Читать книгу My Last Love Story - Falguni Kothari - Страница 12

5

“G’morning, baby.”

From his perch on the lounge chair, Nirvaan watched me stare at the coffee machine as it hummed and spit out my early morning manna in a giant coffee mug. The mug was white and had a black-and-gray sketch of Eeyore wandering about the Hundred Acre Wood, wondering, “What’s so good about this morning?” It was my favorite morning coffee mug, a gift from Nirvaan’s niece and nephew, Nikita and Armaan, on my last birthday.

I added three drops of hazelnut creamer into the steaming liquid, stirred once and took the first eye-opening sip. The morning slowly came into focus. Hands wrapped about the hot mug, I joined my husband on the deck as he reposed like a snug bug in a rug, waiting for the sun to dazzle the world anew. It was a mandatory item on the Titanic Wish List, under “smell the roses,” to witness all sunrises and sunsets from this day forward for as long as each of us lived.

I inhaled a bigger sip of my coffee, swirling it in my mouth before swallowing. Only then was I capable of reciprocating my husband’s good-morning wishes without croaking.

Ruffling his hair, I bent and took his mouth in a lazy kiss, mingling the tastes of minty toothpaste and delicious java on our tongues. Unlike me, Nirvaan didn’t need an adrenaline-boosting beverage to jump-start his day. He went straight for breakfast whenever it was ready, which was whenever I felt awake enough to prepare it. And I would. Soon.

The world was still dark, but the horizon had begun to pinken. Waves licked the shore like a frontline of gamboling puppies rootling in their mother’s teats. I groaned and stretched sleep from my bones, eager for my in-laws to arrive and for the fun and games to begin. I smiled, wondering what new mischief my father-in-law would instigate this weekend.

From the corner of my eye, I noticed Zayaan sitting on a lounger he’d dragged several feet away to where the porch turned around the house. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t known he was there from the get-go. My sense of him had always been strong—I couldn’t ignore him if I tried—but I liked to pretend we didn’t have that connection anymore.

His eyes were closed, his lips restless in a soft-spoken ritual as ingrained in him as the making and drinking of coffee was in me. His face and chest hailed the Kaba from six thousand miles away, which one would assume was directly eastward. It wasn’t.

Years ago, on Zayaan’s very first visit with us in San Jose, I’d heard him explain to Nirvaan the intricacies of the qi’bla, the direction one faces while praying or giving dua—as the Khojas called it—and why he’d chosen northeast and not simply east or even southeast, which would be the direction a bird would take to fly between here and Mecca. It had to do with latitudes, longitudes, true north and the roundness of the Earth. I’d rolled my eyes at the ridiculousness of facing any worldly structure or direction instead of directly into space, if one was inclined to communicate with God at all.

I, of course, had stopped bothering with ritualistic trivialities. I didn’t believe in any form of organized religion. While I might believe in a Supreme Being of some sort, His refusal to actively eradicate the evils in this world made Him a largely suspect entity in my mind—not to stress on the extremely unjust and personal grudge He had against me.

Disinclined to start another day fighting with Ahura Mazda, I sat down on the lounger by Nirvaan’s feet and, out of habit, I began to massage his blanketed foot while savoring my coffee. I wasn’t completely sure, but I didn’t think my husband had come to bed last night.

“Did you guys get any sleep?” I asked in a low tone so that I wouldn’t disturb Zayaan, who’d bent his head in respectful sajdah to Allah for the next segment of prayers. I might have lost my own faith, but it didn’t mean I’d disrespect another’s.

Nirvaan gave me a lazy smile and flopped his head from left to right in a no. Even with little to no sleep, he didn’t look tired or rumpled. He seemed pleasantly torporish. Zayaan would be, too, I imagined. He’d probably showered already, prepping for sajdah. At the very least, he had splashed his face, hands and feet with fresh water while I looked like the massacred thing the neighbor’s cat had left on our front porch last week.

I wasn’t exaggerating. I’d seen myself in the bathroom mirror not five minutes ago. My eyes were glassy and felt as if I’d rubbed sand in them, thanks to crying myself to sleep. My hair was a nest of knots, and my complexion was sapped of color because I’d tossed and turned fretfully all night, warring with a phalanx of subliminal dreams.

If that wasn’t proof that Khodai had it in for me, I didn’t know what was.

Nirvaan wiggled his foot under my hand. He winked when I looked up, as if he could see inside my brain. I scowled because he probably could.

His smile expanded, and he sat up to rumble in my ear, “Guess what we were up to all night long?”

“Nothing good, I suppose?” The fine hairs on my body stood to attention when he brushed his lips across my cheek and took a gentle bite of my jaw.

Nirvaan was such a tease.

He gave a sinister chuckle. “Depends on who you ask.”

I leaned back a fraction and stared into the twinkling depths of his eyes. “You did not take the Jet Skis out without me!” I exclaimed, forgetting to whisper. I would’ve heard the commotion of the motors, surely?

Nirvaan tried to look guilty. The failed antic gave up his game because I knew him well, too. I buffed his shoulder with a fist and rolled my eyes, sure now that they hadn’t ridden anywhere in the dark. Nirvaan rocked back against the lounger, his shoulders shaking with quiet mirth. He, too, was mindful of keeping mum during Zayaan’s prayers.

“The photos have been scanned and uploaded, Simi.” He took my hand and brought it to his lips, gloating with accomplishment.

“What? All of them?”

I was impressed. On Nirvaan’s request, a few months ago, his parents had brought back a suitcase full of old photos from India. They were pictures of Nirvaan mostly, from his birth onward, but about a thousand of the three of us were bundled in the lot. I’d been sorting them out in chronological order for the past many weeks and getting damn frustrated by the sheer volume of the task. Plus, critical and unimpressed by my younger tomboy self, I’d threatened to burn the ones with me in them. I’d been joking, but Nirvaan wasn’t taking any chances, so ever since, he’d housed the suitcase in Zayaan’s room. I wasn’t aware he’d been doing something with them.

“Is that what you’ve been doing on the nights you don’t come to bed?” The borderline accusation in my question gave me pause. I sounded jealous, like a shrew-wife pissed off at her husband for spending more time with his mistress than herself.

It had been my job to sort out the photos, and I hadn’t done it. It was my job to make my husband happy and comfortable, and I wasn’t managing that, either. Couldn’t I do anything right?

Nirvaan gave me a sharp glance but chose not to answer. He groped for the tablet hidden beneath the blanket and switched it on before handing it to me. The pictures hadn’t only been uploaded but sorted, dated and organized into albums, too. He’d even made movies from some.

A funny, fluttery thing awoke inside me when I tapped an album titled Jab We Met. The title was stolen from a blockbuster Bollywood rom-com. The album, not the movie, was about the summer the three of us had met. I’d fallen asleep thinking 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 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.

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, 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 three of us in our youthful folly, 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 some other 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 colleagues and not his mother.

“Simeen, I’m trying to reach Zayaan. He’s not answering his mobile. 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 Mohammed Ali Khan was the true bane of my existence. And there was no way Nirvaan hadn’t uploaded her photograph into the tablet as part of a nice Khan family portrait. Khodai! Did that mean Zayaan’s bastard brother was in there, too?

I closed my eyes and counted to ten. I would not let evil thoughts poison 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—inasmuch 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. 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 champing 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, the prescreened, fully approved—by Gulzar Begum—Khoja from East London.

“That’s nice,” I muttered.

She began a familiar lament about her remaining two children who refused to bring her similar solace. She’d blamed me for Zayaan’s single status for a long time, even after I’d married Nirvaan. She’d blamed me for a whole lot worse twelve years ago. I’d believed her then. I’d been too young, too frightened and too confused not to succumb to the authority of an adult, and she’d taken advantage of it.

I wasn’t that naive anymore. If I chose to blame myself now, it was in full cognizance of my own actions.

Nirvaan came into the kitchen, grinning like a shark, as if he enjoyed seeing me tortured.

Dog.

On cue, Zayaan’s mother brought up Marjaneh, the perfect bride for her perfect son, and I pounced. A dog was so much shark fodder.

“Oh. Here’s Nirvaan, Auntie. He’s dying to talk to you.” Grinning, I shoved the phone into his hands but not before I heard the gasp.

Narrow-minded, judgmental creature that she was, I’d shocked her by my word choice. Too bad, but I’d quit dancing around the word death and its variations a long time ago. When cancer lived in your home, inside your husband’s body, there was no avoiding the word or state.

“What the hell, Simi?” Nirvaan whispered as he pinched my butt. He was a trooper, though. He pressed the receiver to his ear, and with innate flair, he began to charm the devil out of Zayaan’s mother.

My husband could sell fur to a bear for a profit without much effort. I left him to it and resumed the breakfast preparations.

“You’re coming for the party, Auntie. No excuses,” he said after a whole lot of rubbish conversation.

Hearing him, I wilted like a week-old rose. Much as I’d hate Gulzar Begum raining on my parade, I’d have to suck it up. After all was said and done and forgiven or not, she was Zayaan’s only living parent. Sure, guilt was the forerunner in that relationship, and she took immense advantage of her son’s feelings. Zayaan’s father and brother were dead. Zayaan was the only male left in his family. His mother knew just where to drive in the screws. But I also knew Zayaan loved his mother and thought the world of her. He’d want her at his thirtieth birthday bash—and Marjaneh, too.

I wilted some more.

Zayaan came into the house, a prayer book pressed between his arm and torso. He went into his room, and within seconds he came out empty-handed. He gave me the evil eye, letting me know that, deep in conversation with Allah or not, he’d heard every word I’d said to his mother, and he was aware of every negative vibe flowing between here and London.

I wasn’t sorry for any of it or for the way things were between us—they couldn’t be any other way—yet an apology jumped to my lips. I bit it off and poured yellowy batter onto the heated waffle plate instead.

Fifteen minutes later, the mama’s boy hung up the phone and joined us on the deck to consume three ice-cold waffles. He ate them without complaint.

Nirvaan wouldn’t have been so obliging. He would’ve fed the floppy waffles to the seagulls and demanded a reorder from the house chef. And because Zayaan hadn’t complained and he always defended me to his mother, I brewed him a consolation cup of double espresso. As apologies went, it was unremarkable, but it made him smile.

A long time ago, my whole existence had revolved around Zayaan’s smile.

I took a deep breath and, on a ten-count exhalation, I let the past fade from my mind. I leaned over to kiss my husband. He was my life now.

Next order of the day, the guys dared me to a Jet Ski race, and lots more pixels were added to the Jaws album.