Part 36
Evening rounds were nearly over.
The hallway buzzed with the soft rhythm of nurses finishing their charts, vitals being recorded, the shuffle of rubber soles on linoleum.
Room 407 remained quiet.
As always.
Inside, Maan sat at his usual place—chair drawn close, body slightly curled forward, as though trying to shield her from something even now. As though he could block the world by sheer proximity.
The video had stopped playing hours ago.
Her voice had long since faded from the speakers.
But still, he stayed.
One hand rested on the bedsheet, fingers near hers—but not touching. The other hand was pressed tight against his mouth, thumb at the edge of his jaw.
Like he was holding something in.
His eyes were shut.
His brows drawn tight.
His shoulders trembling, just faintly—so faintly you’d miss it unless you were watching too closely.
Which someone was.
Nurse Chitra was passing by with a tray of syringes from the supply closet. She wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. She wasn’t even looking for him.
But she glanced in.
And froze mid-step.
Maan Singh Khurana—impossibly controlled, always composed, iron-spined even in grief—sat with his head slightly bowed.
And a single tear was making its way down his cheek.
Not the kind that burst from the chest.
Not loud.
Not shaking.
Just silent.
Steady.
Like it was the only language he had left.
She looked away quickly, respectfully.
Didn’t pause.
Didn’t linger.
She walked on.
But later, while restocking the main cart with her floor partner, she spoke—softly, like sharing something sacred.
“He was crying.”
The other nurse looked up.
“Loudly?”
Chitra shook her head.
“No. Just…”
A breath.
“Like it’s the only language he has left.”
They didn’t say anything else.
They didn’t need to.
Because by now, everyone knew.
This wasn’t a man visiting a patient.
This was a man unraveling beside the only person who had ever made him feel tethered to the world.
And she was still not speaking.
But now the silence belonged to both of them.
+++
By now, the entire ICU wing moved differently around Room 407.
Not with formality.
Not with pity.
But with something softer. Something witnessed.
They no longer asked if Mr. Khurana would be staying overnight.
They stopped offering to bring him a blanket.
He never used one.
They just adjusted the lights lower when they could, softened their voices in the hallway, and changed her dressing with a kind of care that went beyond protocol.
It wasn’t just about the patient anymore.
It was about them.
The man who never left.
And the woman who still hadn’t opened her eyes.
That evening, Nurse Meera entered with fresh gauze and a tray of antiseptics.
Maan shifted slightly in his chair when she stepped in—not leaving, not interrupting. Just clearing space. Like he always did.
The nurse had long stopped asking if he wanted to step out.
Instead, she moved with quiet professionalism, checking her vitals, noting her oxygen levels, cleaning the corner of her lip with a soft damp pad.
Geet didn’t react.
But Maan’s eyes didn’t leave her face.
Not once.
He sat with his forearms resting on his knees, body tilted forward just enough that his entire attention felt like gravity.
He wasn’t looking at her.
He was guarding her.
Like if he looked away, she might vanish.
Meera peeled back the bandage on her forehead, gently smoothing the edges of her hair away from the gauze.
A single curl had slipped free from the side of the dressing, clinging faintly to her cheek.
Without thinking, Meera reached down and tucked it behind her ear, the motion instinctive, almost maternal.
Then—without looking at Maan, still focused on Geet’s face—she spoke softly.
“She’s beautiful.”
It wasn’t a compliment.
It wasn’t small talk.
It was an observation.
An offering.
Something said aloud because it needed to be.
Maan didn’t reply.
Didn’t nod.
Didn’t thank her.
But his hand—already holding Geet’s—tightened slightly over hers. Just once. Like a pulse. Like something silent and sacred responding from within him.
And that was enough.
The nurse didn’t look at him again.
She just continued her work in silence, as if the words had been placed in the air like flowers. Meant only to be acknowledged. Not answered.
And outside that room, beyond the curtain and the hum of machines, the hospital continued to breathe.
But a new kind of hush had begun to settle.
Not clinical.
Not mournful.
But reverent.
Like a quiet chorus rooting for them.
+++
The cafeteria was half-full.
Afternoon shift changes had thinned the crowd. Most were clustered in tired little groups—hunched over thermoses, rice boxes, and tea cups, trading fragments of stories between bites and chart updates.
In the far corner, by the vending machine that never worked properly, a young intern stirred her watery sambar in silence.
It was only her third week. She’d been on ICU rounds twice. Both times, she’d passed Room 407.
And both times, she’d looked in.
Now, her fork hovered just above her tray.
“Did you see the way he looked at her?” she said suddenly.
The words weren’t for anyone in particular.
But two nurses looked up, instantly knowing who she meant.
She glanced around—then lowered her voice.
“I peeked in. He was just… sitting there. Staring at her like she was the only thing left holding him together.”
No one laughed.
No one teased.
From the table across, Nurse Meera hummed once—low and thoughtful.
Then, simply:
“Maybe she is.”
The words landed with the weight of truth.
Not sentimental.
Not naive.
Just clear.
Like an answer to a question none of them dared say aloud.
And around them, the lunchroom didn’t pause. The chatter didn’t stop. But in that small circle of quiet, everyone knew what they were really talking about.
+++
Outside, in the Hall
Room 407 stood quiet.
Lights dimmed. Machines steady.
Inside, Maan sat where he always sat—shoulders slightly forward, elbows resting on his knees, Geet’s hand cradled between both of his.
His eyes never left her face.
Not to check his phone.
Not to glance at the time.
Not even when someone entered.
And it wasn’t desperation.
It wasn’t drama.
It was just that kind of undistracted love that no longer required explanation.
The kind that made interns whisper.
The kind that nurses rooted for.
The kind that, even in silence, felt like prayer.
+++
The children’s wing was always louder than the rest of the hospital—crayon-colored walls, cartoons playing faintly in corners, the sound of laughter never fully disappearing, even behind masks and IV poles.
Nurse Shalini had just finished her shift in Room 112, where a seven-year-old with pneumonia had finally fallen asleep clutching a stuffed dinosaur.
She stepped out into the hallway, rubbing her temple and stretching her spine.
Her break was only fifteen minutes.
Just enough time to walk, breathe, and remember the silence again.
She took the long route—past recovery, past surgical, past the ICU.
And then, without intending to, she slowed by Room 407.
The curtain was half-drawn, but enough to see.
She didn’t mean to stop.
But she did.
Inside, a man sat where he always did—shoulders slightly bent forward, his profile outlined by the soft halo of dimmed evening light.
He wasn’t doing much.
Just brushing a strand of hair back from the woman’s forehead.
Gently.
With two fingers, like it mattered more than anything else in the world.
Like the hair itself held her soul.
There was no urgency.
No drama.
He simply repeated the motion once. Then again. Tucking the curl softly behind her ear.
Shalini didn’t realize she was holding her breath until she turned away.
Another nurse passed her in the hall.
She reached out and touched her arm lightly.
Whispered, almost afraid of the sound:
“He touches her hair like he’s afraid she’ll vanish.”
The other nurse nodded. Said nothing.
Because what was there to say?
It wasn’t medical.
It wasn’t clinical.
It wasn’t even spoken aloud in Room 407.
But it was felt—a love so careful, it shook anyone who saw it.
+++
Inside the Room
Maan didn’t know anyone had watched.
He didn’t do it for effect.
He just looked at her—the same way he had for fifteen days now—and couldn’t bear the strand that had fallen across her eye.
So he tucked it away.
Gently.
With the same hands that once slammed boardroom doors
Now?
Now they trembled just from brushing her skin.
He didn’t speak.
Not yet.
Just sat there, staring at the face that wouldn’t move, and hoping—
Praying—
That his fingers might be enough to remind her:
I’m still here. I haven’t left. Not once. Not ever.
+++
He didn’t work for the hospital.
But he’d become part of it.
The old man from the tea shop across the street had been delivering chai to the staff for years. ICU nurses, security guards, administrative assistants—they all knew him by name. Some just called him Kaka.
Every morning, like ritual, he arrived with his metal flask, wrapped in cloth, cups stacked neatly in a steel tray. Cardamom, ginger, extra milk, no sugar—he remembered everyone’s preferences like a priest remembered prayers.
He never lingered.
Except when he did.
Today, he’d already delivered to the reception desk, to the nurses’ station near neonatal, to the security guard by the entrance.
But as always, he paused just outside ICU hallway B.
Right where he could see the door to Room 407.
Maan was in there.
Still.
As always.
Sitting in the exact same chair, head slightly tilted toward her, like even in silence, his entire body was listening.
The old man didn’t stare.
He just watched.
Then slowly turned—spotting Nurse Reema heading past with a patient chart in hand.
“Bitiya,” he called gently.
She stopped, smiled. “Kaka, namaste.”
He nodded once, then gestured with his chin down the hallway.
“That boy in there…” he said, voice low, rough with time. “He loves that girl.”
Reema’s smile softened.
“Yes, sir.”
The old man didn’t blink. He just kept looking toward the room.
Then added, like it wasn’t up for debate—
“If she wakes up…”
A pause. A breath.
“She better love him back.”
Reema bit her lip, her throat tight.
“Or?” she asked quietly.
Kaka let out a small exhale that could’ve been a chuckle.
“Or I’ll go in and give her hell myself.”
They both laughed—but gently.
Not loud.
Not careless.
It was the kind of laugh that warmed grief.
That softened truth without diluting it.
Reema’s eyes shimmered as she watched him walk away, flask swinging lightly at his side.
No one else in the lobby heard the exchange.
But it didn’t matter.
Because by now, the whole hospital knew—
Whatever was happening inside Room 407 wasn’t routine.
It wasn’t romantic in the way people made movies about.
It was quieter.
Deeper.
A man who hadn’t left.
And a girl who hadn’t yet returned.
And the steady growing circle of people—nurses, interns, doctors, strangers—who were all waiting with them now.
+++
She moved quietly through the halls, like breath.
One of the older cleaning staff. Always early. Always the last to leave.
Her name wasn’t written on any whiteboard, but everyone knew her—Kamala Aunty, the woman with wrists wrapped in red thread and hair pinned tightly in a bun, who folded hospital linens like they were temple offerings.
She spoke little. Walked less like a staff member and more like a presence.
And every morning she was assigned the ICU, she lingered at Room 407 just a few seconds longer than necessary.
No one questioned it.
Not anymore.
Inside, the same scene played out: Geet, unconscious. Motionless.
And beside her, always—him.
That boy.
That man.
The one who hadn’t left in fifteen days.
Kamala changed Geet’s sheets with precise care. Her hands were gentle—more gentle than most. She smoothed each corner with a reverence that didn’t come from training.
It came from witnessing.
From knowing what it meant to watch someone you love hang between worlds.
She’d seen many patients.
But she’d never seen anyone be waited for like this.
As she adjusted the blanket across Geet’s legs, she paused at the foot of the bed.
Maan was dozing lightly in the chair. Head bowed. Shoulders curled. One hand resting loosely over Geet’s.
Kamala’s gaze moved to the girl.
So still.
So young.
So loved.
She pressed her palms together silently in a soft namaste—not to worship, but to bless.
Then, reaching out, she smoothed a single wrinkle near Geet’s ankle.
Her voice came out a whisper—cracked, dry, but steady:
“Uth jao, beti…”
Wake up, child.
A pause.
She glanced at the boy.
“Woh intezaar kar raha hai.”
He’s waiting.
Then she turned and left, silent as ever, the fold of the blanket crisp behind her.
No one saw.
No one needed to.
Because the prayer had already been placed—softly, wordlessly—into the room.
Not with ritual.
But with love.
+++
Edited by NilzStorywriter - 3 months ago
Kyunki Saas Bhi Kabhi Bahu Thi 2
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