Free My Last Love Story by Falguni Kothari Page B

plucked the mic from Nirvaan’s hands, stuck my chin in the air, and belted out a not-too-passé Bollywood hit song, “You Are My Sonia.” Luckily, one could not hear one’s self sing.
    Torture complete, I mock-bowed and marched back into the kitchen with consolation applause ringing behind me.
    Dinner wasn’t for another hour even though my mother-in-law and I had been toiling by the stove for some time. The guys had come in from their evening rides exhilarated and not the least bit tired. After showering and settling in front of the TV to watch the news, snacking on some fried munchies and non-alcoholic beers before dinner, my father-in-law had had the brilliant karaoke idea. His vivacity truly knew no bounds.
    If you knew Indians at all, then you’d know of their obsession with their music, especially filmy item numbers. If India as a nation had a passion, it was singing. Dancing, too, but I believed singing more. Indians could break into a song at the drop of a hat. You didn’t even have to ask twice. We were a loud, hectic people, and our music reflected our passions.
    When it was my mother-in-law’s turn to be center stage, I took over watching the stove sizzling with pots of mixed vegetables, kadhi—the sweetened curry version native to Surat—and boiling rice. We were having a full Gujarati bhonu this evening, and the kitchen was puffing out spicy steam like smoke signals for the hungry.
    The guys kept flitting in and out of the kitchen to taste and steal samples. Zayaan hovered by a plate of steamed fenugreek muthias—dumplings—awaiting a final garnish of oil and spices. I raised my rolling pin, daring the muthiathief to try his luck under my watch. He did and didn’t even flinch when I smacked his hand. He shoved a huge dumpling into his mouth, grinned roguishly, and turned about to praise the current singing sensation.
    “ Wah! Wah! Mummy, you’re amazing.” Whether he was praising her singing or cooking was anyone’s guess.
    Either way, my mother-in-law was the star of the night. She sang not well but in tune and with the right amount of emotion. She’d chosen to sing a ghazal —a melodious poem—from the movie Umrao Jaan . The lyrics spoke of a couple falling in love and learning to trust one another.
    We clapped for her long and hard, as she deserved. Zayaan whistled, and my father-in-law hooted and gyrated his hips again. Nirvaan lifted his mother off her feet and spun her around, making her giggle like a toddler on a merry-go-round. My mother-in-law wasn’t prone to laughter like her husband and son, so when she did let loose, it was like the sound of rain pattering over the Thar Desert.
    I loved watching my husband with his parents. There was so much love within their family. They all had such big hearts, as big as their laughs. They were passionate, joyful people and…
    Khodai, are you watching them? Are you really going to destroy this gorgeous family? Snuff out their joy, their laughter?
    My heart rolled with the pain that was now a part of me. I took a deep, deep breath and released it at the count of ten. I stared at the kadhi as it rose and bubbled in a slow boil, stirring it around and around so that the spiced yogurt and chickpea gravy wouldn’t burn and stick to the bottom of the saucepan.
    My mother-in-law gently nudged me aside, an accomplished smile on her lips. I stepped to the side. I didn’t know what she saw on my face, but her smile faltered and then faded.
    “Simeen… beta …” she said my name as if it hurt her throat to say it. She touched my back with her aging yet strong hand.
    That was all she did. She touched me, and I wanted to wrap my arms around her and cry forever.
    “Come. Come now. It will be all right. It’s all in God’s hands.”

    We lingered over dinner, enjoying the food, the conversation, and holiday island ambience, while savoring each other, as God knew there wasn’t much else we could do.
    The only time my father-in-law sat still was