The crowded, bustling Tata Memorial Hospital in Mumbai was a stark contrast to the endless fields of Nagpur. The air was filled with a powerful mix of hope and desperation. Rohan was surrounded by a flurry of activity upon his arrival: an avalanche of questions, thorough examinations and the touch of cold instruments on his skin. This was a far cry from the warmth of the fields he loved. The air was filled with a palpable feeling of uncertainty, and the weight of that uncertainty was oppressive.
The symphony rang off the walls of the hospital as he laid on the sterile steel bed. He could hear the moans and whispered prayers echoing around him. He was overwhelmed by guilt as he listened to the hospital’s cacophony. He thought, “I don’t belong here.” He could not shake the feeling that others were more in need of help, and those with more serious ailments. He rationalized that they should treat them first, as his breathing became heavy and labored.
As soon as they realized the urgency, the doctors began a series tests. The doctors took blood samples from Rohan for lab analysis and an X-ray. The tension was palpable as Rohan waited for the results.
The door creaked, letting in fresh air, after what seemed to be an endless wait. Rohan, whose heart was pounding, looked up from his cold metallic bed. Two doctors entered. One of the doctors began to talk. He was about Rohan’s age, a man of middle-age. He moved with a white coat that flapped around him, and a stethoscope around his neck.
He introduced himself as “Dr. Ajay Kumar” and extended a firm hand to Rohan. He met Rohan with a serious look. Rohan shook Rohan’s hand, but his grip was weak and trembling. He could not help but ignore his doctor’s keen eyes as he looked at his bulging stomach, which was impossible to ignore under the loose hospital gown.
Rohan felt a sinking fear when he saw him again. It was the same as that of the doctor. He felt an icy grip on his heart. Rohan knew what that look meant. There was something wrong with him.
