Hypertension was sweating straight through his premium panjabi from Aarong while waiting for his wife. He paced back and forth by the mirror, his face already turning a dangerous shade of maroon as he checked his watch for the fifth time in two minutes. If she took another ten minutes, his systolic reading was going to hit a spectacular 180 before they even touched the car.

“High Cholesterol, hurry up!” he yelled towards the dressing room. “They said the dawat would start at seven o’clock. It is already seven-fifteen! If we get stuck at the Mirpur Road signal, I am going to blow a fuse before we even cross Dhanmondi!”

“Goodness, stop yelling like a typical uncle,” High Cholesterol snapped, finally walking out while adjusting the heavy gold pleats of her Katan sari. She looked gorgeous, obviously, and completely unbothered by the concept of linear time. “A large family dawat never starts on time anyway. Let’s go.”

They got into the Prado, but as the driver started the engine, Cholesterol held up a manicured hand. “Wait. Tell him to stop by Gulshan-2 first. We need to go to The Premium Academic Sweetmeat Shop. We cannot show up at a relative’s house empty-handed. It doesn’t look nice.” Because showing up empty-handed is a social crime, but devouring the youth of Dhaka is just good manners.

When they pulled up to the shop, the glass display cases were glowing like a high-end boutique. Inside, rows of top-tier students were neatly arranged, categorised entirely by how beautifully their intense academic stress had ruined their bodies.

“The English medium ones have such beautifully clogged systems, Mum. You have to take them,” whispered their daughter, Fatty Liver, pressing her face against the glass.

The top shelf held private university kids labelled ‘Deep-Fried Acid Reflux’. They were magnificent specimens: bloated from presentation deadlines, practically dripping with midnight energy drinks and fast food from high-end restaurants.

“Those are too heavy,” Cholesterol sniffed, checking her diamond watch. “I’m dieting tonight. Give me 5kgs of the hyper-focused overachievers. They rarely remember to drink any water, you know,” she told her husband as she sent for the orders. “Pack the ‘Vitamin D Deficients’ and ‘Kidney Stones’ as well, please.”

“Ah, the dehydrated ones!” Hypertension grinned, his colour returning as a local bus blasted its hydraulic horn outside, instantly spiking his pressure back to a comfortable, life-threatening level. “Look at those Buet boys on the bottom shelf. Haven’t touched a glass of water since yesterday’s lab exam. Their kidneys are calcifying beautifully. Pack three dozen of those, please!”

They boxed up the rankers, paid the cashier, and sped off towards Dhanmondi.

The Diabetes duplex smelled exactly like a sterile hospital wing disguised as old money. When they arrived, the front gates swung open, and they were greeted at the door by Type 2 Diabetes and his cousin, Gestational Diabetes.

“Come in, come in! Assalamu Alaikum!” Type 2 Diabetes welcomed them, in a premium panjabi of his own, looking exactly like he hadn’t jogged since the late nineties. “The others are already in the living room. Look who finally showed up!”

The house was packed with invited joint families, because no Bengali gathering is complete without a suffocating lack of personal space. The Gastrointestinal Family was lounging on the sofas, with Gastric Ulcer and Chronic Constipation actively ruining the vibe by arguing over the TV remote. In the corner sat the Musculoskeletal Clan, with Neck Pain and Wrist Pain complaining loudly about the low height of the drawing-room cushions as if the furniture was a personal insult.

“You must be exhausted from the traffic,” Gestational Diabetes said, signalling a waiter. “Have some welcome drinks first.”

A tray of crystal glasses was brought out. Inside were medical students who had spent forty-eight hours straight staying awake for their exams, their blood streams completely saturated with high-concentration caffeine and pure stress hormones.

“Oh, marvellous,” Cholesterol said, sipping from her glass. “The caffeine kick is excellent. It really constricts the blood vessels perfectly. Exceptional quality.”

“Right? I got them fresh from the Farmgate coaching centres this afternoon,” Type 2 Diabetes replied proudly, guiding them towards the dining room. “Now come fast, dinner is served.”

The mahogany table was groaning under a massive Bengali buffet. Silver platters were piled high like mountains of kachchi, featuring public university toppers layered over coaching-centre kids, flanked by trays of engineering majors, and bowls filled with HSC board-examinees. It was a spectacular layout of human suffering, cooked to perfection.

They all took their seats, passing the platters around while catching up on what they had been up to lately, which mostly involved ruining lives.

“So, Hypertension, how is business?” asked Gastric Ulcer, whose stomach lining was burning with excitement as he took a massive portion of an engineering major.

“Ah, don’t ask,” Hypertension sighed, aggressively shaking salt over his plate, nearly trying to induce a medical emergency. “The coaching centres are doing half my work for me. The parents demand straight A’s, and the kids give me the most beautiful, tight blood vessels. Look at the tension in this Notre Dame boy’s heart! It’s a work of art. My system hasn’t felt this beautifully strained in months.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Cholesterol agreed, using her long fingernail to skim a thick, yellow layer of grease straight out of a coaching-centre girl’s neck artery, smearing the fat onto a piece of naan like butter. “This batch has been sitting in chairs for fourteen hours every day, eating nothing but deep-fried snacks. The blood flow is so sluggish, it’s practically a stagnant pond in Old Dhaka. I can map out five future heart attacks from right here. How are your subjects, Diabetes?”

Type 2 Diabetes chewed thoughtfully on a public university topper, though his face fell slightly, adopting the classic look of a man whose expectations were slightly inconvenienced. “The taste is good, but honestly, some of these engineering students skip meals entirely to cram for quizzes. There are no carbs in their systems! My sugar levels keep crashing because of their sudden fasting. Luckily, the business majors on the other side of the table haven’t left their desks in a month, so that balances it out.”

“Pass the private university students,” Fatty Liver grumbled to Chronic Constipation. “Their livers are glistening with pure trans fats from late-night presentation sessions. It keeps my cells happily inflamed, and frankly, I deserve it.”

After the heavy meal, the waiters cleared the platters and brought out the desserts. It was a grand arrangement of school kids who had spent the entire day playing video games while eating nothing but boba tea and chocolate to cope with their upcoming report cards.

“Oh, look at the sugar concentration in these sweets,” Gestational Diabetes purred, taking a large spoonful. “Perfect for my sugar crush.”

The families sat back, completely stuffed and satisfied, sipping their tea while the ambient noise of a dozen different illnesses filled the room. Wrist Pain was aching, Gastric Ulcer was burning, and Hypertension’s face was a beautiful, permanent shade of deep plum. They passed the toothpicks around, perfectly content knowing that as long as the infamous academic hustle of Dhaka continued, this big, terrible family would never run out of food.