sunday. 7:12 am.
the flat was silent. the kind of silence that has weight. mass. gravity.
shubham hadn't slept. reshma had dozed off eventually, exhausted by the grief of the "invisible third," but he had just stared at the ceiling fan. counting rotations. one. two. three.
unemployed. pregnant. chemo. broke.
the four horsemen of his personal apocalypse.
he sat on the sofa now, staring at his laptop screen. it was blank.
then—
DING-DONG. BANG. BANG. BANG.
the door shook. not a polite knock. a raid.
reshma jerked awake in the bedroom. "police?" her voice small, terrified.
"worse," shubham muttered, looking at the time. "landlord."
he dragged himself to the door. eye twitching.
BANG.
"BHAI! KHOL DE! I KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE! I CAN HEAR YOUR DISPAIR!"
shubham froze.
that voice. that specific frequency of annoying.
he opened the door.
standing there was a disaster in human form.
backpack hanging off one shoulder. hair looking like it had been styled by a ceiling fan. wearing a t-shirt that said 'trust me, i'm almost a doctor' and pajama pants with ducks on them.
gambhir.
"surpriiiise!" gambhir yelled, throwing his arms wide. he looked manic. caffeinated. unhinged. "guess who's a refugee from parental tyranny?"
shubham stared. "gambhir?"
"the one and only. although dad is currently calling me 'nalayak' (useless) and 'kul-kalank' (stain on lineage), so you can choose your preferred title."
he pushed past shubham. walked right in. wearing shoes.
"nice place. small. smells like... despair and expired milk. classic bachelor pad." he dropped his bag on the sofa. thud. "i'm moving in. indefinitely. until the heat dies down or dad forgets he has a son. whichever comes first."
shubham blinked. brain lagging.
"wait. what? why?"
"exam results," gambhir said, opening the fridge without asking. "anatomy. turns out the spleen is important? who knew." he pulled out a bottle of water. chugged half of it. "dad threw a chappal. i dodged. matrix style. then i packed a bag and ran. so. here i am. your favorite cousin."
he burped. loud. unapologetic.
"gambhir, you can't just—"
"shhh. don't reject me. i'm fragile right now." he peered into the fridge again. "bhai, do you have strictly air for dinner? this fridge is depressing. where is the food?"
suddenly, the bedroom door creaked open.
reshma stepped out.
she looked wrecked. eyes swollen from crying. wearing shubham's oversized t-shirt. bald head shining softly in the morning light.
she stopped. stared at the duck-pajama intruder.
gambhir froze. water bottle halfway to his mouth.
he looked at reshma. looked at shubham. looked at reshma again.
silence.
absolute, pinning silence.
then, a slow, wide grin spread across gambhir's face. like the grinch realizing christmas could be stolen.
"oho," he whispered. "O-HO."
"gambhir, listen—" shubham started, panic rising.
"bhai!" gambhir dropped the bottle. it bounced on the rug. "you sly dog! you hidden rustam! you silent assassin!"
he marched up to shubham, grabbing his shoulders. shaking him.
"you told ma you were 'working hard on career'! you told dad you were 'focusing on coding'! and here you are! hiding a whole..." he gestured at reshma, searching for a word. "...a whole situation!"
he turned to reshma. bowed. theatrically low.
"bhabhi ji, i presume? or is this a live-in scandal? please say scandal, my life needs drama."
reshma stood there. blinking.
the heaviness of the night before—the tears, the 'invisible third,' the fear—it collided with this wall of noise.
and something snapped.
not a breakdown.
a laugh.
a small, confused snort.
"bhabhi ji is fine," reshma said, voice raspy but steady. she looked at shubham. "mosshead, your cousin is... loud."
"mosshead?" gambhir gasped. delight pure and unadulterated. "you call him MOSSHEAD? oh, i like her. bhai, i'm keeping her. you can go."
"gambhir," shubham said, rubbing his temples. "get out."
"no."
"we are busy. we are... newlyweds. we need privacy."
"privacy is for people who don't have cousins with nowhere to go," gambhir said, dropping his bag.
"gambhir, seriously. go home."
gambhir stopped smiling. for a second.
"bhai," he said, voice lower. "i can go home. sure. and when i get there, i can tell mama that his favorite nephew looks like a corpse."
shubham stiffened.
"i can tell him," gambhir continued, leaning against the doorframe, "that shubham bhai looks like he hasn't slept in a week. that he has dark circles deeper than the yamuna. that something is... wrong."
he tilted his head.
"mama worries, you know. he might just drive down here himself to check. big car. loud voice. lots of questions."
shubham stared at him.
it was a bluff. maybe. but it was a terrifying one. mama (rakesh) was the one person shubham couldn't lie to face-to-face. if mama came here... if he saw reshma...
the walls would crumble instantly.
gambhir saw the hesitation. grinned. leverage acquired.
"or," gambhir said brightly, "i can stay here. i can be a buffer. i can tell mama 'oh, shubham is fine, we are having a boys' week'. i can be your shield, bhai. for the low, low price of a couch and three meals a day."
he stepped inside.
"so? what's it gonna be? the invasion of the uncles? or just... me?"
shubham looked at reshma.
she saw the trap. but she also saw the escape hatch.
"he has a point," she whispered. "better the clown than the ringmaster."
shubham exhaled. defeated by logic. and blackmail.
"fine," shubham muttered. "you stay. but you follow rules."
"rules are my middle name!" gambhir cheered. throwing his arms wide. "actually it's 'kumar', but metaphorically!"
he marched to the sofa and flopped down.
"right. first order of business. i'm sleeping here. second order. we need breakfast. actual food. not whatever sadness is in that fridge."
he turned to reshma.
"bhabhi, does he feed you? be honest. blink twice if you need rescue."
reshma looked at shubham. the ghost of a smile—tiny, fragile—was there.
"he tries," she said.
"pathetic," gambhir declared. "don't worry. the cavalry has arrived. and it's wearing duck pajamas."
shubham looked at his cousin. then at his wife.
he hadn't said a word about the cancer. or the baby. or the job. he had successfully said nothing.
and yet, the disaster had moved in anyway.
"this is a mistake," shubham whispered to reshma.
"probably," she whispered back. "but look at him. he's... alive. we need a little life in here, mosshead."
shubham looked at gambhir, who was now pulling a packet of maggi out of his bag like a magician pulling a rabbit.
"right," shubham sighed. "life."
(Speaker: enter player three. stats: intelligence 4, chaos 100, stealth 0. the secret is safe... for now. but hiding an elephant in a matchbox is easier than hiding a tragedy from a guy who has nothing to do but watch.)
Cliffhanger -> The fortress is breached. The cousin has moved in. The secret is locked away tight, but Gambhir is sleeping on top of the trapdoor. How long can they keep the mask on?