The bustling, crowded confines of Mumbai’s Tata Memorial Hospital stood in stark contrast to the boundless fields of Nagpur. The air was thick with a potent mix of desperation and hope. Upon Rohan’s arrival, a swarm of activity enveloped him: a deluge of inquiries, thorough examinations, and the touch of icy instruments against his skin – a complete departure from the welcoming warmth of his beloved fields. A palpable sense of uncertainty permeated the air, the weight of it oppressive.

As he lay on the sterile, steel bed, the symphony of the hospital rang out around him – the painful moans, the whispered prayers – all reverberating off the hospital walls. Amidst the cacophony, he found himself besieged by guilt. “I don’t belong here,” he thought to himself. He couldn’t shake the belief that there were others more deserving of attention, those battling more severe ailments. “They should be treating them first,” he rationalized, his breaths coming out labored and heavy.

The doctors, perceiving the urgency of the situation, didn’t delay in orchestrating a series of tests. They took samples of Rohan’s blood for comprehensive lab analyses and performed an X-ray. As Rohan awaited the results, an unsettling stillness descended upon the room, the tension almost palpable.