“Till death do us part” takes on a whole new meaning in this wry, evocative novel perfect for fans of P.S. I Love You.
Simi Desai is thirty years old and her husband is dying of cancer. He has two last wishes in his final months: first, that she’ll have his baby so that a piece of him lives on, and second, that she’ll reconcile with her old flame, who just happens to be their mutual best friend. And so over the course of their last summer together, Simi’s husband plans a series of big and small adventures for this unlikely trio, designed to help them say goodbye to each other and prove to Simi that it’s okay to move on without him—and even find love again.
Beautiful and poignant, Falguni Kothari’s My Last Love Story will pull your heartstrings as only unforgettable love stories can.
Once upon a story…
I was born and bred in Mumbai, married young, had my children young, before my family moved to New York in the Spring of 2001. If anyone had asked me what I wanted to be when I grow up, while growing up, I’d never in a million years have said, “an author.” Honestly, I abhored writing…at least, the school version of it. But, I love stories. Always have, always will. I don’t remember a time when I haven’t been entertained by stories.
One of my fondest memories is of my grandmother and her masseuse (aka maalishwaalibai) telling me stories of my Gujarati heritage and mythic India. Anecdotes about gods and demons, heroes and epic battles were all too common a debate to wake to most mornings. What stood out, as I grew older and the stories grew more complex, was that both my grandmother and the maalishwaalibai even though they were more or less formally uneducated (neither one went beyond a very basic elementary school education), were telling me tales about women of legend. Women who’d broken the shackles of time, place and culture and become heroes in their own right. Women who just might’ve been the world’s, certainly India’s, first feminists. Women who respected and loved men who respected and loved them in turn.
Needless to say, the stories made an impression on me. And now that I’ve accidently (most fortunately) fallen (er, have been pushed by my mother) down the writer’s rabbit hole, those are the stories I wish to tell: the forever kind.