My Last Love Story by Falguni Kothari Read Free Book Online Page A

driver had rammed his truck into my parents’ car, killing them on the spot. The accident had happened on the highway near Udvada as my parents drove back from a visit to the Fire Temple that housed the world’s oldest Atash Behram, the sacred fire Zoroastrians paid homage to. The irony of my parents coming to mortal harm while on a holy pilgrimage wasn’t lost on me. I’d lost my faith in Ahura Mazda that night.
    So, that was how I knew if we got into trouble, neither God nor a green-card holder would come to our aid.
    I stayed quiet on the drive while the other girls laughed and yakked around me. When we hurtled down the highway past Dumas Road, I was startled out of my silence.
    “ Arre! Kya jai che , Smriti? Where are you going? You missed the turn for Dumas Beach.”
    “We’re going to Dandi,” said Riddhi, the girl squashed against me. “Dumas is overcrowded, yaar . No privacy at all. Dandi is our go-to place for these types of parties.”
    What in Khodai’s name did she mean by, these types of parties ?
    It struck me that I was way out of my comfort zone here, and for the rest of the hour-long drive to Dandi, I alternated between cursing my luck and crossing my fingers. I also begged my parents to watch over me as my brothers clearly were doing an awful job of it.
    The car bumped along Dandi road until the concrete disintegrated into sand. We drove past a massive black granite plaque jutting out of the ground with Dandi March and a long commemoration carved on its face. This was where on April 6, 1930, Mahatma Gandhi had led thousands of protesters—including my freedom-fighting grandfather, Rustum Batliwala—in a Salt Satyagraha in defiance of the British Raj and their overbearing tax laws on Indians. It was a historical landmark, but contrary to its fame, it was not very touristy.
    Smriti parked the Maruti next to a jumble of cars. Remixed pop pumped out of a massive music system from the roof of a van. Bunches of girls and boys flooded around an enormous beach bonfire. Half of the girls from my group had already disappeared into the throng.
    I became Smriti’s shadow. I went where she went, drank what she drank, and danced when she danced. I talked little and tittered a lot. When you knew no one, it was easy to lose your inhibitions. I didn’t have to make an impression or accept pitiful condolences from strangers. I didn’t have to listen to geriatric aunts compare my looks to my mother’s or my nose to my grandfather’s, the same one who’d fought for India’s freedom. I was no one here, no one important. I could forget my burdens for tonight, forget that I was orphaned.
    I finally got why Sarvar had pushed me out the door—not that I forgave him for it, but I understood. There was life beyond death, and it was all around me. I tried to have fun. I tried very hard.
    “That’s him!” yelled Smriti, waving her arm in a sort of dance move.
    “Who?” I shouted back, squinting in the direction of her wave. “Nirvaan?”
    “Yeah. He’s so chikna , na ?” She laughed and shimmied to the beats of a pop song.
    “I see several chikna -looking boys there.”
    There were many, many cuties to wade through. Most of the guys were shirtless. Most of us girls were in cutoffs and thin T-shirts or tank tops. It was nasty hot, even with the tepid sea breeze. The bonfire aggravated the heat, but it was necessary for light and ambience.
    My mother had loved dining by candlelight. “Firelight is a boon to women,” she’d told me once. “It erases age and enhances our natural beauty.”
    She was right. We glowed golden brown.
    Black sand sparkled beneath naked feet, mirroring the night sky. Dozens of ice crates poked through the sand like half-buried treasure chests, openly displaying their glittering booty of imported beer, sodas, and water bottles. The beer, naturally, depleted faster than the rest of the drinks. I’d consumed three cans so far. As most of us were quite buzzed by then, and sweaty and