Bigg Boss 19: Daily Discussion Thread - 26th Sept 2025
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Book Talk Reading Challenge: open to volunteers
Anupamaa 26 Sept 2025 Written Update & Daily Discussions Thread
Keerat froze, her mother’s question still echoing in the room like a stone dropped into still water.
“Have you started falling for him?”
She blinked—once, twice—trying to steady her breath. Then scoffed, masking her startled heart with mock irritation.
“Mummy, please. Don’t be dramatic. I’ve just been trying to help him. That’s all.”
Santhosh crossed her arms, unconvinced.
“Helping is one thing. But the way your mood swings around his name… something tells me it’s more than just concern.”
Keerat didn’t respond. She bent down to zip her bag with a little more force than necessary.
“There are bigger things to worry about than your filmy theories.”
Santhosh sighed and walked away, shaking her head.
“Sometimes, even the strongest girls don’t realize they’ve fallen until it’s too late.”
As the door shut behind her, silence returned—thick, heavy, and impossibly loud.
Keerat stood still, her fingers hovering above the strap of her bag. Her lips pressed into a thin line, her brows furrowed in frustration.
“What nonsense…” she whispered.
“I haven’t… I mean, I can’t… He’s—”
Her voice trailed off, swallowed by the weight in her chest. She sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the floor, as the words she couldn’t say out loud fluttered inside her like untamed butterflies.
“Have you started falling for him?”
The question tugged at something buried—something she didn’t want to name.
Images rushed back.
—The way Veer had clung to her hand, tears spilling in silence.
—The raw desperation in his voice when he’d said he wanted to change.
—The unspoken something in his eyes when they had locked for a heartbeat too long.
She remembered the warmth of his hug—not romantic, not calculated… just honest. And in that moment, maybe she had felt something shift.
But now all she remembered was the coldness in his last words:
“What you did was wrong. And I won’t forgive you.”
Keerat clenched her fists.
“Stupid. He doesn’t even understand why I did it. He doesn’t want to understand.”
And yet…
Her gaze wandered to her phone screen—dark and still. No message. No apology.
“Why does it hurt, then?” she whispered bitterly.
“Why am I even thinking about him?”
She stood abruptly and walked to the mirror, staring at her reflection like it belonged to someone else.
“You’re a wrestler. A fighter. You don’t let emotions distract you,” she told herself.
“You’re not falling for someone who can’t even see the difference between betrayal and care.”
Still, the voice at the back of her mind whispered:
But you do care. And that’s the problem.
Just then, a ping echoed from her phone. Her heart skipped before logic caught up — it was just a calendar reminder.
No message.
No call.
No Veer.
She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and turned away.
“Enough. No more thinking about Veer Singh Brar.”
But even as she said it, her hand subconsciously touched her phone one more time—wishing the next ping would be from him.
As Keerat stepped out, the late afternoon sun cast a stubborn glow over Ludhiana’s streets. Her helmet dangled from her wrist, but she made no move to put it on.
She stood still at the gate, mind swirling.
“What if he’s still angry?”
“He said he won’t forgive me.”
“But… what if he leaves with that bitterness still in his heart?”
The thought clawed at her — the idea of Veer walking into rehab carrying resentment, not just pain. It wasn’t about being forgiven anymore. It was about not letting him feel abandoned by the one person who had stood by him when no one else did.
She exhaled sharply, muttering under her breath:
“Bas. Enough sulking, Miss Pehalwan. Apna ego ghar pe chhod aur jaa mil le uss jatt se.”
Throwing on her helmet, she revved up her bike and rode straight to the address Angad had once mentioned — the Shakti Wellness Centre, a quiet rehab facility on the outskirts of the city.
Veer had just waved goodbye to Angad and taken his first hesitant steps toward the building when a familiar voice rang out behind him.
“Oye, Egoistic Shithead!”
He froze. That voice. It couldn’t be.
Turning slowly, his eyes widened. Keerat stood there, slightly breathless from her ride, helmet under her arm, the same stubborn fire in her eyes.
“Keerat?” he said, surprised. “What are you doing here?”
She crossed her arms.
“Came to say goodbye. Or do you have a problem with that too?”
Veer stared at her for a beat, unsure what to say. Part of him wanted to lash out again—but the larger part, the one ruled by memory and gratitude, couldn’t ignore the fact that she came.
“You didn’t need to come,” he muttered.
“I know.”
“Then why did you?”
Keerat looked him in the eye.
“Because I couldn’t let you go without making one thing clear — I didn’t betray you, Veer. I stood up for you when you wouldn’t stand up for yourself. I may have overstepped, and I’ll accept that. But don’t question why I did it.”
He looked down, unable to meet her gaze.
“You didn’t even ask me before telling them.”
She stepped closer, voice gentler now.
“Because I knew you never would. You’d carry that weight forever and pretend it doesn’t hurt. But it does, doesn’t it?”
Veer’s silence was answer enough.
They stood like that for a moment—the silence between them no longer hostile, just heavy with truths too raw to repeat.
Finally, Veer sighed.
“You always talk like you know everything.”
A small smile tugged at her lips.
“Because I usually do.”
He looked up, finally allowing himself to smile.
“You’re still annoying.”
“And you’re still egoistic.”
They both laughed — awkward at first, but real.
“Friends?” Keerat asked, extending her hand.
Veer raised an eyebrow.
“You and me? Miss Pehalwan and Mr. Egoistic Shithead?”
She nodded.
“Come on. Clean slate. You’re going to fight your toughest battle. You’ll need someone in your corner — even if that someone occasionally threatens to wrestle you into sense.”
Veer chuckled and took her hand.
“Deal.”
They stood there, holding the handshake a little longer than necessary.
“You’ll be okay, right?” she asked, trying to hide the catch in her throat.
“I’ll try,” he replied. “And I’ll write. Even if I can’t send them.”
“Then I’ll wait. Even if I never receive them.”
They smiled quietly. And then, Keerat reached into her backpack and pulled out a small wooden box, slightly worn but carefully wrapped with a navy-blue ribbon.
“What’s this?” Veer asked.
“A gift.”
He opened the lid, and his expression shifted—first confusion, then disbelief.
Inside were dozens of empty injection syringes, cleaned and tightly packed.
“What the hell is this?” he asked. “Keerat… these are—”
“Syringes,” she said calmly.
“But... why?”
“I bought every last one I could find using the prize money from my last wrestling match.”
“Are you insane?”
Keerat nodded, voice steady.
“Because now that we’re friends, I wanted to give you something that’ll prick your conscience — something that’ll remind you that if you ever try to use drugs again with these syringes, you’re not just hurting yourself… you’re hurting me. You’d be shaming the very bond we’ve built.”
Veer was speechless.
Keerat’s voice softened.
“Every time you even glance at one of these… I want your heart to stop you. Not out of fear — but because someone out there truly believes in you. Someone who spent her victory not on herself, but on a reminder of what you’re worth.”
He shut the lid slowly, cradling the box like something sacred.
And somewhere inside, he heard Ekam’s voice:
“People like Keerat di, who genuinely care about us, are rare. We shouldn’t let them slip away from our lives.”
Veer looked up, eyes glassy.
“Tussi Rab de diye hoye tohfe ho, Miss Pehalwan. Ek asli dost.”
Keerat smirked.
“Oye, don’t get all poetic on me now.”
“No promises.”
As the rehab staff called out again, Veer turned toward the gate, then glanced back one last time.
Keerat lifted her hand in a wave.
He mirrored it — That wave — hesitant but full of warmth — marked the beginning of something new.
And as Veer finally turned and walked through the doors of the rehab, he clutched the wooden box a little tighter — a symbol of pain, friendship, and hope.
-------
To be continued.
Chapter (Untold Words)
The days at rehab were structured — meals at fixed hours, therapy sessions every morning, group discussions every afternoon, and silent reflection in the evenings. But what truly kept Veer going — what gave his spiraling thoughts a safe place — was the worn-out, leather-bound journal the staff had handed him on Day Two.
He called it his book of unsent letters.
The first entry was written on the night he arrived, after surrendering his phone and all his belongings.
Dear Miss Pehalwan,
I thought I was angry at you. Furious, even.
But when I closed my eyes tonight, your words echoed louder than my rage:
"Something to prick your conscience… so that if you use these again, you're not just hurting yourself, you're hurting me. You're shaming our friendship."
You were right.
These syringes are staring at me from my bag, untouched — not as temptations, but as reminders.
Of you.
Of strength.
Of a kind of care I didn’t think I deserved.
I won’t use them.
Not now.
Not ever.
And if I do falter... may your words hurt more than any high can numb.
— Veer
He never sent it. But he kept writing every night.
Some entries were just a few lines — others, pages long. Some were written in anger, when withdrawal symptoms hit hard. Others were soaked in melancholy. A few laced with sarcasm. Many trembling with honesty.
Dear Miss Pehalwan,
Today in therapy, they made us draw our “safe space.”
I drew a wrestling ring.
Don’t laugh.
Why?
Because that’s where you feel most powerful — and maybe, just maybe… that’s where I last felt seen.
By you.
By anyone.
If you ever read these one day, know this:
I miss your annoying lectures more than I miss my music.
And that’s saying something.
— Veer
By the end of the second month, the pile of unsent letters had grown thick — held together with a rubber band and a lock of guilt Veer didn’t know how to unlock.
The box of syringes remained untouched — not as a threat, but as a reflection of what he stood to lose.
Back in Monga House, life continued. Workouts still happened. College carried on. Santhosh still nagged. But Veer’s absence created a strange kind of silence in Keerat’s chest — one she stubbornly refused to name.
She buried herself in training. When that didn’t help, she began volunteering at the Punjab Women’s Wrestling Federation twice a week.
And her evenings gradually started ending at the Brar Mansion — especially after Gurleen personally invited her over.
“Keerat puttar, you’re like family,” Gurleen said warmly, offering her chai. “Why don’t you come more often?”
Keerat hesitated at first. But slowly, she began to find peace there.
Gurleen — once cold and withdrawn after Santhosh’s drama during the engagement — now opened up to Keerat like a wound slowly finding balm.
“I never knew my son had hidden so much pain,” she confessed one evening as they peeled peas together.
“Veer never blamed you,” Keerat replied gently. “He only ever wanted your love.”
After that, Gurleen would often ask, softly:
“Do you think he’s eating well there?”
“Knowing him? Probably grumbling. But he’ll eat,” Keerat would smile.
They'd chuckle, then fall into comfortable silence — a silence stitched from shared concern and quiet affection.
Sahiba, meanwhile, became Keerat’s mirror.
“You miss him,” Sahiba teased one evening, catching Keerat staring too long at the rabab in Veer’s room.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“You didn’t deny it.”
Their teasing evolved into deeper conversations. Slowly, Keerat — who had guarded her heart like a fortress — began lowering her walls.
At night, Keerat often found herself staring at her phone — hoping for a message that wouldn’t come.
Once, she even drafted one:
“Hope rehab’s not driving you crazy. I... was thinking of that little girl who danced to your song. She’d probably be asking for your autograph now.”
But she deleted it before hitting send.
Instead, she whispered:
“You’ll come back, Egoistic Shithead. You better.”
At rehab, Veer stared at the box of syringes daily — untouched, as though cursed.
One morning, after a difficult withdrawal session, he scribbled into the margin of a letter:
“Every time I want to quit this recovery, your face comes to mind, Keerat.
Not because I’m in love with you.
But because you remind me of who I could be — if I didn’t run.”
Dear Miss. Pehalwan,
It’s been 90 days.
The cravings still come. But so does your voice. And now? That voice is louder. Stronger.
I’m learning music again.
They’ve given me access to a small music room.
It’s not a rabab... but it sings when I touch it.
Just like my soul is starting to.
If I ever get to sing for you again, I’ll call it Chapter One.
Because everything before this?
Was just the prologue.
— Veer
The Brar house buzzed with quiet anticipation.
It was Akaal’s birthday. The family had planned a low-key celebration, but Sahiba had her own secret.
“You’re staying till cake-cutting, right?” she asked Keerat as they hung fairy lights.
“If Daarji doesn’t scold me for tying them crooked, maybe,” Keerat replied with a half-smile.
“Good. You’ll want to be here for the surprise.”
“What surprise?”
“Can’t tell. You’ll ruin it.”
Unbeknownst to Keerat, the Brars had arranged something — or rather, someone — to make the evening unforgettable.
Veer stood at the gates, adjusting the collar of his kurta.
His stay had been extended for another round of therapy, but today, the staff had granted him a few hours’ leave — on special permission.
Angad waited beside him.
“You’re nervous?”
Veer shook his head.
“Just… anxious.”
“About seeing the family?”
Veer was quiet.
Then softly:
“About seeing her.”
The fairy lights sparkled. The air smelled faintly of jasmine and vanilla cake. Laughter floated across the garden.
Keerat stood by a corner table, sipping juice, when her phone buzzed.
Sahiba’s message: “Turn around.”
She frowned, looked up… and froze.
Veer was walking slowly into the garden — bouquet in hand, a hesitant smile on his lips.
He looked healthier. Steadier. His eyes clearer. His face leaner, but glowing with something raw and honest.
Keerat blinked, unsure if she was hallucinating.
He greeted Gurleen and Sahiba.
Then his eyes found hers.
The world blurred.
No dramatic music.
Just one gaze — locked in memory.
Veer approached, unsure of his welcome.
“Hey… Miss Pehalwan.”
Keerat crossed her arms.
“So… you’re alive.”
He chuckled.
“Disappointed?”
“Only slightly.”
“Good to know you were worried.”
“I wasn’t,” she said quickly, then paused.
“Okay. Maybe a little.”
A beat passed.
He extended the bouquet.
“These aren’t just for Daarji. They’re for you too.”
She took them slowly, brows furrowed.
“Why me?”
His voice dropped.
“For giving me something to live for… when even I had forgotten how.”
They wandered beneath the fairy lights, away from the crowd.
“I wrote you letters,” Veer said, voice low.
“Every night. Never sent a single one.”
“Why not?”
“Because I wasn’t sure I deserved to. Not after the way I spoke to you. After I said I’d never forgive you…”
“That did hurt,” Keerat admitted.
“I know.” He stepped closer. “And I’m sorry.”
She smiled, just a little.
“Took you long enough.”
Then, almost bashfully:
“I missed you too, Egoistic Shithead.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Miss Pehalwan admitting she missed someone?”
“Don’t push your luck.”
Keerat pulled a small folded paper from her sling bag.
“What’s this?” Veer asked.
“Not a letter. A challenge. From one friend to another.”
He opened it and read aloud:
“Write a song about your journey — not for the world. For yourself.
And when you’re ready, sing it for me.”
He looked up, smiling.
“Only if you promise not to cry.”
“I won’t cry,” Keerat said confidently.
Then muttered, “Maybe just get goosebumps.”
They both laughed.
In that moment, the awkwardness melted — leaving only something warm, real, and impossibly honest.
Before Veer left, they stood by the gate once more — a mirror of the moment they had parted.
But this time, there were no syringes. No anger. No silence.
Just two smiles.
Two hands raised in a soft wave.
And two hearts — still healing, still hesitant — slowly turning toward something they hadn’t dared named yet.
------
To be continued.
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