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

Is Nirvaan okay?”
    The softly anxious voice had the same hair-raising effect on my nerves as a live telecast of a terrorist beheading. Forget Sandwich Anu. Gulzar Begum Ali Mohammed Khan was the true bane of my existence. And there was no way Nirvaan hadn’t uploaded her photograph into the tablet.
    I closed my eyes and counted to ten. I would not let her ruin my day.
    “He’s peachy, Gulzar Auntie. Zayaan dua bole che , so his phone might be off.”
    I didn’t add that she should’ve checked the time difference between England and California before calling us at the crack of dawn. It wouldn’t have gone down well if I had. Zayaan’s mother did not like me and was civil to me only because her son would stand for nothing less. I reciprocated in kind for the same reason and because my mother had taught me to be polite to my elders—even bigoted, rude ones who’d raised a monster and let him loose in the world.
    It was Zayaan’s father who’d adored me, approved of me—in as much as a pillar of the Khoja community could approve of a non-Muslim girl his son had brought home one day. I didn’t know if I would’ve converted to Islam had things worked out the way we’d planned. I knew Zayaan had expected me to when we talked of marriage. Aga Khani Muslims were a liberal lot, and for the most part, they followed very different customs and weren’t considered real Muslims. But Zayaan’s mother belonged to a staunch branch of Sunni Khojas, and to please her, her family had strictly practiced certain Islamic customs.
    I’d sometimes imagine myself married to Zayaan because that would mean that night had not happened. I’d sometimes imagine my parents were alive. They would’ve approved of Zayaan but not of a religious conversion. They would’ve adored Nirvaan. My parents, devoted Parsis though they were, had been broad-minded people. Bottom line, they would’ve wanted me to be happy.
    A sigh shuddered out of my mouth. It was pointless to think about the past, but I couldn’t seem to escape it. Maybe Nirvaan was right with this slide-show business. Maybe we were the sum total of our memories…and fantasies.
    “Have him call me when he’s finished praying.” Zayaan’s mother’s exasperated voice broke through my musings.
    She’d been talking, but I’d tuned her out.
    I peered through the patio doors. Zayaan’s eyes were open, his head turned to one shoulder. He was almost done, but I held my tongue.
    “Of course,” I said, preparing to hang up.
    “How are you, beta ?” she asked before I could.
    Compassion rang in her voice, and her use of the endearment beta , or child, rendered me speechless.
    I wanted to smack her down with a flippant, Oh, I’m peachy, too. So looking forward to widowhood. Any tips on how to get on?
    But I forced the bitchiness back into my intestines. “I’m fine. Thank you,” I answered instead.
    How dare she. How dare she offer sympathy now when she never had before. How dare she call me beta in that sickly sweet tone.
    Zayaan’s mother had a knack for making me feel like shit, but I’d strive to be polite for my own mother’s sake.
    “How are Sofia and Sana?” I asked in return.
    Zayaan’s sisters were several years younger than me, and I got along just fine with them. They were open-minded, honest women, more like Zayaan than their mother.
    “Are they around?” Say yes, so we can quit this absurd attempt at a conversation , I mentally urged her to act.Why didn’t she hang up?
    Why didn’t I?
    On the dawn-tinged deck, Nirvaan performed a series of twisty torso stretches. He had on a full-sleeved orange swim shirt and black wetsuit-style shorts and was obviously chomping at the bit to try out the Jet Skis.
    I flapped my hand to catch his attention. Save me, my hero.
    “No, beta . Sofia went out with friends straight from work, and Sana is getting ready. We’re having dinner at Waseem’s house.”
    Zayaan’s youngest sister, Sana, was engaged to Waseem Thakur,