He moved to California two years ago and comes down every summer to meet his grandparents. He throws the best parties. They’re wild and...” Smriti paused to grin at me through the rearview mirror. “There will be lots and lots of booze. Imported.”

All the girls in the car giggled at the revelation, except me.

“I know what you’re thinking. Gujarat is a dry state, so no boozing. But who follows rules these days, na?” Smriti said when I remained silent and slightly horrified by her disclosure.

“Even government officials don’t follow rules,” added a pigtailed girl, riding shotgun, in a patronizing tone.

“And Nirvaan has connections. I mean, his father has connections and a green card, so he’s allowed,” Smriti said smugly.

Connections or not, dry state or not, fifteen-year-olds should not be boozing.

What if we got arrested? Would the American boy’s father bail us out? I wondered if Smriti had thought this through.

Too late, it occurred to me, if she was my age, she wasn’t old enough to drive.

Crap.

What was I doing here? Why had Sarvar pushed me out the door? Couldn’t he stand my company for even one evening?

I wasn’t an adventurous soul. I was wary of crowds, basically a homebody. That wasn’t to say I was timid or obedient. I wasn’t. But my bratty nature had been blown to bits, along with my sense of security, the night the police had called and informed us about the accident. A drunk driver had rammed his truck into my parents’ car, killing them on the spot. The accident had happened on the highway near Udvada as my parents drove back from a visit to the fire temple that housed the world’s oldest Atash Behram, the sacred fire Zoroastrians paid homage to. The irony of my parents coming to mortal harm while on a holy pilgrimage wasn’t lost on me. I’d lost my faith in Ahura Mazda that night.

So, that was how I knew if we got into trouble, neither God nor a green-card holder would come to our aid.

I stayed quiet on the drive while the other girls laughed and yakked around me. When we hurtled down the highway past Dumas Road, I was startled out of my silence.

“Arre! Kya jai che, Smriti? Where are you going? You missed the turn for Dumas Beach.”

“We’re going to Dandi,” said Riddhi, the girl squashed against me. “Dumas is overcrowded, yaar. No privacy at all. Dandi is our go-to place for these types of parties.”

What in Khodai’s name did she mean by “these types of parties”?

It struck me that I was way out of my comfort zone here, and for the rest of the hour-long drive to Dandi, I alternated between cursing my luck and crossing my fingers. I also begged my parents to watch over me as my brothers clearly were doing an awful job of it.

The car bumped along Dandi road until the concrete disintegrated into sand. We drove past a massive black granite plaque jutting out of the ground with Dandi March and a long commemoration carved on its face. This was where Mahatma Gandhi had led thousands of protesters on April 6, 1930—including my freedom-fighting grandfather, Rustum Batliwala—in the Salt Satyagraha in defiance of the British Raj and their overbearing tax laws on Indians. It was a historical landmark, but contrary to its fame, it was not very touristy.

Smriti parked the Maruti next to a jumble of cars. Remixed pop pumped out of a massive music system from the roof of a van. Bunches of girls and boys flooded around an enormous beach bonfire. Half of the girls from my group had already disappeared into the throng.

I became Smriti’s shadow. I went where she went, drank what she drank and danced when she danced. I talked little and tittered a lot. When you knew no one, it was easy to lose your inhibitions. I didn’t have to make an impression or accept pitiful condolences from strangers. I didn’t have to listen to geriatric aunts compare my looks to my mother’s or my nose to my grandfather’s, the same one who’d fought for India’s freedom. I was no one here, no one important. I could forget my burdens for tonight, forget that I was orphaned.

I finally got why Sarvar had pushed me out the door—not that I forgave him for it, but I understood. There was life beyond death, and it was all around me. I tried to have fun. I tried very hard.

“That’s him!” yelled Smriti, waving her arm in a sort of dance move.

“Who?” I shouted back, squinting in the direction of her wave. “Nirvaan?”

“Yeah. He’s so chikna, na?” She laughed and shimmied to the beats of a pop song.

“I see several chikna-looking boys there.”

There were many, many cuties to wade through. Most of the guys were shirtless. Most of us girls were in cutoffs and thin T-shirts or tank tops. It was nasty hot, even with the tepid sea breeze. The bonfire aggravated the heat, but it was necessary for light and ambience.

My mother had loved dining by candlelight. Firelight is a boon to women, she’d told me once. It erases age and enhances our natural beauty.

She was right. We glowed golden brown.

Black sand sparkled beneath naked feet, mirroring the night sky. Dozens of coolers poked through the sand like half-buried treasure chests, openly displaying their glittering booty of imported beer, sodas and water bottles. The beer, naturally, depleted faster than the rest of the drinks. I’d consumed three cans so far. As most of us were quite buzzed by then, and sweaty and stinky to boot, it was no surprise when some partygoers began to cool off in the water. It was stupid and dangerous to swim in the sea in the middle of the night. But at fifteen, stupid meant cool, and dangerous was even cooler.

Dandi Beach, like many others along Gujarat’s coastline, was endangered land. Due to overdevelopment and deforestation, the unstable coast had succumbed to the Arabian Sea. But I ignored everything my father had cautioned against. I dived into the water, breaking free of all restraint. I didn’t panic when I lost sight of Smriti in the floating crowd. I was a worry-free bird tonight. I didn’t care if Surin found out I’d been boozing. I didn’t care that my father would have disapproved of my midnight swim. He wasn’t there to lambast me, was he? No, he was dead. And Surin...

Surin...with his stupid threats of locking me in my bedroom, of washing his hands of me and leaving me to rot with Auntie Jai. I wished Surin were dead instead of my parents.

My gut heaved like the buoyant waves, making me vomit and cry. I clawed my way to the shore, and after grabbing another beer, I started running down the beach.

Why did you die, Mumsy? How could you die and leave me so alone?

I wanted to curl up in a dark hole and sob my heart out. I ran farther and farther away from the party. Had I been thinking straight, had I not been upset, I would never have set off alone. I ran past cars, kids, desertlike vegetation and the hemline of dilapidated shacks, abandoned and eerie little huts, along the sand. The villagers had been forced to move inland to safer ground. The government had started projects to save the beaches, but it was a long-haul process, and most of the villages had become ghost towns. I knew all this because Daddy had been passionate about saving the environment.

Daddy...oh, my Daddy...

The beach came to an abrupt end on a jut of rocks rising out of the sand. I had found my black hole to sink into.

I began to climb. Please, no snakes, no crabs. I could abide anything but snakes and crabs. I stepped on something squishy—yuckity yuck—and then something poked my sole, and I nearly lost my balance. I was barefoot, my slippers languished in Smriti’s car. I’d thought it sensible to remove them there. I’d stopped feeling sensible the minute I stepped onto the beach.

Tossing away the beer can, I clambered up the rocks on hands and feet. A great sense of accomplishment swept over me when I reached the top. It wasn’t high, just a few feet above sea level, but I felt like I’d climbed a mountain.

I breathed in deep and let it out. I flung my arms out, staring at the limitless horizon. Without the music blaring, I heard the waves whoosh and slap against the rocks. Without the bonfire, the full moon dribbled silver light onto the world.

My name meant silvery light in Persian. I was born on a full-moon night, and so my parents had named me Simeen.

My parents...

I dropped my arms as guilt stabbed at my chest. No! Khodai, please, I don’t want to feel anything anymore. If only I’d gone with my parents instead of arguing.

I have plans for the weekend that don’t involve driving from temple to temple with a couple of old killjoys. I want to hang at the mall with my friends, okay? Why are you forcing me to go and not Surin or Sarvar? I’m almost fifteen. I can stay home alone. I hardly need you to babysit me.

My last words to my parents had been antagonistic, churlish.

If only I’d gone with them.

If only I hadn’t been so selfish.

If only...

I remembered thinking that. I vividly remembered the feeling of sinking breath by breath into the quicksand of despair that night on Dandi Beach. I remembered screaming into the dark, raging at my parents, calling for them, begging them to come back.

Please come back. I need you. I lied. I need you, Daddy, Mumsy.