friday. 11:47 am. day 25 since diagnosis. chemo session 2 of 12.
chemo done. second session. four hours of poison dripping into veins while she stared at hospital ceiling and he held her hand and priya pretended to play games on phone but kept sneaking worried glances.
worse than first time. body already weakened. immune system already battered.
she threw up twice in hospital bathroom. he stood outside door. helpless. listening. dying a little each time she retched.
2:34 pm. their flat.
afternoon light through dirty windows. fan spinning slow. distant sounds of gali—kids playing, sabzi wala yelling "aaloo pyaaz," sharma aunty arguing with courier guy. life continuing while theirs unraveled.
reshma sat on bed. staring at small mirror. touching her hair—what remained. patches thin now. scalp showing through.
shubham stood at door. razor in hand. looking like he was about to diffuse a bomb.
"chal," she said. "shuru kar. bahut soch liya."
"you sure? we can wait—"
"aur kitna wait. kal tak sab gir jayega." she ran fingers through remaining strands. came away with clump. held it up. "dekh. waiting karne ka koi fayda nahi."
he swallowed. nodded.
bathroom. small. cramped. barely fits two.
plastic chair from kitchen. old towel around shoulders. the good one—ma had given for shaadi. now it would catch her hair.
she sat. he stood behind her. razor buzzing. both reflected in mirror—her trying to look brave, him trying not to look terrified. both failing.
"bathroom ka darwaza band hai na?" she asked suddenly.
"haan. kyun?"
"agar sharma aunty aa gayi chai maangne toh? bald aurat bathroom mein—unke liye toh gossip material ho jayega pure saal ka."
he actually laughed. tension cracking slightly.
"sharma aunty chai nahi maangti—"
"sharma aunty kisi bhi bahane aa jaati hai. tu naya hai kya." she adjusted towel. "chal. start kar. unke aane se pehle khatam karna hai."
first pass.
his fingers brushed her scalp. she shivered. strange intimacy—being touched where hair used to be. nakedness she wasn't prepared for.
dark strands fell. on towel. on floor. on both of them.
she watched in mirror. something tightening in her chest.
"bolo," she said. eyes closing. "kuch bhi. distract kro mujhe."
"kya bolun?"
"kuch bhi. megha ki bakwaas. office ka drama. priya ke messages. kuch bhi."
so he talked.
talked about megha's group chat caption. about rohan calling him "bhai tu legend hai." about the IT guy who blamed printer problems on "bad energy." about priya texting him "bhai bhabhi ko paani pilaya?" every two hours like he was useless.
bakwas things. stupid things. life things.
her shoulders slowly released. small smile sometimes. eyes still closed.
his hand on her bare scalp. warm. strange. intimate in a way neither expected.
he talked until the razor went quiet.
done.
he set razor down. hands not steady.
she opened eyes. looked at mirror.
anda.
that was her first thought. boiled egg. peeled. ready for sandwich.
"mai anda lag rahi hoon."
"anda nahi—"
"anda. boiled wala. dekh." she turned head side to side. smooth. shiny. alien. "matlab hospital wale logo jaisi lag rahi hoon. jo..." she stopped. couldn't finish.
he knelt in front of her. didn't know what to say. so said boring truth.
"You're still you."
"just ganjedi version."
"still you."
"not comforting—"
"honest."
"same thing sometimes."
pause. both looking at each other. her bald head reflecting bathroom tubelight. strange and terrible and somehow still HER.
"agar ma ne video call kiya toh?" she asked. fear creeping in properly now. "kya bolenge? scarf pehen ke baat karungi? 'ma ghar mein dhoop hai isliye sir covered hai'?"
"hum kuch sochenge—"
"aur bahar? market? chemist? log ghoorega na. 'cancer wali hai' bolenge." her voice cracking now. "i hate this. ye sab—" she gestured at her head, at the hair on floor, at everything. "—i HATE this."
he caught her hands. held them.
"main bhi hate karta hoon."
"but you don't have to LOOK like this—"
"reshma."
"what."
"market mein ghoorenge. sharma aunty will definitely gossip. ma will cry on video call. sab hoga." he held her face. thumbs on her cheeks. "but I'll be there. ghoorte waqt bhi. gossip ke baad bhi. har jagah."
she stared at him. wanting to believe.
"You are being cheesy. don't suit you."
"only for you"
"blame yourself."
"you're useless."
she hit his shoulder. weak. but real.
then crumpled. not crying—beyond crying. just... folding. grief too big for any expression.
he caught her. held her. both on bathroom floor. hair everywhere. her shaking against him.
no words. sometimes there are none.
4:12 pm.
priya found them. still on floor. reshma's head smooth and strange.
"bhabhi—" priya stopped. stared. too long.
reshma braced. here it comes. pity. awkwardness.
"bhabhi You look like Furiosa."
"what?"
"Furiosa from Mad Max. chrome spray." priya grinned. then face fell. "shit sorry. that was weird. i didn't mean—"
"nahi actually that's... that's good." reshma touched her head. "Furiosa. at least she survived the movie."
"SPOILERS bhabhi."
"film das saal puraani hai—"
"STILL SPOILERS."
priya knelt beside her. touched her bhabhi's scalp. curious. gentle.
"weird hai."
"thanks priya."
"no i mean—" priya struggled. "—weird but not bad weird? like. different. UMM!"
"you're trying very hard."
"i KNOW." priya exhaled. frustrated with herself. "i had a whole speech prepared. then i saw you and forgot everything. sorry. i'm useless."
reshma actually laughed. surprised.
"wait—" priya scrambled up. disappeared. came back with shopping bag. "options!"
scarves. six. different colors. star pattern one. solid maroon. red and gold—almost bridal.
"ye dekh. different moods ke liye. sad wala. happy wala. date wala—"
"date wala?"
"jab bhai tujhe kahin le jaaye. looking extra. you know." priya held up stars one. "ye definitely date material."
reshma took scarves. fingers tracing fabric.
"paisa kahan se—"
"ma ne bheja tha 'emergency shopping' ke liye." priya shrugged. "technically ye emergency hai."
pause. softer now.
"tu nahi pehenni hai toh mat pehen bhabhi. but options. jab khudko nahi dekhna ho mirror mein. covers help sometimes."
wisdom that shouldn't exist in sixteen-year-old. grief learned from watching someone else lose something. papa maybe. things shubham never talked about.
reshma pulled priya into hug. tight. grateful.
"thank you."
"welcome." priya's voice muffled. "aur bhabhi... You look beautiful. really. just saying because it's true. not because i have to."
priya's eyes wet. she blinked fast. absolutely NOT crying. crying would be embarrassing.
(Speaker: crying thi definitely. but we'll pretend we didn't see.)
reshma and shubham disappeared into bedroom. low voices. private grief she couldn't share.
priya sat on balcony instead. gave them space.
later. priya alone.
phone buzzed. ankita. school friend.
"yaar priya kab milegi? it's been forever!"
priya stared at message. typing. deleting. typing again.
"busy hai yaar. family stuff."
lie. simple. necessary.
ankita: "everything okay? you've been weird lately."
"sab theek hai. promise. board prep plus bhai ka wedding adjustments. you know how it is."
another lie. because truth was impossible.
truth was: bhabhi just went bald. completely. sitting in bathroom looking like cancer patient because she IS cancer patient. and priya was SIXTEEN watching it happen unable to fix ANYTHING.
truth was: yesterday she almost bought wrong scarves. almost got cheap ones. then panicked—what if bhabhi hates them? what if they're uncomfortable? what if priya's one job was buying scarves and she FAILED—
truth was: her friends gossiped about boys and exams and normal things while priya internally screamed how do you BE NORMAL when sister-in-law is dying? how do you talk about crush when bhai sacrificing career for medical appointments?
you don't. you just pretend. like everyone else in this house.
she put phone down. couldn't keep lying. couldn't tell truth either.
picked up the scarves she'd bought. folded them. refolded. small action. control where control was possible.
because everything else was spiraling. papa died when she was ten. ma aged overnight. bhai became provider at nineteen. normal disappeared years ago.
and now? bhabhi came. warm. funny. ALIVE. made their broken house feel like home again.
and now cancer was stealing that too.
priya pressed scarf against face. stars pattern. the date one. soft fabric catching tears she wasn't supposed to be crying.
"i hate this," she whispered to empty balcony. "i hate all of this."
but tomorrow she'd wake up. make terrible dosas. joke with bhabhi. pretend sixteen-year-old brain could handle watching family die piece by piece.
because that's what you did. survived. like always.
she wiped eyes. went back inside. game face on.
5:23 pm.
priya retreated to couch. gave them privacy.
reshma sat on bed. trying different scarves. shubham watching from doorway.
"which one?" she asked. holding up blue and star options.
"both. depends on day."
she smiled. small. "good answer."
put on star scarf. looked at herself in mirror. different person. same eyes.
"do i look like dying wife now?"
he came closer. sat beside her on bed.
"you look like my wife. the dying part is not visible." he traced the edge of scarf with one finger. "besides. all of us are dying. you just have more specific timeline."
dark humor. their specialty.
"morbid."
"learned from you."
she leaned against him. exhausted. emotionally and physically wrung out.
"i thought i'd feel uglier," she admitted quietly.
"and?"
"i feel... lighter. weird. but lighter." she touched her scalp through scarf. "the falling was the worst part. watching pieces of myself leave. now it's gone. nothing left to lose there."
"progress."
"yeah. progress."
later. much later.
priya asleep on couch. snoring softly like always. rhythmic and human and alive.
them in bedroom. lamp off. streetlight through curtain. shadows moving soft.
reshma in his arms. smaller now. bones closer to surface. scarf removed—she wanted him to see her. really see.
"shubham."
"hm."
"thank you. for doing this. for—" pause. searching for words. "—for still looking at me like i'm whole."
"you are whole."
"i have cancer. no hair. failing immune system. i'm—"
"you're reshma. still mine. that's enough."
she kissed him. soft. full of things words couldn't carry.
then: "your hands."
"what about them?"
she grabbed them. kissed each palm. each finger. deliberate.
"these hands won't let me fall."
he didn't respond. couldn't. just held her tighter.
even later. midnight.
she was supposed to be asleep. he thought she was.
then her voice. small in the dark.
"shubham."
"yeah."
pause. long. heavy.
"what happens to you... after i'm gone?"
his whole body went cold.
"reshma—"
"no. don't deflect." she turned to face him. serious. necessary. "i need to know. what happens to shubham when reshma is gone."
"i don't want to talk about—"
"i NEED to." firm. scared. brave. "because right now i'm imagining you... frozen. stopped. martyring me forever. living in this flat like a shrine. telling people about your dead wife for the rest of your life." her voice cracked. "and i can't stand it."
"i'm not going to—"
"what are you going to do then? tell me. specifically."
silence. long. brutal.
he didn't have answers. hadn't let himself think that far. couldn't.
"i don't know," he admitted. raw. honest. terrified.
"that's what scares me." she grabbed his face. made him look at her. eyes glinting in dim light. "i don't want to be your ending shubham. i want to be a chapter. painful one. beautiful one. but not the last one."
"you're asking me to imagine life without you."
"yes."
"i can't."
"you have to. eventually. better to start now."
"no." he pulled away. sat up. frustrated. scared. "i won't. i'm not planning your funeral while you're still breathing."
"i'm not asking for funeral plans. i'm asking for... permission." she sat up too. facing him. scarf off. bald head catching streetlight. ghostly and gorgeous and gutting. "permission to believe you'll survive me. permission to believe i'm not destroying your future."
"you're not—"
"then PROVE it." desperate now. "tell me something. one thing you'll do. after."
he breathed. hard. eyes stinging.
"i can't."
"try."
"reshma—"
"try. for me."
silence. broken breathing. impossible question hovering.
finally. small. wrecked.
"i'll... i'll visit patna. take priya home properly. finish the house repairs. the ones i've been postponing for years."
"good." she grabbed his hand. squeezed. "what else."
"i'll..." struggling. voice cracking. "...i'll eat chocolate on sundays. because you said so."
she almost laughed. wet sound. "that's not in any plan—"
"it should be. you should add it. chocolate sundays. mandatory. part of grieving protocol."
"shubham..."
"and i'll—" his voice broke properly now. "—i'll remember. everything. the bargaining. the sahjan torture. the way you looked in that red dupatta. the sounds you make when you're sleeping. all of it. every detail. i'll remember until i can't anymore."
she was shaking. he was shaking. bathroom hair still scattered somewhere. world still spinning outside.
"but i can't promise to move on," he finished. "not yet. ask me again in... in later. after. if there's after."
she nodded. accepted. for now.
"okay."
"okay."
they lay back down. held tighter than before. as if physical closeness could outrun time.
"shubham."
"yeah."
"i love you. bald and dying and scared and all of it. i love you."
"i love you too. married and broke and terrified and all of it."
"good."
"yeah. good."
outside, delhi night continued. somewhere an auto rickshaw honked. somewhere a dog barked. somewhere normal lives happened normally.
here, two people held each other in the dark, having named the unnameable. having stared at after. having survived the conversation that might kill weaker loves.
here, she was bald and brave and his.
here, he was broken and stubborn and hers.
here was enough.
for now.
(Speaker: heavy chapter: survived. heads shaved: one. impossible questions asked: also one. answers given: partial at best. but hey—they're still holding hands. still choosing each other. still here. that's the whole thesis statement of this book tbh. you're welcome for the existential crisis.)
Cliffhanger → Hair gone. Fear named. "What happens after I'm gone?" The question that haunts every dying person asked. He didn't have full answers. Just fragments: patna, house repairs, chocolate sundays. Just promises: i'll remember. She asked for permission. He gave what he could. Tomorrow they face the world bald and bruised and somehow still standing. But tonight? Tonight was the hardest conversation of their lives. And they survived it. Together.