Read Online My Last Love Story by Falguni Kothari - Free Book Online Page A

of that summer. It sometimes spooked me how in sync Nirvaan and I were, how in sync all three of us were.
    The first picture was of us blowing candles on a giant chocolate cake. I looked dazed, which accounted for my total memory loss about this part of the night. I couldn’t remember cutting the cake even though the picture was irrefutable proof that I had, and from the looks of the subsequent photos, I’d enjoyed smashing some of it on the guys’ faces.
    “My Frooti was spiked. It had to be,” I declared, yet again in defense of my actions.
    Nirvaan pleaded the fifth, as usual.
    I frowned into my empty mug. “I need more coffee if we’re going to rehash our lives, one picture at a time.”
    Rehashing the past was on the Wish List, too. Nirvaan wished to recount and relive every moment of his life. He was creating a slide show to play at our birthday bash and wanted to make sure he didn’t forget a single person or event he was grateful for. I found the whole idea unnecessarily Hallmark-ish and morbid. Plus, you couldn’t really sieve the good moments out without stirring up the bad.
    But it wasn’t my biopic, was it? I snorted, thinking if I ever got sentimental enough to create one, mine would play out in five pictures flat. Okay, maybe six.
    “Wait. It’s almost light, baby.” Nirvaan tipped me onto his lap when I half-rose from the lounger to get more coffee.
    I usually had two mugs before breakfast.
    So, I waited, shifting to get comfortable against my husband’s chest. His arms came around me along with the blanket, and I felt warm even though I hadn’t been cold in my thick flannel robe and woolen socks. My husband warmed me from the inside out. He always had.
    I raised the tablet high and took a picture of us.
    “ Dawn of the Dead ,” said Nirvaan, critiquing my handiwork when I showed it to him.
    I ignored the fact that he was right. “Shut up. You’re ruining the mood.” I clicked another one. It was an improvement, and with a bit of photo editing, we wouldn’t appear so insipid. There.
    Not to be outdone, the sun rose majestically somewhere behind us, and in a never-ending flash, it brought the sea, the beach, and the gulls in front of us into the light.
    For all its ugliness, the world was a beautiful place.
    I didn’t think I’d ever tire of watching a sunrise. I knew I’d never forget the feel of my husband’s arms around me. And though I wanted a second cup of coffee quite badly, I stayed put until Nirvaan’s stomach gurgled against my back.
    We started another day on a laugh.
    Pleased and heart-happy, I stood up and made my way back into the kitchen where the coffee machine diligently refilled my mug. I propped the tablet on the counter and set it to display a slide show, grinning fondly at a picture of the Shaitans of Surat, piled one behind the other on a bright yellow Vespa, blasting hapless pedestrians with cold masala milk from cheap plastic pistols. I had been the instigator and the driver of the Masala Milk Adventure. It’d been my scooter, after all.
    Just as I began to prep for a batch of semolina veggie waffles, the house phone rang. We’d installed a landline, as cell phone reception was a bit wonky in some parts of the house. My cell worked only near the front door and in the kitchen.
    “Hello?” I chirped into the cordless instrument, sandwiching the phone’s receiver between my ear and shoulder. I pulled out peppers, carrots, peas, and stuff from the fridge, keeping one eye on the slide show. I wondered suddenly if Nirvaan had included Sandwich Anu’s pictures in the album. I was not going to be a happy beach bunny if he’d dared.
    “Hello?” I repeated with impatience into the static silence of the phone. It was too early for telemarketers, so I checked the caller ID. London codes. Crap. It was too much to hope that it would be one of Zayaan’s sisters or work people and not his mother.
    “Simeen, I’m trying to reach Zayaan. He’s not answering his mobile.