tuesday. 8:30 pm.
dinner was dal-chawal. simple. comfort. the atmosphere was electric.
"okay, okay, evidence A!" gambhir slammed a photo album onto the table. it smelled of old plastic and dust.
shubham lunged for it. "NO. MA GAVE YOU THIS? TRAITOR."
"ma wants her bahu to know the truth!" gambhir dodged, dancing around the sofa. "bhabhi, behold! shubham kumar, age 7. the 'superman' phase."
he opened the album.
reshma leaned forward.
there he was. tiny shubham. wearing underwear outside his pants. a towel tied around his neck. looking deadly serious. hand raised in a fist.
"oh my god," reshma gasped.
"notice the stance," gambhir narrated, like a nat geo documentary. "the heroic chin. the absolute conviction that he can fly. he jumped off the sofa right after this. broke a tooth. cried for three hours."
reshma laughed. a real, chest-deep laugh.
"he looks so... intense," she wiped a tear. "even then. mosshead was serious about saving the world."
"serious about destroying his dental records, yes."
shubham sat with his head in his hands. ears burning red.
"i hate you both. i'm evicting you. both."
"evidence B!" gambhir flipped the page. "the teenage years. the 'hair gel' incident."
shubham groaned. "gambhir, i swear to god—"
photo: shubham, age 15. spikes. so many spikes. hair standing up like a porcupine who had been electrocuted. wearing a shirt that said 'cool dude'.
"how much gel is that?" reshma asked, wheezing.
"all of it," gambhir confirmed. "he used a whole tub. mosquitoes got stuck in it. he was a walking fly trap."
reshma was shaking now. holding her stomach. laughing so hard no sound was coming out.
shubham peered through his fingers. "okay, you win. i was a tragedy. confirmed."
"tragedy? no, bhai. tragedy implies dignity," gambhir said, leaning back. "you were a mythological disaster. remember neha gupta?"
shubham's face went from embarrassed to horrified. "gambhir. no. we agreed never to speak of 2014."
"class 11!" gambhir announced to the room, ignoring him completely. "neha gupta. prettiest girl in school. walks up to shubham in front of the canteen. full bollywood style. she says—loud enough for the whole batch to hear—'shubham, i like you'."
reshma leaned in, breathless. "and?"
"and our hero here? did he say 'thank you'? did he say 'i like you too'? no." gambhir stood up, reenacting the scene with wide, terrified eyes. "he started sweating. profound, industrial-level sweating. his heart was beating so loud i could hear it from the library. and then?"
gambhir made a zooming sound. WHOOSH.
"he fled. ran away at mach speed. left poor neha holding a samosa. he hid in the chemistry lab for three periods hyperventilating among the beakers."
reshma burst out laughing again. "mosshead! you ran?"
"i... i wasn't ready for feelings!" shubham defended, ears burning. "i was focused on... academics! i didn't want distractions!"
"academics!" gambhir hooted. "bhabhi, listen to this. just two years ago—TWO YEARS—this guy calls me at 2 AM. drunk on pepsi. and he says 'gambhir, i am done. i am taking sanyas. complete detachment. i will live in the himalayas and code. no women. no attachments. i am a digital monk'."
shubham groaned, burying his face in his hands. "i was stressed. the project was failing."
gambhir stopped. the laughter in his eyes softened into something else. awe.
he looked at reshma. then at the 'digital monk' hiding his face. then back at reshma.
slowly, without a word, gambhir got down on his knees.
then he lay flat on the floor. face down. arms stretched out.
a full, dramatic shastang pranam.
"gambhir, get up! what are you doing?" reshma giggled, confused.
"worshipping you," came the muffled voice from the floor. "bhabhi, you are not human. you are a devi. a queen from heaven. not even angels could move this mountain of stubbornness. and you? you got him to confess? to marry? in two years?"
he lifted his head. dust on his nose. his expression deadly serious.
"how much you have achieved, bhabhi... i can't even imagine. you performed a miracle on a stone."
reshma looked at shubham. her eyes soft. full of the miracle.
"he wasn't a stone," she whispered, reaching for shubham's hand. "just... waiting."
"you were a masterpiece of cringe, bhai," gambhir said, finally sitting up and dusting his knees. "but look at you now. giga chad. married. fighting the system. protecting the girl."
the mood shifted. softened.
gambhir looked at shubham. admiration disguised as mockery.
"you did good, superman. underwear or not."
reshma reached out. took shubham's hand. squeezed it.
"my superman," she whispered.
shubham squeezed back. "don't encourage him."
"too late," gambhir announced. "now, dessert! who wants... wait."
he stopped.
reshma's hand had gone limp in shubham's grip.
her smile froze. drifted. her eyes rolled back slightly.
"reshma?" shubham asked.
she didn't answer. she slumped forward. low blood pressure. gravity winning.
"RESHMA!"
shubham caught her before she hit the table. panic exploded in the room.
"gambhir! help!"
gambhir was already there.
the clown vanished. instant deletion. the doctor loaded.
he didn't panic. he didn't scream.
he moved.
"lay her flat. lift legs. blood flow to brain. now." voice sharp. commanding.
shubham obeyed instantly. laid her on the sofa. propped her legs on the armrest.
gambhir was at her side. two fingers on her wrist. checking pulse. other hand on her forehead. checking temp.
"pulse thready. tachycardia. 110. skin clammy." he lifted her eyelid. "pale conjunctiva."
he looked at shubham. eyes hard. clinical.
"when did she eat last?"
"lunch. she skipped snacks. said nausea was bad."
"sugar crash. plus anemia. plus..." he glanced at her stomach. "...plus metabolic load."
he turned to the kitchen.
"sugar water. pinch of salt. lemon. NOW."
shubham scrambled. hands shaking. spilling water.
"faster, bhai. she needs glucose."
shubham brought the glass. gambhir took it. supported her head.
"bhabhi. drink. come on. swallow."
reshma groaned. eyes fluttering open.
"mmm... spinning..."
"i know. drink this. world stops spinning if you drink."
she sipped. choked a little. drank.
color returned slowly. very slowly.
gambhir sat back on his heels. exhaled. long and shaky.
he looked at shubham.
the moment of truth.
"bhai," gambhir said. quiet. deadly. "this isn't just cancer."
shubham froze. glass in hand.
"she's pregnant. isn't she."
it wasn't a question.
shubham looked at his cousin. the boy who wore duck pajamas. the boy who spilled maggi.
now looking at him with the terrified clarity of a medical professional who knows exactly what the math adds up to.
"yes," shubham whispered.
gambhir closed his eyes. rubbed his face.
"chemo. plus pregnancy. plus anemia."
he opened his eyes.
"bhai. you're killing her. both of them."
(Speaker: the roast is over. the laughter is dead. pulse checked. punchline delivered. and it's not funny. not even a little bit.)