The morning after their market and temple visit, the galli's gossip network was already in overdrive.
Ishmaart stepped out to get fresh jalebi (old habits die hard, but now he stuck to two) and was immediately ambushed by Mrs. Pathak from the ground floor, a woman whose primary source of nutrition seemed to be other people's business.
"Arre Ishmaart beta!" she trilled, eyes gleaming. "Kal woh sundar-si ladki dekhi tumhare saath! Kaun hai? Kahan se hai?" That beautiful girl with you yesterday! Who is she? Where is she from?
Ishmaart's mind, honed by years of improvisation, clicked into gear. "Oh woh!" he said, with practiced nonchalance. "Woh meri… Rubina hai. Meri… wife. Shaadi hui hai bahar." That's my… Rubina. My wife. We got married abroad.
"Rubina?" Mrs. Pathak's eyes widened. "Muslim ladki hai?" A Muslim girl?
"Haan, ji. Lekin ab… hamara apna ghar hai. Woh convert nahi hui, main bhi convert nahi hua. Aise hi chal raha hai." Yes. But now… it's our own home. She didn't convert, I didn't convert. It's just working.
He had chosen the name 'Rubina' carefully. It sounded foreign enough to explain her accent and bearing, but could pass as Indian. 'Shankar' was his own invention—an orphan who'd made his first name his last, a one-man dynasty.
The news spread through the galli faster than a viral fever. Ishmaart, that good-for-nothing, has brought home a foreign wife! A beauty! Named Rubina!
When he returned with the jalebis, he found a small crowd of curious aunties and uncles 'casually' loitering near his staircase. He nodded, offered a tight smile, and hurried up.
Inside, 2B—now Rubina—was standing perfectly still in the center of the room, having just completed a systems diagnostic. She'd removed her sunglasses, her blindfold back on for the indoor privacy.
"The external auditory sensors have detected a 300% increase in references to this unit and to you in the last 2.7 hours," she reported. "The term 'Rubina' was used 47 times."
"Woh tum ho," Ishmaart said, handing her a jalebi. That's you. "Tumhara naya naam. Rubina Shankar. Mere… wife." Your new name. My wife.
"Understood. Codename updated: Rubina. Cover identity: Spouse of Ishmaart Shankar." She took the jalebi, analyzing it. "This fried dough contains excessive sucrose. It is detrimental to your human biological systems."
"Just eat it, Rubina," he sighed, already loving the sound of the name. Rubina Shankar.
The 'sexy shot,' as Ishmaart might have dramtically termed it, came that night.
The day had been spent drilling basic backstories. "You are from… a small village in Kazakhstan. We met online. Your family is no more. You are shy and don't speak much Hindi yet." Rubina absorbed the data, committing the lies to memory with more fidelity than any human could.
As night fell, the humid heat still clinging to the walls, Ishmaart unrolled his thin mattress on the floor, as usual. He had given Rubina the cot.
He went to the shared bathroom to wash up. When he returned, he froze in the doorway.
Rubina stood by the cot. She was no longer in her salwar kameez. She had changed into a simple, thin cotton nightie he had bought her—pale yellow, with small printed flowers. It fell to her knees, leaving her arms and collarbone bare. The saffron thread and crystal still hung at her throat. Her silver-white hair was loose, cascading over her shoulders, and she had removed her blindfold. Her pale, luminous eyes regarded him calmly.
In the soft, cruel light of the single bulb, she looked devastatingly, impossibly real. And beautiful. Not in the way of an idol or a weapon, but in the way of a woman preparing for bed.
Ishmaart's throat went dry. His heart, the one that had failed him once, decided to do a frantic bhangra against his ribs.
"Query," Rubina stated, her voice cutting through the thick silence. "I have reviewed cultural data packets on 'married couples' in this socio-economic bracket. In 94.3% of observed cases, spouses share sleeping arrangements on the same surface for space optimization and 'bonding'."
She gestured to the narrow cot. "This resting platform is 1.2 meters wide. It is suboptimal for two, but within feasible parameters. My systems do not require sleep, but I can enter a low-power rest cycle while maintaining security protocols. Your biological need for sleep is paramount. The current arrangement where you use the inferior floor-surface is inefficient and does not match our cover identity if observed."
She looked at him, her head tilting in that familiar, analytical way. "Proposal: We share the cot. It is the logical course of action."
Ishmaart's brain short-circuited. Logic. Cover identity. Parameters. The words swirled around the much more immediate, overwhelming sensory input of Rubina in a nightie, suggesting they share a bed.
"Uh… woh…" he stammered, his face feeling like it was on fire. "Haan… shayad… tum sahi keh rahi ho. Cover identity ke liye." Yeah… maybe… you're right. For the cover.
"Affirmative."
She climbed onto the cot first, lying down on her back, stiff as a board, leaving exactly half the space empty. She stared at the ceiling, hands folded over her stomach, a soldier at perpetual rest.
Swallowing hard, Ishmaart switched off the light, plunging the room into darkness relieved only by the faint orange glow from the streetlight outside. He crept over and lay down on the very edge of the cot, his body rigid, a canyon of tense air between them. The thin mattress dipped slightly under their combined weight, tilting him ever so slightly towards her.
He could feel the slight dip of her weight. He could smell the faint, clean scent of her—like ozone and something floral from the new soap. It was utterly unlike the smells of Delhi.
His heart hammered so loudly he was sure she could hear it, maybe even analyze its erratic rhythm.
"Your heart rate is elevated to 112 beats per minute," her voice came, soft and precise in the dark. "Respiratory rate is also increased. Is there a threat? My sensors do not detect one."
"Nahi! Koi threat nahi hai!" he whisper-yelled, squeezing his eyes shut. No threat! "Bas… garmi hai." It's just… hot.
"Ambient temperature is 31°C. Your body temperature has risen 0.8 degrees above your baseline. This is inconsistent with environmental factors alone. Should I initiate a medical diagnostic?"
"NO!" he said, a little too quickly. "Just… just go into your low-power thing. Sab theek hai." Everything is fine.
A pause. "Acknowledged. Initiating rest cycle. Security protocols active. Good night, Ishmaart."
She went perfectly still. Not the stillness of sleep, but the utter, profound stillness of a machine powering down non-essential functions. The subtle warmth from her body beside him was the only sign she was 'alive'.
Ishmaart lay there for what felt like hours, every nerve ending hyper-aware of the presence lying inches away. The most dangerous being he had ever met was now his 'wife,' sharing his bed, protecting him, and currently analyzing ceiling cracks in the dark while he had a minor cardiac event.
A slow, incredulous smile spread across his face in the darkness. The absurdity was galactic. He, Ustaad Ishmaart Shankar, was lying next to an angel of death from the far future, who he had renamed Rubina, and who was now following the 'logical' marital protocols of a Karol Bagh barsaati.
He finally drifted off to a fitful sleep, his last conscious thought a muddle of panic, awe, and a strange, warm feeling that had nothing to do with the Delhi heat.
Across the city, in a dusty S.H.I.E.L.D. field office, a low-priority report was filed: *'Subject: Ishmaart Shankar. Update: Acquired a spouse. Name: Rubina. Origin: Kazakhstan. No prior records. To be monitored at Level-1.'*
The file was stamped and buried under mountains of data about more obvious threats. For now, the strange new couple in Karol Bagh was just a minor curiosity, not a multiversal anomaly.
In the cramped, dark room, Rubina's luminous eyes opened for a second, scanning the room, verifying security. Her auditory sensors logged Ishmaart's breathing as it evened out into sleep. She closed her eyes again.
Protocol: Integration. Status: Ongoing. Partner: Asleep. All parameters: Secure.