My Last Love Story

by Falguni Kothari

  Zayaan had flicked a violent glare at Nirvaan before his eyes had snared me in their thrall. “What do you want, Simeen? Tell me what you want, and it’s yours.”

  He’d wanted me to choose monogamy. He’d wanted me to choose him. I’d seen the dark hope sparking his eyes. I’d felt unspeakably powerful that day and so vastly naughty.

  “I want you so much,” I’d said honestly, groping for his hand under the plastic red-and-white table.

  He could’ve thrown a smug victor’s smile in Nirvaan’s direction, but Zayaan had always been too smart for his own good. “But?” he’d asked, somehow knowing I wasn’t done choosing.

  “I want you. I want marriage with you, a whole life with you. But I want Nirvaan, too. I want this threesome even if it’s just one time. I’ve dreamed of this, Zai, for three years. You made me wait. You made Nirvaan wait. You owe us this.”

  He hadn’t gotten upset with me.

  I understood now that he’d had every right to be offended. I’d chosen him, yet I’d not. He hadn’t berated me or tried to change my mind. He’d nodded, frowning, maybe even in relief because, in his heart of hearts, he’d wanted it, too.

  I’d turned to Nirvaan then and laughed at his somber expression. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you serious. Having second thoughts, Mr. Big Talk?”

  “No.” He had taken my other hand in his, lacing our fingers together before bringing it to his lips. “But you be very sure, babe. And if you decide not to go through with it, no hard feelings, okay? Or if you decide to marry me instead…problem solved,” he’d said, ending the discussion on a deliberately light note.

  All hunky-dory assurances aside, I’d made it clear to Nirvaan that I wished for Zayaan to be my first.

  As it’d turned out, neither of them had been my first.

  My phone rang just then, arresting my mind from vaulting into Karmic consequences for wickedness and divine justice.

  It was my brother, Sarvar. “Su garbar karee? What did you do? Your husband called, said you’d run off in a huff. Everything okay?”

  “My husband is driving me nuts,” I said.

  I was not especially surprised Nirvaan had called my brother. He had known I’d need to talk to someone.

  Sarvar was the only person in the world who knew every single thing about me. He knew my deepest, darkest secrets because I didn’t hide anything from him. Zayaan used to be that person. Nirvaan might’ve been that person had life been gentler with us.

  “So, what’s new?” Sarvar asked, mid-yawn.

  “Apparently, we mustn’t have sex because Zayaan…bloody Zayaan…might hear. I don’t care if he hears. I don’t care if the whole neighborhood thinks we’re porn stars. I want to make love to my husband.”

  Sarvar cleared his throat. “R-ight. Understandable.”

  He already knew about the two-year hiatus. I wasn’t really being indiscreet here, not like Nirvaan had been about us with Zai.

  “Isn’t it? But, no, my husband doesn’t seem to think so. He had the gall to offer me a pity-fuck through the bathroom door,” I said, getting riled up again. Not to mention, a side order of oral sex. But I didn’t say that aloud. I couldn’t be that crude.

  “Whoa. O-kay, Simeen, darling…do I need to hear this?”

  “Who else can I talk to, Savvy? Tell me.” I pressed a hand to my forehead, afraid my head was going to explode. “And don’t say your therapist because I don’t want my head examined. I want to vent.” And scream. And kick something. Or someone.

  After a moment of silence, a great, sonorous sigh came through the phone. “R-ight,” my brother said again. “Go on.”

  I vented for a while, leaving nothing out.

  “I keep thinking of that night because of Zai. I mean, Zai doesn’t scare me. Of course, he doesn’t scare me.”

  Not in the way his brother had. But he made me feel…icky. He made me feel things I shouldn’t be feeling.

  “There’s this chaos inside of me, Savvy, and I’m afraid to let it loose. I don’t know if Zai is the trigger or Nirvaan, but I keep thinking of Surat and…and the rest,” I said. The photos…the guys and I living together…the reminiscing…the IVF…Khodai—my life was pure torture.

  “Of course you’re thinking of the past, darling. It’s perfectly understandable.”

  I looked into the night sky, feeling utterly lost. “I miss Mumsy. So much.” Why did you have to die? I need you to tell me what to do.

  “I know, honey. I miss her, too,” Sarvar said softly. “I wish you’d call Dr. Asha. I don’t know what to say to you or how to help you. You’re going through a lot, sweetie.”

  “Really? I hadn’t guessed.” Immediately, I felt bad for taking my upset out on Sarvar with sarcasm. “I’m sorry, Savvy. I didn’t mean to sound like a brat or put you on the spot.”

  “Forget it.” Then, he said the same thing Zayaan had, “Talk to Nirvaan. Tell him what’s in your heart. He’ll understand, you know.”

  Of course, he’ll understand, I thought, yo-yoing between guilt, despair, and anger. But how did that make me any less of a leech? Always taking from him, never giving back.

  It struck me how crazy I sounded. Just a short while ago, I’d accused Nirvaan of not doing nearly enough while expecting the world from me. It was my turn to burble out a sigh.

  “I can’t tell him, Savvy. I just can’t. Anyway, I have to go, or Nirvaan will worry.”

  “Tell him, darling,” repeated Sarvar. “And, Simi? Call Dr. Asha. You can always talk to me…but I want you to speak to her as well.”

  “I will,” I promised. Wouldn’t hurt to get my head examined after all.

  Before hanging up, Sarvar brought up our upcoming hiking weekend. He and a few of his buddies were going into the mountains and had invited us along. Nirvaan had already agreed, but I told Sarvar it would depend on how the radiation went.

  After saying, “Good night,” I clicked the phone off and slid it into my pocket, wishing I could spend the night on the beach and not go home.

  Home was supposed to be your shelter, a place to hang your heart and your hat. But when your own home was the cause of your problems, where did that leave you?

  My mind a mess, it was no great surprise that sleep eluded me. Cozy as I was while spooned against Nirvaan on our bed, I still couldn’t relax.

  Yes, we’d made up. He’d even forgone a chance to win some epic seven-day-long game for a night of cards, wine, and chocolates with me, in bed, without our chronic shadow.

  I awoke for the third time at about two a.m. to answer a bladder call. By the time I finished my business and went back into the room, I was wide-awake. I got in bed, careful not to disturb Nirvaan, and switched on my Kindle.

  I’d read exactly one page when Nirvaan began to mumble something about losing his body pillow. It took me a few seconds to realize he meant me. He rolled onto his back, crosswise on the queen-size bed, and started snoring. Grimacing, I slipped out of bed and stole out of the room. There was no way I’d fall asleep with that racket even if I managed to nudge him back to his side of the bed.

  The house was dark, except for a wobbly sliver of light escaping through the drapes of the den. As I went deeper into the living room, I heard Zayaan’s throaty murmur. He worked best at night. Plus, his colleagues and friends lived in a different time zone. It was ten in the morning across the pond. Perhaps, he was talking to his mother.

  I should make use of my wakefulness, too, and email Dr. Asha. But the thought of explaining my conflicting thoughts in an email daunted me. It’d be better to call and speak to her like Sarvar had suggested. I’d have to wait till morning though—when it was her night—to avoid catching her in a session with a patient.

  I poured myself a glass of water, and with a defiance bordering on masochism, I poked my head into the den.

  Zayaan had a pair of fancy headphones on with a mic curving across his mouth. He paced as he spoke. His surprise upon seeing me was so minor that I wondered if he’d expected me. Of cou
rse, he hadn’t.

  He lifted his chin and mouthed, What’s up? Nirvaan?

  I flapped my hand in a carry-on gesture, letting him know it was nothing serious or important. “Can’t sleep,” I whispered.

  He held up both his hands, flashed his fingers twice, indicating he’d be done in ten minutes, without breaking the flow in conversation.

  I nodded, looking about the space while I tried to dissuade my eyes from staring at him. They wouldn’t listen and kept swinging back like boomerangs. He wore striped pajama bottoms and nothing else, so my eyes had a lot of swoonworthy maleness to cover.

  The windows were open a few inches, enough to give vent to a cool breeze that had the drapes over the door and windows rippling. Yet I felt hot in my sleep shorts and flannel robe. I should’ve let Nirvaan take my edge off, as he’d offered. And I would have to start masturbating again. I hadn’t since we moved to Carmel, so it was no wonder I felt snappish.

  For some insane reason, I was embarrassed to take care of my needs with Zayaan in the house, as if he’d sense what I’d done. I couldn’t get over the ridiculous juxtaposition of living in a ménage with two of the hottest guys on the planet, ones who could ring my bell with only a look, with no bells ringing anywhere.

  The den was small, and with me standing in a corner, pondering the criteria of a cosmic joke, Zayaan had a lot less room to pace. I walked to the desk and set the glass of water down, and since the office chair was free, I took it.

  I peeked at the papers strewed over the desk. There were papers stacked all over the den, in fact. I sifted through some, passing a cursory glance over headings, highlighted words, passages he’d marked with different colored pens and Post-its. He’d said his thesis had to do with the psychology of the Islamic culture. I shot a glance at him, wondering exactly what his work was about. I hadn’t bothered to ask.

  He was talking in Farsi, I decided. I always got confused between Arabic and Farsi accents because, to an untrained ear like mine, both languages sounded the same—foreign. But there were differences, if you knew where to look. Also, once you heard both for a decent stretch of time, you’d realize that Farsi sentences tended to lilt softly as opposed to lilting harshly like in Arabic. And one spoke it fast and not lazily.

  Zayaan frowned in the middle of his next downward march and stopped short in the middle of the room. He laced his hands behind his head, raised his head to the ceiling, and closed his eyes, arching his spine. I smiled, instantly recognizing the man-thinking-hard pose. Perversely and without permission, my eyes swept down the line of finely trimmed hair from his navel to his abdomen where they darted across the twin blades of his hips jutting out of the elastic of his pajamas. Goodness gracious, but he was an exquisite specimen of humanity.

  Zayaan had an innate sensuality that he wasn’t unaware of but tried to downplay. Nirvaan was handsome and knew it, and he worked hard at being sexy—with superb results, I’d admit. In Zayaan, it was effortless. While both of them grabbed attention and appreciation wherever they went, it was on Zayaan most eyes would linger even though he came off as aloof and unapproachable because he was shy, if you could believe it. In contrast, Nirvaan took admiration as his due. He’d wink at his admirer, say something flirty or nice, and put the person at ease in two seconds flat.

  Okay, enough comparing and contrasting. This wasn’t a competition for Prime Man, and I wasn’t the judge.

  I turned back to the desk and picked up the first folder I could reach. A quote from Rumi jumped out at me in Zayaan’s flawless handwriting.

  Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and right doing, there is a field.

  I’ll meet you there.

  The seductive scrawl flowed from margin to end, words evenly spaced with dips of mystery and curves I couldn’t take my eyes off of. Just like the man. He’d always had beautiful handwriting, due to learning to write in the calligraphic Nasta’liq script used in Urdu.

  I turned the page. There was an index of sorts and tabs sticking out from all directions—History, Arabic Mythology, Tales from Pre-Islamic Arabia, the Old Testament, the Crusades, the Moghuls. A whole list of Persian and Arabic literati with their specialties were noted on a spreadsheet, dated for original and translated works.

  Zayaan had always been organized in the extreme about his work, maybe even his life.

  On the next page, under Psychology, there were several subheadings—Locus of Control, Submission, Indoctrination, Consanguineous Marriages, Mein Kampf (My Struggle), and My Jihad.

  I snapped the folder shut. My heart banged against my rib cage. Not only certain men, even specific words could strike terror in my soul.

  What did Hitler’s manifesto have to do with jihad? And where was Zayaan going with this?

  He wasn’t talking so much as listening now. He nodded, said something, and nodded again. He chuckled into the mic, the sound low and husky. Intimate. Secretive. It excluded me from the conversation, from his other life. And I didn’t like it.

  He stopped at the desk to type in his laptop the name, email, and phone number for a doctor. Not a medical doctor, I surmised quickly. As he stood above me, his natural scent caught my nose, warm and musky, layered under the crisp soap and ocean spray. It was…nice and so different from how he used to smell. I was grateful for that small mercy.

  Finally, Zayaan said good-bye. He removed the headpiece and threw it on the desk.

  “Fuck, I’m tired,” he groaned as he stretched his back and neck. His eyes roved over my face. “What’s wrong?”

  Were you talking to Marjaneh? I wanted to blurt out. “What’s this?” I pointed to the folder, which now officially gave me the creeps.

  “Notes, articles, outlines…” He chuckled again. It was not a low, husky, I’ve-just-rolled-out-of-bed chuckle. “My life currently.” He rested half a hip against the desk and opened the folder I’d just closed.

  I kept my eyes on his. “Hmm, interesting choice of words because I think all of this”—I paused and pointed at the folder—“might just cost you your life. Oh my God, Zai, are you going to publish that? Like, for people to read? My Jihad?” I squeaked.

  “It just means my struggle, and I’m struggling with it, believe me.” He looked half-amused, half-irritated by my reaction. “Mein Kampf is one of the few books translated into Arabic in the last many decades and is widely read as My Jihad in and around the Middle East. It’s just data, Simi.” He shrugged.

  I curled my lips downward. “Where are you going with this, Zai? What psychology? What possible reason, other than utter depravity, could there be for these people to behave as they do? You’re not like them. You’ve never been like any of these men you’re writing about.” You are not like your brother.

  “The only difference between these men and me is that I recognize the fact that I have free will.” He huffed through his nose. “No, you’re right. I’m not like them. Neither are the vast majority of Muslims. But, for some reason, the world has chosen only to see and hear those men and render the rest of us invisible.”

  My eyes widened in surprise. He was…right.

  “I’m not saying there isn’t something insidiously wrong with modern Muslim culture. But Islam wasn’t like this. It used to be tolerant.” He patted a book, Islam: A History. “Islam might be a product of the Dark Ages, but there’s evidence of cultural assimilation and reform, and not all of it is bloody. If people are reminded of those times, made aware of their options and that they can choose to exercise them, things will change. They have to change.”

  “Options? Such as?” I was charmed, despite the topic of discussion, by how little Zayaan had changed.

  He’d always been impassioned about his beliefs and showing me the positive side of such things.

  “How much time do you have?” he countered with a jaw-breaking yawn.

  “Oh, sorry. You’re tired.” I got up at once, but he forestalled me with a hand on my shoulder.

  “I’m not tired. Sit, Sims.”

  He exerted pressure
until I sat. Even through the cloth, I felt heat where he touched me, and I flinched. I couldn’t stop my reaction. He snatched his hand back and muttered an apology. I scooted back in the chair and tucked my legs beneath me. I didn’t dwell on the sensation of Zayaan’s hand on my shoulder. I didn’t wonder what he was sorry for and why I’d recoiled.

  “So, tell me, Zai. In that field between wrong- and right-doing, how do you propose to start a revolution?”

  Of course, he didn’t want to start any sort of revolution, Zayaan clarified, first and foremost. He only wanted to earn his doctorate, write some papers, and boost his platform in academic circles. Maybe he’d write a couple of books in the next few years. He had the outline ready for a non-fiction piece he’d loosely titled The Muslim and the Infidel. He planned to continue attending and lecturing at world cross-cultural conferences on behalf of the Share Khan Foundation. He also wanted to teach Islamic Philosophy at a prestigious university and other places and impress on young minds that the locus of responsibility for their actions lay solely on them. If he were a finalist in the Miss Universe Pageant, he’d end this lofty list by hoping for world peace.

  But he did not want to start a revolution.

  I didn’t know whether to be impressed by his ambitions or alarmed. I decided to be impressed, as I’d given up my right to be alarmed.

  We stayed up all night. He entertained me with stories and panegyric epics from times long past. I was introduced to Omar, the champion of Damascus, and his Christian damsel; to Shayk Nur al-Din and Miriam, the girdle girl; to a prior who’d become an imam and an imam who had wished to be baptized. My favorite one was about a Turkish princess who’d ridden off into the sunset with a Knights Templar. I loved the romanticism of history.

  “When I am with you, we stay up all night. When you’re not here, I can’t go to sleep. Praise God for those two insomnias and the difference between them,” I paraphrased the lines Zayaan had whispered to me a thousand times.

  “How could a poet who’d lived more than seven hundred years ago know our hearts so well?” I’d asked Zai a long time ago.