Room no.906

Room Number 906

The sound of the door opening was heard. I quickly turned around; the speed of the light struck my eyes sharply. A dark shadow entered, and soon after, a doctor appeared in a white coat, a stethoscope hanging around his neck like a garland.

Had I been promoted to a new room, or transferred from the ICU? Was this good news, or something to be understood or explained? It was beyond comprehension. The doctor held my hand, and I came fully back to my senses.

“Why is your palm blue?” the doctor asked. At once, I looked at my mother’s face, then turned my pale face toward the doctor. He glanced at my clothes and said softly, “First, wash your hands.” My mother, holding the IV bottle, walked with me to the washbasin. The entire blue color washed away with water. The doctor laughed and said, “This is just the effect of your blue kurti.” Hearing this, everyone’s breath eased.

Just then, I noticed a new face peeking at us from behind the curtain. Parvati. On the patients’ chart pasted at the door, along with Room 906, Tapasvi, 21 Female, there was also Parvati, 21 Female.

Her body was extremely frail, her eyes yellow, her teeth the only thing visible. Her cheeks had sunken in, and her arms looked so thin that bangles could easily slip off. The repeated IV insertions had left her veins battered.

Soon, two strangers entered. The first man wore a white uniform and held a cap—he looked like a car driver. The second wore dark glasses, four rings glittering on his fingers. They walked past my bed and went straight to Parvati. A little while later, the elderly woman who had spent the night at Parvati’s bedside packed her bag and left the room.

One of the men arranged the things on the table, while the other placed the fruits he had brought onto the table and sat on a chair. The first man sat on the floor with folded hands, clutching a receipt, his head bent low. Removing his glasses, the two talked for a while. Finally, the man in black glasses pulled money from his suitcase and handed it over. Tears of joy welled in Parvati’s and the first man’s eyes. In this time of suffering, it felt as if God himself had come. They clasped his feet, joined their hands, and expressed their gratitude. Parvati too folded her hands, her eyes brimming with tears of relief.

Looking at his watch, the man rose from the chair, bid farewell, and left quickly, the receipt still in hand. The two remaining men happily unpacked the fruits and began eating. After giving Parvati her medicine, they chatted for a while and placed some clothes, vermilion, a comb, and powder from a small bundle onto her bed. Then, one of them pulled up the curtain between our beds like a wall.

Lying down, I drifted into deep sleep. I didn’t even know when. After a few hours, I felt very cold. My eyes opened; my mother was speaking to the nurse, who was adjusting the IV drip speed. My father entered just then, his whole body soaked with sweat from the heat outside. A hot, dry wind was blowing. After washing his face and hands, he unpacked the fruits he had brought, washed them carefully, and began to make juice.

For now, I had no work to do—just to eat on time and take medicine on time. That bitter medicine was enough to make me feel my loneliness.

Meanwhile, one of the men handed a phone to Parvati. “Your mother has called,” he said. The moment she heard her mother’s voice, her face overflowed with emotions, and tears poured out in one gulp.

My mother couldn’t bear to watch any longer and asked the man, “What has happened to the girl?”

He replied, “Madam, we have had a daughter, not even two weeks old. Both the baby and she (Parvati) have jaundice. The newborn is under a green bulb, and she is here. Even mother’s milk is not allowed, so my queen is fighting death without it. What can we do? We are uneducated. Staying in such a big hospital is difficult for us. Our entire year’s earnings are being spent here.”

Suddenly, a cry of pain was heard—it was Parvati’s. She was struggling with the bandages on her stomach. Her husband jumped up at once. With his support, she slowly made her way to the bathroom.

Meanwhile, my father stroked my head gently and handed me a glass of orange juice.

As Parvati walked back slowly, her fragile frame swaying under the weight of illness, I could sense that every step was an act of courage. Her husband’s trembling hands held her steady, but even his strength seemed borrowed, as though he was pleading with fate not to let her slip away.

When she returned, her eyes caught mine for a fleeting second. They were not the eyes of a 21-year-old girl—they carried the exhaustion of a lifetime, yet behind them flickered a faint spark. It was the kind of light only a mother has, a desperate will to live—not for herself, but for the little heartbeat that waited for her somewhere under a green bulb.

The curtain separated us again, but I could still hear her muffled sobs, her whispered prayers, and the low voice of her husband, promising her a future he wasn’t sure he could give.

That night, I could not sleep. My mind replayed the image of the small bundle placed on her bed—clothes, vermilion, a comb, powder. Symbols of a life she once imagined for herself: a simple home, laughter echoing in the walls, the sweet chaos of children, the rhythm of ordinary happiness.

But now, here in Room 906, it seemed those dreams were slipping through her fragile fingers, like sand refusing to stay.

Parvati’s dream was never grand—only to live, to nurture, to love. Yet as the machines beeped, as her frail body fought, it became clear that sometimes life does not steal our dreams suddenly. It erases them slowly, moment by moment, until all that remains is a memory of what could have been.

That night, through the thin curtain, I heard Parvati whisper to her husband, her voice trembling:

“నాకు అనిపిస్తోంది నేను నా కలలను కోల్పోతున్నాను… కానీ ఇప్పుడు తెలిసింది, గతాన్ని తలచుకోవడం కాదు, భవిష్యత్తు కోసం భయపడటం కాదు. ఈ క్షణంలో జీవించాలి.”

(“I feel like I am losing my dreams… but now I realize, it is not about clinging to the past or fearing the future. Life must be lived in the present moment.”)

Days passed. Parvati’s body slowly healed, her pain easing bit by bit. And then came the morning when the nurse walked in, carrying the tiny bundle wrapped in white cloth. With trembling arms, Parvati lifted her baby close to her chest.

Her frail face glowed with a new light, her tears no longer of pain but of joy. In that moment, it didn’t matter how uncertain tomorrow was. The past and the future dissolved—what remained was only the warmth of her baby in her lap.

And perhaps that was Parvati’s true lesson to us all: to be happy in the present, because sometimes the present itself is the dream we were always searching for.