The hospital floor was cold, hard, and stained with the ghosts of a thousand other tragedies. It was here, in the sterile, humming silence of the corridor outside Gangesh's room, that his friends built their makeshift fortress. The adrenaline had long since drained away, leaving behind a crushing fatigue and the slow, cold drip of reality.
None of them slept. Not really.
Aditya sat propped against the wall, his eyes burning holes in the opposite door. Every rustle from inside Gangesh's room made his head snap up. Sagar, defeated by exhaustion, had eventually slumped over, his head finding a pillow on Aditya's thigh. Even in sleep, his face was pinched. A low mumble escaped his lips. "…stop being a hero, you donkey… just sleep… we'll get the samosas later…"
Karan had simply laid down on the unforgiving linoleum beside Gangesh's door, his body a straight line of tension. He wasn't sleeping. His eyes were open, fixed on the ceiling, running through a silent, frantic list. The numbers were a horror show. Ambulance fee. Emergency room charges. Sutures. Medicines. The overnight observation. His family was comfortable, but this? This was a mountain. And their parents… telling them meant explanations, panic, long-distance fear. That was a battle for later. First, they had to survive the financial war.
The night was a long, dark crawl. Their eyes grew gritty, their bodies aching from the floor. The list in Karan's head grew longer, more terrifying. Food. They had no food. Their clothes were still stiff with Gangesh's blood. The medical fees were a monster lurking just outside the door, waiting for sunrise to pounce.
When the pale, sickly light of morning finally seeped through the corridor windows, it illuminated three boys who looked like they had been through a war. Dark circles pooled under their eyes. Their movements were slow, heavy with a sleepless dread. The to-do list was no longer mental; it was a physical weight on their shoulders.
"The medical bill," Karan finally said, his voice hoarse. He didn't need to say more.
Aditya scrubbed a hand over his face. "We'll figure it out. We'll… I don't know. We'll sell something."
"What? Your collection of broken bike parts?" Sagar mumbled, sitting up and rubbing his neck. "We need a miracle."
Just then, a nurse came by with a tray. A bowl of bland, yellow khichdi and a small cup of bitter-looking medicine. "For the patient," she said crisply.
They filed into the room. Gangesh was awake, pale and propped up on pillows, but his eyes were clear. The sight of him, alive and conscious, was a balm on their raw nerves. Immediately, the facade of worry crumbled, replaced by their native language: relentless, caring nuisance.
"Look who decided to join the living," Aditya said, grabbing the bowl of khichdi. He scooped a large, ungraceful spoonful. "Open up, baby bird. Time for your mush."
Gangesh grimaced. "I can feed myself."
"Your hands are shaking worse than Aditya's were last night," Karan stated, pulling out his phone to check the latest hospital charges online. His face paled further. "And you need your strength. The financial calculations for your recovery are… dire."
Sagar picked up the medicine cup, sniffing it and recoiling. "Ugh. This smells like regret and broken dreams. Bottoms up." He held it to Gangesh's lips.
It was a pathetic, chaotic scene. Aditya was trying to shove khichdi into Gangesh's mouth while simultaneously opening a bag of chips for himself, crunching loudly. Karan was reading out alarming numbers about IV fluid costs. Sagar was nagging about the taste of the medicine. They were a symphony of foolish, sleep-deprived love, their laughter tired and ragged, but real. They were so absorbed in their own world, they didn't hear the soft footsteps at the door.
They didn't see the four figures standing there, frozen in the doorway, taking in the absurdity.
Anya, Suman, Kusum, and Sandhya had come as a unit, a diplomatic mission of sorts. They'd gotten the room number from a college group chat; being famously, infamously known had its uses. They came with a quiet, shared purpose—to see if he was really okay, to lay eyes on the boy who had become a bloody legend overnight. They expected solemnity. Tension. Perhaps a quiet, heroic suffering.
They did not expect… this.
They saw Aditya, with chip-dust on his fingers, attempting to feed a patient. They heard Karan's clinical dissection of monetary doom. They saw Sagar, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else, forcing bitter medicine down Gangesh's throat. The boys were completely, utterly unaware, lost in their own messy, beautiful orbit.
Then, Sandhya coughed. A soft, deliberate sound.
The girls coughed in unison.
The effect was instantaneous.
The chaos in the room screeched to a halt. Four heads snapped towards the door. Four faces, a second ago full of familiar, nagging affection, morphed into masks of pure, unadulterated embarrassment. Aditya yanked the khichdi spoon back so fast he spilled some on the sheet. Karan fumbled his phone, nearly dropping it. Sagar hid the medicine cup behind his back like a guilty child.
For a long, electric moment, nobody spoke. The professional mask the boys slammed into place was almost comical in its swiftness.
Gangesh's eyes found Anya's. He looked exhausted, in pain, and utterly embarrassed. But there was no smile this time. Just a deep, weary acknowledgement.
Suman's sharp eyes scanned the scene—the bloodstained clothes piled on a chair, the dark circles under the boys' eyes, the half-eaten bag of chips next to the medical tray. Her mind, always working, assembled the puzzle. *They stayed all night. They're broke. They're terrified. And they're covering it with this… this nonsense.* A thought, clear and furious, formed in her head: *They really are a nuisance. Ugh. Should I beat them?* But she held her tongue, her expression unreadable.
Kusum's gentle heart ached at the sight of them. The bravado was so thin, so transparent. She could feel the fear and exhaustion leaking out of them.
It was Anya who broke the silence, her voice surprisingly calm. "We heard. We came to see." Her gaze swept over Gangesh, taking in the pallor, the bandaged leg, the IV line. "You look like you fought a war."
"And lost to a bowl of khichdi," Aditya muttered, recovering some of his bravado, but his ears were bright red.
Karan, ever the diplomat in a crisis, straightened his glasses. "His condition is stable. The prognosis is positive, barring infection or financial insolvency."
The word 'financial' hung in the air, a silent, screaming admission.
It was then that the miracle happened.
Anya didn't look at the others. Her eyes were still on Gangesh. She reached into the small bag she carried, pulled out her phone, and her fingers moved over the screen with quick, decisive taps. She didn't say a word.
A moment later, Karan's phone, which he was still clutching, vibrated with a soft *ping*. He looked down, his brow furrowed. Then his eyes widened. He stared at the screen, his mouth slightly agape. He looked from his phone to Anya, then back to his phone.
"The… the hospital portal," he stammered. "The outstanding balance. It's… it's cleared."
The air left the room. Aditya and Sagar stared at Karan, then at Anya. The embarrassment was now mixed with a stunned, profound gratitude that was too big for words.
Anya simply gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. No drama. No speech. It was done.
The professional mask on the boys' faces cracked, revealing the raw, grateful boys underneath. They had no words. A thank you was too small, too inadequate for the weight of the miracle she had just delivered.
Suman watched the exchange, her earlier thought of violence fading. The puzzle was complete. *Fools. Brave, loyal, stupid fools.* She looked at Kusum, who had tears in her eyes again, but this time from relief. She looked at Sandhya, whose observant gaze was fixed on Anya, a tiny, knowing look in her eyes.
The girls didn't stay long. Their mission was accomplished. They had seen he was alive. They had, in their own way, ensured he would remain so.
As they turned to leave, Anya's eyes met Gangesh's one last time. No smile. No scorn. Just a look that held a universe of unspoken things—acknowledgement, a truce, and a question mark for the future.