In what seemed like an interminable wait, the door creaked open, letting in a fresh bout of frigid air. Rohan looked up from the edge of the cold, metallic bed he was laid on, his heart pounding in his chest. Two doctors walked in. One of them started talking. He was a middle aged man, not much older than Rohan. A pristine white coat flapped gently around him as he moved, a stethoscope swaying around his neck.

“Dr. Ajay Kumar,” he introduced himself, extending a firm hand towards Rohan. His serious gaze met Rohan’s. Rohan returned his handshake, his grip weak and shaky. He couldn’t help but ignore the doctor’s discerning eyes on his protruding belly, its abnormal size impossible to ignore even under the loose hospital gown.

When he looked at him again, a sinking feeling took hold of Rohan, a gnawing fear that mirrored the doctor’s. It felt as if an icy hand had clutched his heart. Rohan had seen enough television dramas to know what that look meant – there was something seriously wrong with him…