CHAPTER 2:- Whispers in a Dying World
The sky beyond the hospital window had deepened into a shade of ink, streaked with the remnants of a dying sun. From this side of the building, Arun could see the empty roads, the eerie glow of streetlights flickering over desolate pavements. Ahmedabad, a city that never truly slept, had been forced into stillness. Curfew hours had begun. The usual sounds of auto-rickshaw horns, chai vendors calling out, and the distant hum of traffic had vanished. The silence was unsettling.
He exhaled and stood up from the chair. The old man in the corner was lying still, his breath shallow, his face barely visible in the dim light. Arun walked toward the door, pushing it open just enough to slip out.
The hallway stretched ahead, dimly lit and ghostly. Somewhere in the distance, he heard the slow shuffle of rubber soles against the tiled floor. A compounder, humming a Bhojpuri song under his breath, walked lazily through the corridor, swinging an empty clipboard in his hand. Arun recognized the tune—an old folk song about longing and homecoming.
He moved carefully toward the staircase at the end of the corridor. His steps were light, calculated. But then, just as he reached the turn, his ears picked up something—a voice, sharp and tense, coming from the open balcony just a few feet away.
A man in a white shirt and black trousers stood near the railing, phone pressed tightly to his ear. His voice carried through the silent halls, frustration laced in every word.
"I'm doing my best to protect my life and my job. Do you even understand how much trouble I'm in right now? My mother's in the hospital, battling a tumor, and I can't even see her because of this goddamn duty in the COVID ward."
The person on the other end must have interrupted because he let out a harsh laugh, bitter and exhausted.
"But of course, Aditi, you only care about your comfort. Your problems. Your ridiculous riddles about how I should leave all this behind and run away with you. I don't have that luxury. So do me a favor—don't call me again."
His fist slammed against the balcony railing before he cut the call.
Arun didn't wait to hear more. He turned and hurried down the staircase, his heart drumming in his ears. The words still echoed in his mind. I couldn't even see her because of my duty in the COVID ward. Arun had spent the past few years chasing stories of people like this—overworked doctors, frontliners drowning under pressure, people who had become ghosts in their own lives. He understood that frustration. That helplessness.
As he reached the second floor, he noticed a ward boy leaning against the wall near the staircase. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes were alert, scanning the hallway. Arun couldn't risk being seen.
He looked around, searching for a way out. His gaze landed on an open door in the farthest corner of the floor. Without thinking, he slipped inside and shut the door as quietly as possible.
The air inside was thick with the sharp scent of disinfectants and cleaning liquid. It was a storage room—shelves lined with bottles of antiseptic, gloves, syringes, and jars labeled in hurried handwriting. He pressed himself behind one of the larger shelves, holding his breath.
Footsteps.
Someone had stopped outside the door.
His lungs tightened. He willed himself to stay silent, but a burning tickle in his throat threatened to betray him. He fought it back, clenching his jaw.
The door creaked open.
A nurse stepped in, her phone in one hand. Arun recognized her immediately—she was the same woman he had seen earlier at the reception, talking to the constables.
She wasn't young, but her features carried a certain sharpness that defied age. Her hair was pulled back into a neat bun, her uniform crisp despite the exhaustion clinging to her frame.
She tapped the screen, then lifted the phone to her ear.
"Beta, kaise ho? Papa kaise hain? Dada-dadi theek hain?" (Son, how are you? How is your father? And Grandpa-Grandma?)
Arun's breath slowed. Her voice had softened—gentle, motherly.
"Nahi, mumma jaldi aa jaayegi. Papa ko pareshaan mat karna, okay?" (No, Mumma will come home soon. Don't trouble your Papa, okay?)
Her tone was full of warmth, a stark contrast to the sterile, cold room she stood in. For a brief moment, she wasn't just a nurse in a COVID ward—she was a mother, calling home in whatever stolen minutes she could find.
Then, before Arun could fully process it, the door opened again.
The ward boy from the hallway stepped inside.
Arun tensed. Had he been caught? His fingers curled into fists, ready to run. But then—
The ward boy moved swiftly toward the nurse. And before Arun could even register what was happening—
He kissed her.
Not just a hesitant brush of lips. A full, urgent, desperate kiss.
The nurse barely reacted. In fact, she leaned into it. Her hand, the same one that had just held a phone speaking of home and children, now curled into the fabric of the ward boy's shirt.
Arun felt his stomach drop.
This was something he hadn't expected.
He clamped a hand over his mouth, biting back the cough that threatened to escape. His body was frozen, not out of fear anymore but sheer disbelief. He had seen corruption, grief, loss. But this? This intimate, stolen moment between two people who probably shouldn't have been together—it felt oddly more human than anything else he had witnessed in this hospital.
"Someone's calling for you."
A voice echoed from the hallway.
The nurse and the ward boy broke apart instantly. She pushed him away with quick, practiced ease, straightening her uniform. The young man stepped back, his expression unreadable. Without another word, she turned and walked out, her posture composed, her face betraying nothing.
The ward boy lingered for a moment. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly, then glanced around the room. Arun stiffened, heart hammering.
But the ward boy didn't seem to notice him. He adjusted his shirt, took one last deep breath, and left, closing the door behind him.
Silence.
Arun remained still for a long time.
His mind struggled to process what he had just seen. His body still felt the tension, the lingering shock.
Then, slowly, he let out a shaky breath.
The world was collapsing outside. People were dying. Doctors were burning out. And yet, here, in the middle of a hospital drenched in death, life still found a way to exist in secret corners.
It wasn't the scandal of the act that rattled him. It was the reminder—of how human people still were, even in the face of catastrophe.
He swallowed hard, his throat still itching from the cough he had barely contained.
It was only a matter of time before he had to face his own fate.