My Last Love Story (5 page)

A flame of jealousy ignited in my belly. I wrenched my eyes away and looked down at the menu in my hands.

I didn’t understand myself at all. I loved my husband. We were happy together. I didn’t want Zayaan anymore—not in any capacity, other than a good friend. I had pushed him away, locked up all memories of him for twelve years. I’d been very successful. But ever since our enforced proximity, it had become impossible to maintain any sort of equanimity.

I didn’t want those women staring at my guys—both my guys. I wanted to stake my claim on them in front of the whole world.

I could brand Nirvaan, claim his mouth with lips and tongue, and there would be no mistaking my rights. Then, I could lean into Zayaan and run my hand down the pearly-white buttons on his shirt to his heart. A kiss here, a touch there. I wondered if the women would take my actions as a warning or an invitation.

Here’s the thing about places like Carmel-by-the-Sea where half of the populace was of an artsy temperament and the other half was mega rich—no one cared about ménage à trois or even ménage à twenty. In such places, kinky was normal.

Not that the guys and I had ever been kinky outside of our childish fantasies. We weren’t a sexual ménage. Had never been, would never be.

But our audience didn’t know that, did they?

I wasn’t drunk, truly. My sake bomb had only just been placed in front of me, so I couldn’t blame my insane cogitations on its consumption—not that I ever blamed alcohol for anything. I preferred to take responsibility for my own thoughts and fancies.

I didn’t know these women, but I did know how my guys would react if I actually gave in to my wicked desire. Nirvaan would guffaw if I made a spectacle of us. Probably egg me on to add a tabletop belly dance to the action. But Zayaan would bristle like an angry porcupine. He used to dislike public displays of anything. I don’t think he’s changed all that much.

Anyway, I decided not to test the theory.

“Do stop staring, Zai. They might think you’re available.” I raised an eyebrow. “Unless you want them to think you are? But then whatever will Marjaneh think of Nirvaan and me? Bad enough that we stole you away from her charms for a whole year. That we couldn’t even protect her man from the big, bad California Barbies would be unforgivable. She’d never let you off her shackles again.”

Marjaneh Shahrokhi was Zayaan’s girlfriend of two years and colleague of five. According to Zayaan’s mother, the couple was a hairsbreadth away from getting engaged. Marjaneh was smart, pretty, moderately religious, and sensible—the perfect woman for Zayaan. We’d met her on our last trip to London. I’d hated her on sight.

“What’s put your nose out of joint tonight?” remarked Zayaan, calling me out on the Mean Girl act.

It shut me up, as intended. I wrinkled my rather large Parsi nose with the inexplicable bump in the middle. The thing was an added insult on my plain-Jane face. I had a lovely peaches-and-cream complexion, courtesy of my mother, but no glamorous features to speak of, nothing to inspire a Leonardo to paint me as
Mona Lisa
.

No, that wasn’t entirely true. Both Zayaan and Nirvaan, during our hormone-crazed teenage years, had composed love sonnets in my honor. Some of them had been absolutely filthy limericks extolling the virtues of my various body parts, but I’d found them enchanting regardless.

In turn, I’d penned down praise of their sinewy beauty. Nirvaan was the classic tall, dark, lithe type of handsome while Zayaan was ruggedly good-looking and very fair. Zayaan, without his golden tan and face stubble, was almost as pale as me. Our common Persian heritage, we’d deduced, during one of our trillion and one profound midnight chats.

Sometime over the past millennium, to avoid persecution, first the Parsis and then the Aga Khani Muslims, a sect of the Shiite Ismailis, had fled Persia to settle down on the mildly distant but welcoming shores of Hindustan—the shores of the State of Gujarat, to be precise—setting the precedent for a religiously and ethnically diverse yet secular nation.

The undulations of history fascinated all three of us. But while Nirvaan and my interest remained amateurish, Zayaan had studied the subject to death. He held degrees in world literature, sociology, and Islamic studies from the University of London and Oxford. He spoke Farsi, Urdu, and Arabic as fluently as Gujarati or English. Add in a smattering of Hindi, Latin, and French, and we had an
octo-linguist
. Nirvaan had coined the word a while ago.

Currently, Zayaan was working on a dissertation that hoped to shed light on the cross-cultural relationship between Muslims and their neighbors from the time of Ishmael through now. Zayaan was a super nerd. It wasn’t all he was, but it was the one quality that continued to stagger me. He worked for the Share Khan Foundation in several capacities, all mostly academic, and while it hadn’t been convenient for him to apply for a sabbatical at this point in his career, he’d done just that to come live with us. Of course, his superiors in London believed he was pursuing his doctorate in earnest, which he was.

But the simple truth was, Zayaan had come because Nirvaan needed him, and that was all that should’ve mattered to me. I was doing all of us a disservice by my behavior. Zayaan was the third of our triad. He had every right to be here with us, every right to say good-bye to Nirvaan. So, why had I begun to resent his presence, their friendship, when I’d always been glad that they had each other before?

Nirvaan kissed my bumpy nose, tugging me back from the side trip I’d taken into the extraordinary complications of my life. He always claimed my nose gave me character, a sort of distinction. With an unholy gleam in his eyes, he looked over my head at the man who was his soul mate as much as I was.

“Did I hear you insult my sweetie’s nose? You must be punished for it, you infidel. Kiss her nose, or lose your head.
Oy!
Kiss her nose,
and
lose your head since kissing her did have that effect on you once,” teased Nirvaan.

Then, out of the blue, he pushed me at Zayaan. I yelped, teetering unsteadily in my chair, finding balance against Zayaan’s chest, our faces not two inches apart.

Again, why do I love my husband?
I struggled to right myself, blushing furiously.

“People are watching, for fuck’s sake.” With a tight grip on my arms, Zayaan settled me back in my seat before I fell over, trying to get away from him. “What’ll they think of us?”

Nirvaan put a hand on his cheek and gasped, “No! You pulled the LSKS card?”

LSKS was an acronym for,
Loko shu keh shey?
Or,
What will people say?

It was the most common rhetoric Gujju parents—any parent, for that matter—badgered their children with.

My parents had plagued me with such questions in sigh-worthy regularity.
What will people say, Simi, if you dye your hair purple? What will people think, Simeen, if you fail your exams? Don’t be rude to your grandmother’s sister’s grandniece’s mother-in-law.
Behave. Behave. Behave yourself in public.

I started giggling. I was that flustered.

“Don’t encourage him.” Zayaan looked thoroughly disgusted with us.

We could do that to him. Only Nirvaan and I could ruffle Zayaan’s feathers that easily. Any minute now, he’d start lecturing us in Farsi.

Nirvaan’s arm snaked around my middle, pulling me back against his chest, as he sniggered like a college boy. His breath tickled my ear, making me whimper. Zayaan’s eyes went dark and glittery as he glared at us—not angry, not envious, but something in between.

My face was probably scarlet by now.

“What I’ve learned with this time bomb ticking inside my head,
chodu
, is that life is too short to live in regret.” Nirvaan’s laughter faded, his voice went low and hoarse, and I stilled in my husband’s arms. “Life is so fucking short, my loves. So, fuck the world and its fucking rules.”

Like a maestro at the helm of an orchestra, Zayaan steered his ruffled feathers back to smoothness. “Easy for you to say,
chodu
. You’ll be dead. We won’t be.” He broke off and clamped his jaw shut in an obvious effort not to say something regrettable.

There was a lot of that going around between the three of us—regret, broken words.

It wasn’t the first time we’d had this conversation. It wouldn’t be the last, not with Nirvaan trying to cram a whole lifetime into one year or less. Both men were right in their own ways, but Zayaan’s point was undeniable. What Nirvaan expected from us would get tongues wagging, and they’d never stop. I didn’t want to care what the world thought of me or how I’d chosen to live my life. But did I really have the luxury to be a part of this world and not care?

I frowned into my sake. Experience had taught me to care, to be careful, and to be private. I couldn’t change who I was, not even for my dying husband.
But dare I try?
I raised the sake cup to my lips and took a swallow.

And what of the child? The child who, if conceived, would be Nirvaan’s and mine…and Zayaan’s, too, in a way.

What would people say about such a child?

We got home earlier than expected. The guys’ intense exchange hadn’t ruined our dinner exactly—we’d managed to slide the conversation back to a glossy, innuendo-filled level again—but it’d left us not quite in the jolly mood to go clubbing, like we’d originally planned.

I tucked the groceries away and then headed for the bathroom for a much-needed soak in the tub and some much-desired time alone. As my body relaxed in the warm pool of foamy water, I tried to do the same with my mind, immersing it in the historical thriller I’d downloaded on my Kindle. Every so often, I was jarred away from the intrigues of Napoleon’s court by the sounds of laser guns and bombs exploding beyond the powder-blue walls of the bathroom.

The guys were trying to obliterate each other via their gaming avatars. I winced at a particularly loud bomb blast, followed by a string of clipped curses and a bout of heated argument about the best way to circumvent land mines and storm alien territory without getting blown to bits. Whoever had penned the phrase
boys and their toys
had known the male yins of the universe well. I remembered my mother muttering something to the effect in reference to my father and brothers pretty much every day.

I had a pair of them—brothers, I meant. Surin and Sarvar were both much older than me, and ever since the fatality that had taken our parents, they’d become more parents than siblings to me. I’d had a third brother, a sickly boy named Sam, who hadn’t survived his first year in this world. I had him to thank for my existence. If Sam hadn’t died, I wouldn’t have been born, as my parents had wanted no more than three children.

When I was little, my brothers would tease me about being a replacement, the spare wheel, the girl who’d destroyed the manly kingdom of the three Batliwala brothers. I’d scream for them to take their hideous words back, sob as if my heart was breaking, until the day my mother had sat me down and opened my eyes to the bullshit that was the male psyche.

Mean to begin with or not, Sarvar had become the kind of brother every sister should have. He didn’t hover or smother, yet not a day passed when I hadn’t poured my heart out to him. Sarvar was my anchor in the ocean of life, a safe harbor for tempestuous times. Lucky for me, he lived in San Jose, close enough to meet when we wished.

I have the Desais to thank for it. Ever generous and helpful, they’d somehow convinced Sarvar to move to the States right after my marriage. They’d sponsored his legalization documents and whatnot. They’d even offered him a managerial job at one of their motels/hotels, but he hadn’t taken them up on it. These last six years, Sarvar had expanded our family’s plastic business across the Americas, and so far, both my brothers seemed satisfied with the results. It’d been my father’s dream to expand Batliwala Plastics outside of India, and I felt incredibly proud that my brothers had made it come true. I liked to believe, in a small way, I’d had a hand in it, too.

Surin, seven years my elder, still lived in Surat, close to the factory we’d almost lost right after our parents’ deaths. The Desais hadn’t been able to convince him to immigrate to California. To leave India would mean selling Batliwala Plastics or trusting someone else to run it, and Surin would cut off his right arm before he did that. He’d fought so hard to keep the factory, sustain it, and make it prosper. He’d shed sweat, blood, and youth for it. He’d never leave it in someone else’s care. He couldn’t even bring himself to take a decent holiday with his wife and kids for fear the factory would collapse in his absence.

I hadn’t seen Surin in over three years because of that. He wouldn’t come to California unless there were an emergency, and I couldn’t go to India until…Nirvaan let me.

At times, I missed Surin as violently as I missed my parents. And then there were days when he’d cease to exist in my American reality. As if being out of sight, out of tangible reach, he’d become a ghost in my mind.

I stared at the words I held between my hands, unable to decipher them, as my mind slowly clouded with memories. My parents. My brothers. Surat. My life there. All I’d lost. All I’d gained. Nirvaan. Zayaan. My life here.