The next two months passed in a gentle, almost reverent hush. Preeti’s clinic became a second home—regular scans, blood work, heartbeat checks—all of it perfect. The little one was growing exactly as it should: strong heartbeat at 150 bpm, crown-rump length on target, no signs of concern. Preeti walked them through every precaution with her usual mix of clinical precision and big-sister warmth: no raw food, limited caffeine, prenatal yoga instead of treadmill, no heavy lifting, sex only if comfortable (and gentle), plenty of rest. Simran listened like a student, nodding, taking notes on her phone, her hand unconsciously resting over the faint, still-invisible swell beneath her kurtis.
Ravi transformed overnight into the most attentive husband imaginable. He started leaving office by 6 PM sharp—no more late-night calls, no more weekend escalations. He cooked breakfast on Sundays (slightly burnt parathas, but made with love), massaged her feet every evening while they watched TV, brought her fresh coconut water without being asked, even carried her purse when they went for walks in the society park. He spoke to her stomach in soft Punjabi whispers when he thought she was asleep—“Beta, Papa aa gaya hai”—and kissed the spot every night before turning off the light.
Bhola, too, shifted into something quieter, more watchful. He moved through the house like a guardian now—extra careful with the floors so she wouldn’t slip, always keeping the water filter full and chilled, preparing light, digestible meals (khichdi with ghee when she felt queasy, fresh fruit platters, almond milk instead of tea). He never said much, but his eyes followed her whenever she moved through the rooms, lingering just a second longer on the subtle curve of her belly. When she thanked him, he only bowed his head slightly—“Ji, Bhabhi, aap araam karo”—and went back to his work, folding her freshly washed nighties with a care that bordered on reverence.
Then came the day that broke everything.
Simran was driving back from yet another routine check-up at Preeti’s clinic, the radio playing softly, her mind floating on the high of another “all good” report. The traffic light turned green. She eased forward. A DTC bus, too fast, too close, clipped the rear side of her Creta. The impact spun the car, the airbag exploded in a deafening white cloud, and everything went black.
No visible wounds—no blood, no broken bones—but the force had been brutal. She was unconscious when the ambulance arrived. Paramedics rushed her to the nearest hospital, the same one where Preeti had privileges.
Since there was a file of Prescription of Preeti’s clinic, the doctors at the nearest hospital called Preeti. She in turn immediately called Ravi. Preeti reached first and checked Simran. Ravi got the call while in a meeting. He ran out without a word, phone still pressed to his ear, his face became white. Preeti met him in the corridor outside the emergency ward, already in scrubs, her face grim.
Ravi saw Preeti and she said dont worry she is fine. Dont panic. She asked him to wait outside as Simran was unconscious. She came outside after half an hour and saw Ravi pacing through the corridor.
She pulled him aside, away from the nurses.
“Ravi… Simran is fine, dont worry. She is just unconscious from the shock. She is about to wake up but listen, i need to tell you something. You are her biggest pillar now. You need to be the one who takes on the burden of this news.
Ravi.... the baby didn’t make it.”
The words landed like a physical blow. He stared at her, uncomprehending, then his knees buckled. He slid down the wall, head in his hands, and cried—deep, wrenching sobs that echoed in the sterile hallway. A grown man, Senior Project Manager, father-to-be, reduced to a child in seconds.
“She’s going to be devastated,” he choked out between gasps. “She wanted this so badly… Preeti, she’s going to break.”
Preeti knelt beside him, hand on his shoulder. “We’ll get through this. Together. But first you need to be strong. You cannot let her break down. Else you will lose her, she will be samlibe but her mind will be gone. Ravi, you need to decide how to act in front of her. I will give you a few minutes to go inside. But we will tell her depending on her mental make tomorrow.”
Simran woke the next morning to soft daylight filtering through hospital blinds. Ravi was on one side of the bed, eyes red and swollen. Preeti on the other, holding her hand.
She looked at their faces—saw the grief—and knew.
Her lips trembled. “No…” she whispered.
Then louder: “No… no… no… NO!”
The sobs tore out of her—raw, animal, unstoppable. She curled into herself, clutching the sheet over her stomach as though she could will the life back inside. Ravi tried to hold her; she pushed him away at first, then clung to him, crying into his shirt until it was soaked. Preeti stroked her hair, murmuring, “Baby, don’t worry… it will be fine… we’ll try again… you’re strong…”
Nothing helped. The grief was a storm that refused to pass.
It was nothing short of a miracle to make her stop crying and sobbing.
Ravi came outside the cabin and called Bhola and told him, “Bhola get some wearable pyjamas, tops, undergarments etc that Simran wears in house and don’t forget to get two sets at least. Her toothbrush etc too”.
Bhola came after sometime with everything he said. He was having mixed feeling taking out the small lacy panties and bras for Simran as they made him stay looking at the drawer full of her panties and Br for a bit longer than usual. Infact he never opened this drawer, he only took them out from drying in sun and then kept them on her bed and she kept them inside her drawer. But today he was all alone in the house asked to do this but then he was struck by lightening as to why he was here, her madam was in hospital, in an accident, in ICU probably. He kicked himself for thinking like that. After sometime he came to the hospital with the things. He was met by Ravi outside with Preeti talking and Ravi said, “Bhola goto her room in 69D and keep in her drawer. Don’t disturb her, she is sleeping”.
“Ji Sahib”. Bhola went to 69D and found Simran awake. Bhola was taken aback. She had some bruises on the side of her face but nothing much. But what shocked him was she was wearing a hospital dress, a filmsy blue coloured shirt and trouser. The problem was she was not wearing any bra and her nipples were poking out like crazy as the shirt was not her size. No one realised it except Bhola till now and his you know what, but Bhola got another kick on his stomach like before as to why he was here. Bhola started talking to her showing her what he got by letting her see inside the bag. She said to keep those things in the Almirah and Bhola after that sat in a chair next to her and started talking a bit as to how she is feeling now and getting angry at the Bus driver. But it was hard for Bhola to concentrate. This was the first time Bhola saw Simran braless and her huge boobs tight against the shirt and he could easily see her large button-like nipples poking out at him. Bhola digested the image and told Simran he will come again in the evening with something else as it was getting increasingly uncomfortable for him.
They brought her home three days later. The flat felt different—too quiet, too empty. Bhola stood at the door when they entered, head bowed, eyes downcast especially since his memory played the same images again and again. Perhaps once you see something in life which is life changing you can’t unsee it. Something inside him had changed. Simran asked, “Bhola, how are you?“ Bhola laughed and said, “I am good Bhabhi, tell me how are you feeling.” “I am fine, Thank you! “
He had cleaned everything spotless, lit a small diya in the puja corner, prepared her favorite light kheer. When Simran walked past him, he stepped aside respectfully, but his voice was softer than usual.
“Bhabhi… aap araam karo. Main sab sambhal loonga.”
He meant it. For the next week, Bhola became the silent pillar of the house—cooking, cleaning, running errands, never once complaining. Ravi stayed home too, working from the study, never more than a room away from her.
But Simran was fading. She barely ate, barely spoke, spent hours staring out the window or lying in bed with her hand on her stomach, tears slipping silently.
Ravi couldn’t watch it anymore.
One evening he sat beside her on the bed, took her hand.
“Jaan… let’s go away. Just us. Maldives. One week. No phones, no reminders. Just sea, sun, and you. We need to breathe. And you are not going to say No.”
He called Bhola and said, “Bhola humare suitcase pack kardo. Ek hafte ke liye. Bhabhi tumhe bata dengi kya kya leke jana hai, unko haath mat lagane dena.“ Simran protested that she can pack her own luggage, but Bhola also said “Nehi Bhabhi aap tension na lo, main pack kar deta hun. Aap dekhke bata dena.” None of them realized what they are going to do by this simple innocent but life altering activity. Starting from her beautiful dresses, down to her skimpiest panties, Bhola packed without any hue or cry. Hell, even he didn’t realise what he was doing. Although he thought for a second if that bikini top would hold her boobs in place but didn’t linger on it for more than a second.
After 1 hour, Bhola came down with her suitcase, kept it on the diwan next to the sofa and said, “Bhabhi aap check kar lijiye, main aapke aur Sahab ke liye chai banake lata hun” and he went away. Simran looked at the luggage and didn’t feel a thing, subconsciously she did feel some tingle somewhere but nothing more.”
She looked at him for a long moment, then nodded—small, exhausted, but willing.
They flew out five days later. A quiet resort on a private atoll—white sand, turquoise water, overwater villa. No crowds, no questions. They walked barefoot on the beach at sunrise, held hands under the stars, swam in the warm sea. Ravi never pushed; he just stayed close. Slowly, the salt air and the rhythm of the waves began to loosen the knot in her chest. She cried less. She smiled once—small, tentative—when a baby turtle crawled toward the ocean at dusk.
By the end of the week she was eating properly again, sleeping through the night, even laughing softly at his terrible dad jokes.
They came back quieter, but steadier.
The flat welcomed them with the same gentle normalcy. Bhola had kept everything perfect—fresh sheets, flowers in a vase, her favorite rose attar restocked. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t offer empty platitudes. He simply served dinner, cleared the table, and retreated.
Simran stood in the living room that first night back, looking around at the life they had built.
She turned to Ravi, eyes still shadowed but clearer.
“We’ll be okay,” she whispered.
He pulled her into his arms, kissed her forehead.
“We will.”
To be continued… ?
![[+]](https://xossipy.com/themes/sharepoint/collapse_collapsed.png)