My Last Love Story (22 page)

We had no time after the beach conversation to discuss what exactly Nirvaan meant or meant to do about Zayaan and Marjaneh. Almost all of our out-of-town guests had arrived by Friday night, and things got beyond hectic from then on until the party, and even after.

The only respite I got was when I went to the salon on Saturday afternoon. We’d booked the whole place, as close to fifty women needed to get their hair, nails, and makeup done and their outfits pinned. It was like my wedding all over again, just on a smaller scale.

Did I say respite? I erred.

Somehow, Marjaneh and I got stuck in neighboring salon chairs, and for a good fifteen minutes, we faced each other through the mirrored walls. Of course, we couldn’t simply leave it at a staring match. As polite, functioning members of society, we had to hold a conversation when our lips were free to do so.

We compared the weather in LA and London and Carmel. I invited her over for a visit.

“You should extend your trip. Come to Carmel since you’re here,” I said. “Zayaan must’ve asked already, but I’m extending an invitation, too. It’s beautiful there. Very recuperative.” My eyes watered as the makeup woman curled my eyelashes.

Marjaneh had requested a minimum of makeup, like me—just eyes, a light blush, and lips to match her outfit. “I’ll have to see. Zayaan’s taking us to LA proper tomorrow for a sightseeing holiday for a couple of days. And we fly back to London on Wednesday.”

“Oh, right,” I said, feeling totally stupid.

Of course, his family hadn’t come only for the party. Of course, he’d spend his birthday with them. He didn’t celebrate his birthday anymore. Like mine, the day symbolized personal tragedy and loss for him, but still, it was his birthday. And, of course, he was under no obligation to tell me of his plans. I should be grateful he hadn’t invited his family to Carmel for me to wait on.

Crap. Crap. Crappity crap.

“He talks about you all the time,” Marjaneh said softly.

Shocked by her boldness, I turned my head toward her instead of looking in the mirror. The makeup lady squealed and made me look forward again.

“He’s always talked about you for as long as I’ve known him. You’re very dear to him.”

I blinked and blinked until my eyes no longer stung. The makeup lady would’ve screamed had I ruined my mascara with tears.

I didn’t know what to say to Marjaneh, so I lied, “He talks of you, too, all the time.”

I cannot express how glad I was to leap out of the makeup chair and hustle through the rest of my beauty treatments. Those went by fast and with much comedy and laughter, as befitted a gaggle of half-dressed women of varying ages in a stupendous hurry to look their best.

My outfit—not a sari, praise Khodai—was a floor-length silk gown of Indo-Western cut in pale gold with pearl embellishments. It was another surprise gift—my husband’s doing—as was the matching pearl and diamond jewelry set.

I felt like a princess.

Looked like one, too, according to Nirvaan. He flattered me with his debonair act as he helped me out of the limousine and onto a flower-studded driveway.

The mansion had undergone its final transformation while I’d been at the salon. A vanguard of trellises wrapped in vines of jasmine and lavender festooned the path to the party area.

Nirvaan looked like a prince, too, in his dark brown
jodhpuri
suit. My heart skipped a beat when he bent to kiss my lips, just like he’d done on our wedding day. I had to blink again. I wasn’t going to cry. Not yet. Not just yet.

Behind him, Sarvar and Zayaan beamed at us like twin henchmen. Dashing henchmen. And there seemed to be a dress code. I looked around and found all the men in the immediate family in harmonized
jodhpuri
suits, including five-year-old, Armaan. I couldn’t help but smile.

The whole extravagant affair went off without a glitch. No rain dared to fall on this balmy second to last night of May. We could’ve done away with the tents, but we’d played it safe. We’d asked for an ambience of understated romance, and Neelu Patel had delivered it. Candles and rose petals and candies blossomed everywhere. Electric lanterns swung from trees. And there were balloons, lots and lots of silver balloons. It was a birthday party, after all.

We put on our show, the entertainer sang, and the DJ rocked the place. Once Zayaan spun Ba around the dance floor, her dance card filled up fast. The food was finger-licking good, and the bar was a limitless ocean. There were three cakes in three different flavors, and we each got a birthday song and a fistful of cake smashed on our faces. The speeches were emotional, but I’d been prepared. I had my tissues in hand.

When Nirvaan spoke, I didn’t think there was a single dry eye under the tent. Images flashed on a huge screen behind him as he matched comments and pictures and memories, weaving them all into one wonderful bouquet of life. True to his word, he thanked every single person who’d come to celebrate with us. For many, this would be the last time they saw him.

He didn’t thank his family. It wasn’t because we didn’t need thanks—we didn’t—but because what he had to say to us was private. He thanked us instead through the pictures. They showed the world what we meant to him.

With the last photograph he chose to display, he revealed what was in his heart. It lingered there, longer than the others, and imprinted itself onto my soul. It was a recent one from our hiking trip. Nirvaan and I were sprawled on the boulder, holding Tickles together on my lap. Zayaan was on his knees next to us. I was looking at Tickles in awe. But Nirvaan and Zayaan were focused on me. Their faces wore identical expressions of admiration and joy as they gazed at me. They both looked so very much in love with me.

I loved my husband, but sometimes, he made my life impossible.

I dreaded stepping out of my room the morning after the party. But I’d been summoned downstairs to say good-bye to the last of the guests who’d dropped by on their way to the airport or before their drive back to their hometowns.

Nirvaan hadn’t come to bed at all. He’d tweaked my temper and wisely stayed out of sight. If he thought his mother would buffer him this morning, he had another thing coming.

I buried my face in my hands. How was I going to face his family? Everyone had seen the incriminating photograph—Marjaneh, too. I felt sick, recalling her face from last night.

After Nirvaan’s speech, I’d dragged Sarvar up to my room. I’d paced and ranted and had two shots of whiskey. I’d been livid. Embarrassed. Horrified. Guilty. I’d drowned in it.

Sarvar had tried to calm me. He’d said it wasn’t the end of the world. It was only a picture, and he’d asked why I was making a big deal of it.

Why? I’d shouted, “Why?” Hadn’t he seen the picture properly? Hadn’t he seen everyone’s faces?

Enough was enough. I scrubbed my hands over my face, as agitated this morning as I’d been last night. I’d faced far worse things on my birthday and survived. I’d survive this, too. I wrapped a shawl around my shoulders and went downstairs.

It seemed my worry had been seriously misplaced.

The minute I stepped onto the foyer, Nikita and Armaan ran to me, screaming, “Happy birthday, Simi
mami
. We got you presents.”

They bounced, hugging my waist and bestowing on me the most beatific toothless smiles. They dragged me into the living room, each child pulling one arm, where several gift boxes sat on the coffee table, waiting to be opened. They made me open theirs first—a handmade card with a pencil drawing of what appeared to be Eeyore wishing me luck on its cover and family tickets to Disneyland inside. Apparently, the Desais would be trolling the Magic Kingdom in the afternoon. I kissed them and their presents with due respect. Honestly, I could use a little Disney magic today.

“Happy birthday, Wife,” wished Nirvaan as his arms stole about me from behind, pulling me against his body in a hug. His voice was rough with too much talking, too much drinking, and too little sleep.

I melted, like cheese fondue. Who wouldn’t around this man?

But he had to be reined in.

“Good of you to remember I’m more than just a woman you love making a spectacle of.” I turned in his arms to berate him but winced at the awful shadows under his bloodshot eyes. I ended up kissing him instead.

“I didn’t mean it like that, Simi.” He looked properly chastised.

I supposed his mother or Ba must have lit into him on my behalf. So, I forgave his lie.

I was too tired for anger. I needed a massage—we both did—especially in preparation for Disneyland or perhaps after.

He let me go as the family came into the room to wish me joy and luck on my birthday, each handing me a prettily wrapped box or envelope accompanied by a hug, a blessing, a kiss, and a joke. I got jewelry—gold and diamond earrings from Ba, a tennis bracelet from Nisha and Aarav, a Patek Philippe watch from my in-laws. From Sarvar and Surin, I got investment bonds. I was a rich woman today and not only in the way of money.

My mother-in-law wished me last but the hardest. We clung for more than a few minutes, gaining strength from each other’s bones. Neither of us spoke as we hugged; we didn’t even try.

At last, we went into a shockingly empty dining room where the housekeeper had laid out a hot Sunday brunch. After three days of constant hustle-bustle, this felt like an apocalypse.

“Did everyone leave already?” I asked, sitting down next to Nirvaan. I declined the juice offered and poured myself a mug of coffee.

“Yep. Radha
fui
and her family are off to San Diego. They’ll be back late tonight, in case you’re missing them already,” said Nirvaan, shooting me a tired, and yet thoroughly wicked, grin.

I took a sip of my coffee, so I wouldn’t have to answer. I didn’t ask about Zayaan. I gathered he’d left for the LA sightseeing tour, too, and I figured we’d see him in Carmel later in the week.

But I was wrong. He brought his mother to the house. She wished to say good-bye to my in-laws and to thank them for their hospitality. My mother-in-law wouldn’t let them to leave without sharing a last meal with us.

Zayaan hugged me and wished me a happy birthday. It was awkward. I realized I’d always be awkward with him on this day. He looked tired, too. We all did. Maybe it was just the aftereffects of the party. Maybe the silence at the table had nothing to do with the photo.

“Daddy, did you know that Nirvaan wants to sell the land Bapuji left him? And to that character Ram Ali? You know he sounds shady,” said Nisha out of the blue.

Her voice was unnecessarily loud, like a gunshot in the night.

She turned to Nirvaan when her father made eyes at her to shut up. “I don’t understand it. If you need money, why not borrow it from Daddy?”

Blame my poor reflexes on sleep deprivation, but it took me a while to react until I heard Nirvaan’s, “What the fuck is your problem, Nish?”

I swept my gaze from a livid Nirvaan to a cheesed-off Nisha to my expressionless in-laws. Nirvaan and Nisha started a full-blown battle after that, which my father-in-law tried to referee with no success, no matter how loud he got as well. Nisha’s husband took his children out of earshot of Nirvaan’s increasingly foul language.

“I’ll do what the fuck I please with my own fucking land, understood?”

“I won’t let you screw up the family holdings on some hero complex.”

“Sister or not, you won’t fucking tell me what I can or can’t do with my property. Bapuji left it to me—”

“Exactly, with the understanding that it would remain in our family.
Blood
is family. Get it, Nirvaan? You’ve set up a substantial trust for your wife to maintain her current lifestyle. How much more does she need?”

Shame crawled through me. I stared, unseeing, at my gripped hands on my lap. I couldn’t bear to look anyone in the face. This was worse than the photograph. “Please, I don’t want anything. Please, Nirvaan, don’t fight. Please, just let me go,” I whispered.

He did the opposite. He wrapped an arm about me and pushed my face into his neck. “Fuck you, Nisha. I didn’t want any of you to know, but we’re trying to have a baby.”

I moaned when he said it. He’d promised not to tell anyone until the IVF worked. We didn’t want anyone to hold false hope. I wanted a back door to run out from. Guilt stung my gut, and I wanted to puke.

No one shouted after that. No one spoke either. I imagined they were all staring at us—at me—in horror. If I got pregnant, they’d be stuck with me forever.

“
Baba
, son, is this the right time for this?” Kiran Desai asked in a cool, calm tone.

I loved her for that alone.

“If not now, then when?” said Nirvaan, suddenly sounding deflated.

I shifted in my chair so I could look at his profile. Anger had made his skin sweat and turn pinkish. But his eyes…they looked defeated.

“Simeen?”

I didn’t want to turn to my mother-in-law but forced myself to.

“Do you want this?” she asked. There was no judgment on her face, only concern.

“Of course she does. We’ve already started the procedure,” Nirvaan said in irritation.

“I’m asking Simeen. You will kindly let her answer.”