My Last Love Story by Falguni Kothari

during meals. He ate as he lived—with gusto. His eyes brightened with interest when I served him the first sample of my mother-in-law’s latest gourmet experiment—chocolate rasgullas . My father-in-law was partial to Indian sweetmeats while the guys had requested a chocolate dessert to go with dinner. She’d combined both requests and— voilà , as the French said it. She’d made the rasgullas—which were sweet milk-based balls soaked in sugar syrup and were traditionally from the Eastern shores in India—from scratch, using organic milk, cocoa powder, and brown sugar. We tried to limit our use of processed foods in this house and strove for chemical-free freshness in all things. Every little bit helped Nirvaan, we liked to believe.
    “Is it good?” I asked my father-in-law.
    “It has an…interesting flavor…earthy,” he replied but requested I serve him one more. Which meant, he liked it.
    Both Nirvaan and Zayaan had served themselves three chocolate rasgullas each and had consumed them in seconds. I liked all manner of sweetmeats and helped myself to two rasgullas, too, whereas my mother-in-law took none. She wasn’t diabetic. She just didn’t have a sweet tooth like the rest of us.
    Later, after a few hands of Rummy, I planned to sizzle the brownies I’d whipped up from scratch and serve them with ice cream, honey, and nuts.
    I’d brought my mood under control by the time the table was set and the food was laid out. Even so, I was quiet through dinner, contributing little or nothing to the free-flowing conversation. My introversion wasn’t an anomaly, but more than once, I felt Nirvaan’s gaze on me.
    Zayaan and my father-in-law were in deep discussion about his thesis.
    Aside from Nisha, none of the Desais had finished college. My in-laws hadn’t gone to college at all. And Nirvaan had attended the University of Southern California for two years before he’d dropped out to join the family business and travel the world. By the time we’d gotten married, Nirvaan had shouldered the lion’s share of the motel business responsibilities. He’d shown no signs of slacking, even after the cancer. He’d wheeled and dealed in properties and stocks right from the hospital bed, sometimes even scant hours after a treatment. Nirvaan’s street smarts had been—were—something to behold; he just wasn’t academic.
    I was. I wasn’t as versatile as Zayaan, but I’d liked school. And college had been a refuge during some bad times. Besides, I liked to learn. And what I’d learned in college was that I liked to manage stuff. I had a degree in business management, which I’d put to use right after college. I’d worked at Batliwala Plastics in Surat and then in the San Jose motels with Nirvaan.
    Maybe I should start working again. I could manage the running of a motel. I could keep the books or…
    I squeezed and squeezed the sugar water out of the rasgulla onto my plate. It was no use, making plans. I couldn’t imagine a future without Nirvaan, bereft of the shelter of his arms or his laughing presence in my life. Could I live in LA with my in-laws, or would it be too painful to see each other after he was gone?
    I couldn’t contemplate moving in with Sarvar even if he offered his spare room in exchange for my housekeeping skills. And I knew he would ask—when the time came. I balked at the idea of moving back to Surat. I’d been the mistress of my own house for far too long to suddenly be a guest in someone else’s, no matter how welcoming either of my brothers were.
    “You’re squeezing the life out of the rasgulla, baby.” Nirvaan took the crumbling chocolate milk ball from my hand and fed it to me before I mangled it into paste.
    I ate it, making the appropriate delighted sounds that my mother-in-law expected.
    I supposed I didn’t need to decide my future as my husband had decided it for me.
    Nirvaan’s parents didn’t know about the IVF. We didn’t want them to know in case it didn’t