My Last Love Story by Falguni Kothari Page A

work. I’d actually been relieved when Nirvaan had asked me not to mention the fertility treatments to anyone, not until we had positive results. With any luck, we’d never have to tell.
    “Coffee anyone?” asked Zayaan, covering a soft burp with his fist.
    I drew my eyes over the table spread. Most of the food was gone. When we all declined, Zayaan excused himself from the table, taking his plate and glass and several other platters with him. I felt too heavy in mind and body to clear the table just yet, and I was grateful for his agency.
    “Kiran, did you talk to Nirvaan about Kutch?” my father-in-law suddenly asked as he flicked his nails against his water glass, making musical pings.
    “What about Kutch?” Nirvaan divided a stare between his parents.
    Kutch was a large state district in northwest Gujarat, mostly desert land. Were my in-laws thinking of investing in land there?
    The Desais owned a lot of real estate in Gujarat—farmland, villages, a couple of city blocks in Surat and Baroda. They owned a lot of land in the US, too.
    My mother-in-law didn’t look especially pleased with her husband for serving business at the table and even less so when he didn’t wait for her response and plunged on.
    “There’s an Ayurvedic health center in Kutch, renowned for its cancer cures. Radha personally checked it out and has reserved a room for you there. A family room, so Simi can stay with you. We can all go. Okay? You have to stay for at least two months—let’s say June and July—for the full benefits of the treatment,” he said.
    Oh, wow. No wonder my mother-in-law hadn’t brought up Kutch.
    I bit my lip and slanted a peek at my husband. His eyes were narrowed into cynical slits.
    Nirvaan didn’t have much faith in alternative treatments. He’d lost faith in all cancer treatments, in fact. He’d refused to go in for the stereotactic radiosurgery until I’d made the baby bargain. He didn’t want to prolong the inevitable; he’d told us so when the tumor had made itself known.
    My mother-in-law respected Nirvaan’s decisions. My father-in-law had no qualms about calling his son a bloody fool.
    “I’m not going to Kutch ,” Nirvaan said as if Kutch were hell itself. “Tomorrow, I’ll thank Radha fui for her concern and have her cancel the reservation.” His jaw snapped closed so tight that his molars made an awful clicking sound.
    Radha fui was my father-in-law’s younger sister. She lived in Surat and was a bit provincial in aptitude. Even so, most people believed they meant well when imparting free medical advice.
    “You’ll do no such thing. They’ve cured hundreds of patients. They walk out of there completely cancer-free.”
    “That’s a patent lie. If such a miracle cure actually existed, the entire medical universe would know of it. Come on, Dad, stop fooling yourself.”
    Nirvaan’s father pounded his fist on the table. “Is it fooling myself for wanting the best for you? For wanting you to get well?”
    For the next few minutes, strong words and opinions flew across the table. My mother-in-law sat huddled and quiet, like me.
    Every few months, a relative or family friend would tell us about some miracle cure they’d heard of from some random person they bumped into. Again, people mostly meant well, and maybe those other patients really did get cured—miracles did happen—but it wasn’t going to happen for Nirvaan.
    It wasn’t only the cancer for him. Non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma demanded an aggressive treatment. Nirvaan had been bombarded by high doses of chemotherapy and radiation and surgery for eighteen months, and for two years after, he’d been cancer-free.
    Then, about a year ago, the headaches had started, and we’d found the tumor. It was small but deep-seated. And it was growing. They couldn’t cut it out. They could shrink it, but it would keep growing. His headaches would get worse. He’d get seizures. He’d already had one a few months ago. His eyesight would