My Last Love Story (10 page)

“Is it good?” I asked my father-in-law.

“It has an…interesting flavor…earthy,” he replied but requested I serve him one more. Which meant, he liked it.

Both Nirvaan and Zayaan had served themselves three chocolate rasgullas each and had consumed them in seconds. I liked all manner of sweetmeats and helped myself to two rasgullas, too, whereas my mother-in-law took none. She wasn’t diabetic. She just didn’t have a sweet tooth like the rest of us.

Later, after a few hands of Rummy, I planned to sizzle the brownies I’d whipped up from scratch and serve them with ice cream, honey, and nuts.

I’d brought my mood under control by the time the table was set and the food was laid out. Even so, I was quiet through dinner, contributing little or nothing to the free-flowing conversation. My introversion wasn’t an anomaly, but more than once, I felt Nirvaan’s gaze on me.

Zayaan and my father-in-law were in deep discussion about his thesis.

Aside from Nisha, none of the Desais had finished college. My in-laws hadn’t gone to college at all. And Nirvaan had attended the University of Southern California for two years before he’d dropped out to join the family business and travel the world. By the time we’d gotten married, Nirvaan had shouldered the lion’s share of the motel business responsibilities. He’d shown no signs of slacking, even after the cancer. He’d wheeled and dealed in properties and stocks right from the hospital bed, sometimes even scant hours after a treatment. Nirvaan’s street smarts had been—were—something to behold; he just wasn’t academic.

I was. I wasn’t as versatile as Zayaan, but I’d liked school. And college had been a refuge during some bad times. Besides, I liked to learn. And what I’d learned in college was that I liked to manage stuff. I had a degree in business management, which I’d put to use right after college. I’d worked at Batliwala Plastics in Surat and then in the San Jose motels with Nirvaan.

Maybe I should start working again. I could manage the running of a motel. I could keep the books or…

I squeezed and squeezed the sugar water out of the rasgulla onto my plate. It was no use, making plans. I couldn’t imagine a future without Nirvaan, bereft of the shelter of his arms or his laughing presence in my life. Could I live in LA with my in-laws, or would it be too painful to see each other after he was gone?

I couldn’t contemplate moving in with Sarvar even if he offered his spare room in exchange for my housekeeping skills. And I knew he would ask—when the time came. I balked at the idea of moving back to Surat. I’d been the mistress of my own house for far too long to suddenly be a guest in someone else’s, no matter how welcoming either of my brothers were.

“You’re squeezing the life out of the rasgulla, baby.” Nirvaan took the crumbling chocolate milk ball from my hand and fed it to me before I mangled it into paste.

I ate it, making the appropriate delighted sounds that my mother-in-law expected.

I supposed I didn’t need to decide my future as my husband had decided it for me.

Nirvaan’s parents didn’t know about the IVF. We didn’t want them to know in case it didn’t work. I’d actually been relieved when Nirvaan had asked me not to mention the fertility treatments to anyone, not until we had positive results. With any luck, we’d never have to tell.

“Coffee anyone?” asked Zayaan, covering a soft burp with his fist.

I drew my eyes over the table spread. Most of the food was gone. When we all declined, Zayaan excused himself from the table, taking his plate and glass and several other platters with him. I felt too heavy in mind and body to clear the table just yet, and I was grateful for his agency.

“Kiran, did you talk to Nirvaan about Kutch?” my father-in-law suddenly asked as he flicked his nails against his water glass, making musical pings.

“What about Kutch?” Nirvaan divided a stare between his parents.

Kutch was a large state district in northwest Gujarat, mostly desert land. Were my in-laws thinking of investing in land there?

The Desais owned a lot of real estate in Gujarat—farmland, villages, a couple of city blocks in Surat and Baroda. They owned a lot of land in the US, too.

My mother-in-law didn’t look especially pleased with her husband for serving business at the table and even less so when he didn’t wait for her response and plunged on.

“There’s an Ayurvedic health center in Kutch, renowned for its cancer cures. Radha personally checked it out and has reserved a room for you there. A family room, so Simi can stay with you. We can all go. Okay? You have to stay for at least two months—let’s say June and July—for the full benefits of the treatment,” he said.

Oh, wow. No wonder my mother-in-law hadn’t brought up Kutch.

I bit my lip and slanted a peek at my husband. His eyes were narrowed into cynical slits.

Nirvaan didn’t have much faith in alternative treatments. He’d lost faith in all cancer treatments, in fact. He’d refused to go in for the stereotactic radiosurgery until I’d made the baby bargain. He didn’t want to prolong the inevitable; he’d told us so when the tumor had made itself known.

My mother-in-law respected Nirvaan’s decisions. My father-in-law had no qualms about calling his son a bloody fool.

“I’m not going to
Kutch
,” Nirvaan said as if Kutch were hell itself. “Tomorrow, I’ll thank Radha
fui
for her concern and have her cancel the reservation.” His jaw snapped closed so tight that his molars made an awful clicking sound.

Radha
fui
was my father-in-law’s younger sister. She lived in Surat and was a bit provincial in aptitude. Even so, most people believed they meant well when imparting free medical advice.

“You’ll do no such thing. They’ve cured hundreds of patients. They walk out of there completely cancer-free.”

“That’s a patent lie. If such a miracle cure actually existed, the entire medical universe would know of it. Come on, Dad, stop fooling yourself.”

Nirvaan’s father pounded his fist on the table. “Is it fooling myself for wanting the best for you? For wanting you to get well?”

For the next few minutes, strong words and opinions flew across the table. My mother-in-law sat huddled and quiet, like me.

Every few months, a relative or family friend would tell us about some miracle cure they’d heard of from some random person they bumped into. Again, people mostly meant well, and maybe those other patients really did get cured—miracles did happen—but it wasn’t going to happen for Nirvaan.

It wasn’t only the cancer for him. Non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma demanded an aggressive treatment. Nirvaan had been bombarded by high doses of chemotherapy and radiation and surgery for eighteen months, and for two years after, he’d been cancer-free.

Then, about a year ago, the headaches had started, and we’d found the tumor. It was small but deep-seated. And it was growing. They couldn’t cut it out. They could shrink it, but it would keep growing. His headaches would get worse. He’d get seizures. He’d already had one a few months ago. His eyesight would eventually fail.

But the worst was, he was losing brain function because of where the tumor was situated. We had to watch for slurred words and missed steps and a whole lot of things his doctors had listed. Over the next few months, the tiny tumor would slowly eat into Nirvaan’s brain, and all any of us could do was watch it happen.

The strong smell of coffee mingled with the ocean air, and I inhaled greedily as the argument zinged around me. Zayaan came to stand by the table, but he didn’t sit down. I regretted declining his offer to make me an espresso. It was going to be a rough night.

Zayaan had never once offered medical advice to Nirvaan—not in my presence, at least. I saw him reach out and rub the back of his hand on my mother-in-law’s cheek in comfort—once, twice—and then he dropped it back to his side. Another piece of my heart broke and floated away.

“You are going, Nirvaan.
Bas—
that’s that. What’s the harm in it?”

“Are you joking? I’m not going to India for two months. What if I fall sick there? What if I get worse? I’m not checking into an Indian hospital, much less some quack
ashram
in Kutch. I don’t want to die there, Dad.”

My father-in-law stiffened at the harsh reminder of what was to come, but he didn’t back down. “I’m looking into a medical jet facility in case…in case we need to bring you back.”

Nirvaan gave an incredulous laugh. “If this place is supposed to work miracles, why in the heck would I need an emergency evac? Shouldn’t I waltz out of there on my feet?” He frowned at his father, and after a few seconds of fraught silence, he gave a long sigh. He didn’t look so pissed anymore. “Daddy, please, I don’t want to spend the rest of my days in futile treatments and hospitals. I want to live strong. God, I want to
live
. Then, I won’t mind dying so much.”

My in-laws wept then—not badly, but pain glittered in their eyes, as sharp as diamonds. I had to avert my gaze to the star-studded darkness till I got my emotions under control once again. I knew the quality of strength required to discuss the business of death with your beloved. I knew intimately the devastation of being utterly helpless in a bad situation.

I’d once wished upon a shooting star and gotten the shoes I’d wanted—red Mary Janes with silver buckles. What would I wish for should I see a star tonight? That Nirvaan would find relief soon, so all of us could be free of this constant heartache? Or that he would linger and suffer so that we might have more time with him?

I was glad I didn’t spot a falling star tonight. I was very glad I didn’t pray anymore.

I pulled Nirvaan aside that night and made him promise not to fight with his father for the rest of his parents’ visit. I guessed my mother-in-law must’ve extracted the same promise from her husband, as my father-in-law did not bring up Kutch again. Hopefully, we’d banked all altercations for the weekend.

I tried to give Nirvaan plenty of time alone with his parents. After all, I had him all to myself daily while they had to make do with weekends. If we still lived in LA, it would’ve been different, not to mention so much easier. But we didn’t, and I wanted to give them time to make more memories.

In light of that, I would take off every chance I got. I ran errands, got the car cleaned, held my brothers and sister-in-law hostage on the phone for hours, cleaned the house without getting in anyone’s way, finished reading two books on Saturday afternoon by the beach, and so on.

Zayaan made himself scarce the whole of Saturday, too. He left the house after breakfast with a briefcase full of papers and books and his laptop, informing us of his intention to spend the day at the library for research.

So, when I received a text from him, asking me to meet him at The Caramel Bookery near the town’s center, I couldn’t help my reply.

Me: Aren’t you sick of books by now?

He texted back promptly.

Zayaan: No. Come quick. They’re about to close.

No matter how much I loved books, I wasn’t this obsessed with them. But I went, as he wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t important. It didn’t take me ten minutes to get there by car. I found a parking spot right in front of the store.

The Caramel Bookery was a quaint little indie book and coffee shop hidden behind three pretty weeping willows on a small curving street in the middle of the seaside town. It had a narrow entrance, made smaller by sleek tables stacked high with books and toys on each side.

I took a nostalgic breath as I entered. I loved the smell of dust and books, stale food and spilled coffee. It reminded me of my home—the old cramped flat in the old crowded neighborhood where nothing bad had touched my family. Surin had sold the flat to save the factory.

I wove my way inside, carefully holding on to my beach tote so that I wouldn’t jostle anything over as the store was stocked cheek by jowl with stuff.

Zayaan waited in one corner of the store. He hadn’t seen me yet. His head was bent, reading from the open book in his hands. Silky black hair flopped over his forehead, and a five o’clock shadow darkened the lower half of his face.

Zayaan shaved every day, sometimes twice a day, to keep his jawline clean. He’d started shaving way before I’d met him. I used to love his face rough with stubble. Loved the feel of the soft, soft bristles on my skin, against my lips, beneath my fingers.

Perhaps, I still did. Or perhaps, I would shudder in revulsion.

My heart dropped to my stomach, afraid it would be the latter. My stomach clenched tight, even more afraid it would be the former.

Berating myself for constantly thinking nonsense, I continued forward. Zayaan looked up as I neared. A slow half-smile bowed his lips. Ruthlessly, I ignored my jumping insides.

“I’m here. What’s the deal?” I asked, pressing the tote against my heart like a shield.

He closed the book and slid it into its slot on the library shelf.

Rumi
, I read off the spine. Zayaan’s favorite Persian poet. He used to quote Rumi all the time when we were kids. I hadn’t seen him read poetry, much less quote a couplet for a long time. No one who knew him now would’ve guessed that staid and to-the-point Zayaan possessed the soul of a romantic.