The Shadow Who Stayed
A darkly funny story about fake relatives, real loyalty, and imperfect love.
Nish didn’t believe in miracles. So when a charity mistakenly paid half of his humongous hospital bill, he knew someone was tricking him into doing something he never wanted.
Maybe his boss was trying to get him back.
Or his father-in-law who wanted a new slave to run his business.
Still, Nish — who had left his job for his dream — didn’t want the favour.
He had no money, no insurance, and no energy left to deal with the remaining bill.
People are cruel and selfish, he believed.
But the worst part is… they become even crueler after a tragedy.
A few days ago, Nish discovered he had a tumour. He dealt with it somehow, survived the surgery, and was finally recovering. Mostly by sleeping and watching television.
But then the universe punished him.
By sending relatives.
Cruel.
Brutal.
He cursed the gods.
Why did they come? Because the doctor had advised him not to be alone or he might feel lonely and depressed.
So, his mother ensured he was never alone.
The relatives came in truckloads.
What kinds of relatives, you ask? Silly. Loud. Pretentious. Useless. Nonsensical. Fake.
All varieties. You name it. They were there.
They wanted to “visit the recovering patient,” or as Nish put it, “make him unrecoverable for life.”
All his life, Nish had ignored these fake relatives. They always visited whenever he failed or something went wrong — mostly to laugh at his situation or to pretend they cared.
It was a test of his patience every time someone said, “You need to keep trying harder.”
He would just smile, swallow his anger, and escape at the first opportunity.
The world would be a better place if fake people didn’t live in it.
But then… there wouldn’t be anyone left in it.
Nish loved his privacy more than his relatives loved pretense.
But now that he was bedridden, he couldn’t ignore anyone.
The pain of talking to them was worse than the pain at his operation site.
Nish realised he couldn’t survive like this.
If the tumour didn’t finish him, the relatives surely would.
So he set a goal:
To stop relatives from visiting him for at least one full day — just ONE peaceful day of recovery.
Doctors said, “Rest is important.”
Relatives retorted, “Be serious. No time for stand-up comedy in the hospital.”
His eyes noticed a blurry figure outside his room. A familiar shape, but he couldn’t see it clearly.
Must be some stupid relative waiting to give him advice, he thought.
So Nish planned to fix the relatives problem once and for all.
He looked at his wife and mother discussing lunch. He watched them closely and implemented the strategy they used to deal with each other.
***
When the next batch of relatives walked in — the ones who always smelled like incense and moral judgement — Nish shut his eyes, held his breath, and pretended to be dead.
It was flawless acting.
Better than his wife and mother.
Oscar-level.
Except one aunt, Shanta Aunty, leaned over him and whispered loudly:
“This is what happens when you don’t believe in God or His religion. He punishes and kills you.”
She fake-cried. “You need to try harder in your next life.”
The other relatives started crying, thinking Nish was dead.
Nish kept his eyes closed, praying to God to take him away immediately.
Shanta Aunty leaned closer and pinched his toe to check if he was alive.
He twitched, almost coughing in shock.
Some relatives nearly had a heart attack imagining a ghost before them.
Some others ran away to admit themselves in the next ward.
Shanta Aunty turned dramatically.
“SEE? God acted on my prayers so soon and brought him back to life!”
“No. God kicked me back to tell others you are His fake disciple,” Nish said, gritting his teeth.
Shanta Aunty furrowed her brows in anger.
She couldn’t believe Nish was trying to expose her before others.
The other relatives fake-smiled and took a step back from the aunt.
They stayed for two hours, debating how Nish was ultimately going to die — by lack of rest or by Shanta Aunty’s unflinching stare.
Finally, Nish gave up and shouted that he was in pain.
The nurses rushed to check his wound.
But the pain came from the headache Shanta Aunty had gifted him.
Nish wanted his life back.
He hated the fake people adding salt to his wounds.
He wanted to be alone and figure out how to pay the remaining bill.
He noticed the blurry figure again peeking inside.
Before Nish could see who it was, the man ran away.
He assumed it was another relative.
He was exhausted.
He needed them gone.
So he decided to use a different strategy — one borrowed from his wife.
***
Nish’s wife was never interested in physical affection unless she wanted something from him.
It was her bribe technique.
Since physical contact was impossible, Nish used the edible alternative.
He bribed a nurse with a Dairy Milk Silk.
“Please,” he begged, “tell them visiting hours are closed. Say the doctor gave strict orders.”
She agreed.
But when the relatives arrived, they didn’t leave.
Instead they argued.
“Aunty, visiting hours are over,” the nurse said.
“We are family, not visitors,” one replied.
“Our horoscope says no rule applies to us,” another explained.
“Call the doctor. We want a second opinion,” someone added.
The nurse pulled her hair, abandoned Nish, and fled.
Slowly, relatives entered like an army occupying territory.
Nish stared at the off television as they stared at him, pretending they cared.
He wondered why staring competitions never became an Olympic sport — his relatives would win gold medals effortlessly.
Another round of advice began.
“You should eat only goat milk for six months.”
“Sleep facing east or your soul won’t revive.”
“Have you tried rubbing turmeric on your pillowcase?”
Nish wanted to scream, “Aunty, if turmeric could cure diseases, hospitals would be yellow.”
But he stayed quiet.
Barely.
***
Finally, after they left, Nish pulled himself up, panting like someone who had survived a natural disaster.
He needed a new strategy.
Something powerful.
Something brutal.
Something wife-level dramatic.
He wanted his privacy.
He knew these relatives had ulterior motives.
So he preferred to be alone and tackle all his problems.
He saw the shadow again outside the door.
“Who’s there?” he asked.
It vanished.
He was irritated now.
He had to fix this once and for all.
Then he remembered his mother’s ultimate strategy.
His mother, whenever she truly wanted peace or wanted to watch television without disturbance, used one technique:
Trauma dumping.
She would narrate one long emotional story — irrelevant, half-true, and never-ending — until everyone got exhausted and left.
Nish decided to use the same weapon.
It was time.
The next set of relatives entered — cousins, uncles, and that one aunt who always smelled like pickle and judgement.
Before they could ask, “How are you feeling?” Nish sat up with wild eyes.
“I need to share something,” he whispered.
Everyone leaned closer.
“I saw a shadow last night.”
Relatives froze.
“It came near my bed,” he continued dramatically, “and whispered that one of my relatives is cursed.”
Some jaws dropped.
He scanned the room slowly.
“I don’t know who it was… but the shadow specifically smelled of… incense sticks.”
Every head turned to Shanta Aunty.
She gasped so loudly it sounded like a pressure cooker whistle.
“I-I don’t smell like incense!” she yelled.
“Oh? You don’t?” Nish asked innocently. “Maybe the curse is stronger than you think.”
Just then, the accountant entered.
He reminded Nish of the remaining bill.
Shanta Aunty screamed and ran out of the room, clutching her handbag like it contained holy power.
The others bolted faster than Usain Bolt.
Within minutes, the room was empty.
Nish couldn’t believe it.
He could’ve called the accountant earlier and saved himself so much torture.
The silence was heavenly.
He lay back on the pillow, a single tear escaping.
Not emotional.
Just relief.
He drifted into real sleep — not the “Shanta Aunty is coming” sleep.
***
When he opened his eyes, he found someone sitting next to him.
Someone blurry.
The same shadow he had been noticing for days.
Nish rubbed his eyes.
Blink.
Blink again.
And then the shape focused.
“Couldn’t sleep?” the man asked. “You kept turning all night.”
“Ken?” Nish whispered, stunned. “Since when are you here?”
Ken looked at the wall calendar… then tapped his watch dramatically.
“Since your operation day. I was by the door all the time.”
Nish shot upright.
“That’s… ten days! What about your work?”
Ken shrugged.
“To hell with that. My friend is more important.”
He picked up Nish’s medicines and placed them gently in his hand.
Something softened inside Nish.
A warmth he hadn’t felt in a long time.
He remembered their fight years ago.
The words thrown.
The silence that followed.
The decision Nish had made — to cut him off forever.
And yet… here Ken was.
Not the fake relatives.
Not the loud aunts.
Not the turmeric-pillows squad.
But the one person Nish had pushed away the hardest.
“Why didn’t you meet me earlier, Ken?” Nish asked quietly.
Ken sat down beside him, guilt pooled in his eyes.
“Because ten years ago,” he said, “you told me to leave you alone.”
Nish swallowed hard.
“But,” Ken added with a soft smile, “I wanted to be here for you. To sit with you. Even if you pretend to sleep like an idiot. Even if cancer tries something stupid. I’m here to fight with you, not watch from a distance. I wanted you to know you’re not alone in this.”
Nish looked at Ken.
Really looked.
Not as the cousin he fought with.
Not as the friend he pushed away.
But as someone who showed up — imperfect timing, imperfect past, imperfect relationship — yet fully there.
His throat tightened.
His eyes burned.
At that moment, the accountant entered and handed Nish a slip.
Bill paid in full, it read.
Nish looked up in confusion.
The accountant smiled… and gestured towards Ken.
“That charity…” Nish whispered.
“Don’t insult me by calling it a charity,” Ken said. “Brothers for life, remember?”
Nish couldn’t control himself.
He sprang up and hugged Ken after ten long years.
He realised something simple yet huge:
He had spent his whole life avoiding people because they were “fake,” “loud,” “annoying,” or “imperfect.”
But love didn’t need perfect people.
It only needed people who stayed — even when you were wrong, imperfect, or pushed them away.
And somehow, in the middle of irritating relatives, worst timing, and a tumour scar still healing…
Nish didn’t feel alone at all.
The world wasn’t cruel.
His life wasn’t empty.
He wasn’t cursed.
He was held.
Quietly.
Stubbornly.
In the imperfect way that mattered most.
He closed his eyes again — not to fake sleep this time — but to let a single tear fall without shame.
“Thanks for staying,” he whispered.
Ken placed a steady hand on his shoulder.
“Always.”
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