I met my brother when I was a month shy of my second birthday -

Host: The afternoon light slanted through the old veranda, spilling gold across the marble floor and the open photo albums that lay scattered like time had just loosened its grip. Outside, the mango trees swayed lazily in the warm breeze, their shadows dancing on the whitewashed walls. Somewhere in the distance, a radio played a faint, nostalgic tune — the kind that smells like memory and dust.

Jack sat on the wooden bench, a glass of lemon water sweating in his hand, his shirt sleeves rolled up, the top button undone. Jeeny sat cross-legged on the floor, flipping through an album filled with sepia photographs, her eyes lit with a childlike curiosity.

Host: It was one of those lazy summer afternoons that felt half real, half remembered, when the world slowed down just enough for people to talk about the past without rushing to escape it.

Jeeny: “Shweta Bachchan Nanda once said — ‘I met my brother when I was a month shy of my second birthday — he came into this world in style. I believe my father popped champagne in the hospital corridors and made sure all the nurses got a sip.’”

Host: Her voice carried a smile, soft and affectionate, as though the words themselves were wrapped in old family warmth.

Jack: “That’s sweet. A father handing out champagne in a hospital corridor. That’s how you know life used to be simpler — more human.”

Jeeny: “Simpler, maybe. But not smaller. There’s a kind of grandeur in the ordinary when it’s done with love. That’s what this quote feels like to me — like a tiny celebration of belonging.”

Jack: “Belonging. Yeah.” He took a slow sip. “Funny how some people are born into it, while others spend their whole lives trying to earn it.”

Host: The fan above them creaked rhythmically, slicing through the heat and the soft buzz of the afternoon. A few pages of the album fluttered open on their own, revealing a photo of two children — one laughing, one crying — their hands clutching the same toy car.

Jeeny: “You know, I used to think my brother was born to annoy me. He’d pull my braids, hide my books, eat the last mango slice every single time. But now — when I look back — it feels like every fight we had was just love in disguise.”

Jack: “Love always is. Most people just never learn to translate it.”

Jeeny: “What about you? You ever had that kind of bond?”

Jack: He paused, eyes on the photograph. “I had a brother. Older. He used to take the blame for things I did. Once, I broke my father’s watch — an heirloom — and he said it was him. Took a beating, too. Never told me why.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that was his way of protecting you.”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe he just wanted to keep the peace. You know how it is in those houses — where fathers shout and sons grow up too fast.”

Host: The sunlight dimmed a little as a cloud passed overhead, changing the tone of the scene — from nostalgia to something more tender, more fragile.

Jeeny: “Still, you remember him with warmth. That means something. That’s its own kind of champagne in the corridor, isn’t it?”

Jack: Smirks faintly. “You have a strange way of connecting things.”

Jeeny: “No — I just think moments like that quote… they’re about celebration, but not the loud kind. They’re about how love announces itself in ordinary ways. A father giving champagne to nurses isn’t really about the champagne. It’s about saying, ‘Look, my world just got bigger — and I want everyone to taste it.’”

Jack: “You really think that’s love? Sharing a drink?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Love isn’t in words, it’s in gesture. It’s in the instinct to share your joy. Like lighting an extra lamp so someone else can see your light too.”

Host: The wind stirred again, sending the curtains billowing inward like soft ghosts of memory. Jack’s gaze followed them — half in thought, half in regret.

Jack: “My father never popped champagne when I was born. He didn’t even show up. Mom told me later he was working a double shift.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that was his version of champagne — responsibility instead of celebration.”

Jack: “Maybe. But it’s funny — we remember the noise people make when they love us, but not the quiet they carry for us.”

Host: A dog barked somewhere in the distance. The radio changed songs — an old tune from the seventies, echoing the melancholy sweetness of growing up too soon.

Jeeny: “You know, I think every family has a ‘champagne in the corridor’ moment — not the literal one, but something symbolic. Like when your mother stays up to see you return home safe, or when your brother saves the last sweet for you, even if he wants it too.”

Jack: “You make it sound like family is poetry.”

Jeeny: “It is, Jack. It’s the only poem that keeps rewriting itself no matter how many times we mess it up.”

Host: She smiled softly, then picked up another photograph — this one of a wedding. The bride laughing, the father wiping a tear discreetly, the brother standing proud beside her.

Jeeny: “That’s the thing about family — they don’t just share your moments, they help you build them. They’re the invisible hands holding the stage lights while you live your scenes.”

Jack: “And sometimes they’re the ones pulling the curtains down when it’s time to end the act.”

Jeeny: Laughs softly. “True. But you still thank them for showing up.”

Host: The afternoon stretched into evening. The light on the veranda turned amber, and the air filled with the faint scent of rain. The photographs lay open — faces frozen mid-laughter, moments suspended in the amber of memory.

Jack: “You know, when I hear that quote, I don’t just think about birth. I think about how every person who enters our life — friend, sibling, lover — deserves a little champagne moment. Some kind of welcome that says, ‘You matter.’”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what it means to be alive — to keep celebrating people as if they just arrived.”

Host: The first drops of rain began to fall, tapping lightly on the roof. Jeeny leaned back, eyes closed, smiling at the sound. Jack looked at her — the way the soft light played across her face — and for a moment, everything about the world felt gentle, whole, and worth remembering.

Jack: “You ever wish you could go back? To those simple days when love didn’t need to be explained — when it just showed up with bubbles and a smile?”

Jeeny: “No. I think we just have to learn how to do it again. Grown-up love, grown-up family, grown-up forgiveness — it’s all the same old champagne, just poured into different glasses.”

Host: The rain grew steadier now, its rhythm like a quiet heartbeat against the veranda roof. The album pages fluttered closed, one by one, as if the past had finally said its piece.

Jeeny stood, stretching, the soft rainlight painting her silhouette in gold.

Jeeny: “Maybe the real lesson is simple — that every person who walks into your life deserves to be greeted like a miracle. Even if it’s just with a smile… or a glass of something sparkling.”

Jack: “You really think love’s that simple?”

Jeeny: “No. But I think it starts that simply.”

Host: Outside, the rain softened, the world turning silver and still. The two of them stood in the doorway, watching as the water pooled along the pathway, catching the light like a string of champagne bubbles spilling from heaven itself.

And for a moment — brief, tender, and unguarded — the whole world felt like a toast.
A toast to birth, to family, to forgiveness — and to the small, extraordinary act of remembering how to celebrate each other.