Falguni Kothari - My Last Love Story

“And you?” I darted a look at Zayaan, or more specifically at the fringe of hair flopping over his eyes. I’d worked out a system to deal with him. I would not get too close, and I’d stick to minimum eye contact.

“Everything Mummy cooks is delicious. Just make sure there’s enough left over to last until her next visit.” He smacked his lips together, clearly anticipating the forthcoming delicacies.

“Not that we don’t appreciate your cooking, baby. The biryani is orgasmic. No, seriously, I love it,” added Nirvaan.

The patently fake, obsequious tone made me snort. I was proud of my strengths, and I’d learned to live with my weaknesses. Cooking was neither. I just didn’t care about cooking enough to take offense that I wasn’t a master chef in people’s eyes.

“We can drop you at the market on our way to the marina,” offered Zayaan, briefly smiling at me before jerking his chin at Nirvaan. “We should get the Jet Skis checked out—serviced, gassed up and whatever else. Daddy will want a ride first thing tomorrow.”

“You’re right,” groaned Nirvaan. “Damn it. He’ll hog one all weekend. Thank God Nisha’s not coming, or between Aarav and her brats, we’d never get a turn.”

He was joking, of course. Nirvaan loved his sister, got along famously with his brother-in-law, and doted on his niece and nephew, who adored their Nimo in turn.

For reasons slightly more serious than the sharing of Jet Skis, I, too, was glad my sister-in-law had postponed her visit. We’d hosted Nisha and her family last weekend, and we would see them at our birthday celebration at Nirvaan’s parents’ house in LA at the end of the month. So, it wasn’t a huge tragedy to miss bonding this once.

I had no issues with Nisha, as such, but she’d started behaving a bit funny with me over the past few months, and I didn’t know what to make of it. She was probably worried about Nirvaan, I’d concluded, and unable to express her feelings about the tumor and its ramifications. It might explain her stiff attitude toward me. It was difficult to find the right words of support and solace in our kind of situation, and Nisha and I had never been chums to begin with.

In truth, I’d never even tried to get friendly with her—or anyone else since my fifteenth birthday. I’d been so blinded by the guys, so wholly satisfied by our friendship and what it’d brought to my life, that I hadn’t wanted any other friends. And after...after that night, I’d been too afraid to step out into the world. So, what would I have done with making friends, anyway?

Nisha and I had become passably friendly only after my marriage. But then, we’d had to, hadn’t we, for Nirvaan’s sake?

“Stop whining, chodu. I should be whining.” Zayaan flicked an uneaten clove at Nirvaan.

The spice bounced off my husband’s shoulder and landed on a white seashell embossed on the shrimp-colored fabric of the sofa. He pinched it up and popped it into his mouth. Nirvaan could eat anything remotely edible.

“You’ll get out of playing golf by faking fatigue or the bubonic plague, and I’ll be stuck on the greens with Daddy for hours or days. Fuck, I hate golf. It’s such a tedious game.” Shaking his head, Zayaan ambled into the open-style kitchen and dumped his empty plate and bowl in the sink. He twisted the tap on, running water over both.

It spoke volumes to just how entrenched Zayaan was in the Desai household that he addressed my in-laws as Mummy and Daddy. Even I didn’t do that. I couldn’t. Mummy and Daddy were honorifics reserved for my own parents alone even though I considered Nirvaan’s in the same light. I’d addressed my in-laws as Kiran Auntie and Kamlesh Uncle since I was fifteen, and I continued to do so after marriage. Neither my in-laws nor Nirvaan had ever questioned me on it even though plenty of our relatives had. I’d usually smile and shrug in answer to such nosiness.

The thing was, as a Parsi daughter-in-law, I could get away with a lot of things in the Desais’ predominantly Hindu household that another woman of similar faith would not have. Especially as we Parsis were known for our outspoken, eccentric attitudes. My own family hailed Freddie Mercury of Queen fame as a hero—a nonconformist outspoken Parsi, if there ever was one—and his hit song “I Want to Break Free” was the family motto. I sat on the fence regarding the hero worship even though I did love his music.

I cleared the remnants of our lunch onto a tray and took it into the kitchen, humming the catchy beat of Freddie’s song under my breath. Nirvaan brought in the empty beer bottles and soda cans, tossing them into the recycling bin. From the fridge, he drew a tall glass of the mixed berry smoothie I’d whipped up for him earlier and glugged a quarter of it down along with his provision of meds. There were a few more pills in the mix than there’d been last month, as his medications were an ever-changing cocktail. I looked for signs of discomfort or pain on his face and relaxed when none showed. His head would hurt when he overdid things, and we’d already had an exciting day so far. Maybe I’d persuade him to take a nap before we ran our errands.

Zayaan brushed past Nirvaan to the squat new coffee machine by the fridge and programmed in a double espresso, his after-lunch special. “You sure you want them going back on Monday?” He looked askance at Nirvaan as the machine chugged out black-brown liquid in a swallow-sized cup. “They’ll want to be here, Mummy especially, during the radiosurgery.”

I stiffened and then quickly spun around to face the sink to hide my panic. The antiquated kitchen had no room for a dishwasher, so I soaped up a sponge and started washing the dishes by hand. I was furious with myself for reacting so badly, so typically. And I’d thought Nisha needed lessons on how to behave around Nirvaan. Ha.

“Nah. They’re doing enough, man—driving up and down on weekends, Dad taking on my share of the business acrobatics—and...you know, Ba hasn’t been keeping well, either. He needs to take care of his mother, too. She’s getting old. Besides, the procedure won’t even take half a day. No hospital stay and no side effects. Not a biggie at all.” Nirvaan’s words were all but muffled under the thundering beats of “I Want to Break Free” spooling around and around in my head.

What kind of a wife fears taking care of her sick husband? What kind of a person quakes to hold an ailing man’s hand?

I could handle death—the finality of it, the suddenness of it. I’d lost my parents when I was fourteen, and while it had changed me forever, it hadn’t broken me. I could face death. What I couldn’t face was sickness. What I couldn’t bear was the corrosive odors of a hospital and the utter helplessness one experienced in the face of trauma. That was why Nirvaan and I had moved in with his parents when the cancer first tainted our lives. It was the reason Zayaan lived with us now.

I was a useless spouse.

* * *

If I was a poor example of a wife, Nirvaan was the epitome of an exceptional husband.

He forgave all my faults and loved me anyway. He didn’t expect anything from me I wouldn’t willingly give—or he hadn’t until the baby. That he had my heart and my devotion was no secret. He’d had it since we were fifteen. He didn’t try to change me, not in any way. Even when it had become clear he was my second choice, in love and in marriage, he had not faltered. Neither had he begrudged Zayaan’s place in my life. In fact, Nirvaan had always encouraged the unconventionality of my desires. Later, when he could’ve walked away for all those reasons, he’d stayed beside me and become the Band-Aid for my wounded soul.

I’ll tell you one thing for sure. It rocked to have Nirvaan for a husband.