The emergency ward of City Hospital was alive with chaos—stretchers rushing past, anxious voices rising and falling, the smell of antiseptic thick in the air. In the center of it all, Dr. Raghav Sinha moved with quiet certainty. His white coat bore faint smudges from a long shift, yet his face carried a calm that soothed more than any injection.
On the bed before him lay a frail boy no older than seven. His mother, a woman in a faded sari, clutched her pallu tightly, watching every movement with fear in her eyes.
“Bas, ek chhoti si injection aur,” Raghav said gently, crouching down to meet the boy’s gaze. “Phir jaldi ghar jaa kar cricket kheloge.”
The child whimpered but allowed the needle. Minutes later, the feverish flush on his cheeks began to ease. Relief washed over the mother’s face as she folded her hands.
“Beta, hum gareeb hain… fees ke liye—” she began.
Raghav interrupted softly. “Koi paisa nahi. Bas usko doodh pilaiyega aur time pe davai. Yeh hospital aapke liye bhi hai.”
It was a simple act, ordinary in his mind, extraordinary in theirs.
The moment, however, shattered with the heavy thud of polished shoes on tile. Mohan Sinha strode in, flanked by two aides. His presence turned heads immediately—power had a way of announcing itself before words were spoken.
“Raghav!” Mohan’s voice boomed, drawing every gaze in the room. “Yahan kya kar rahe ho? Rally ka samay tha. Pura sheher tumhari speech ke intezaar mein hai!”
The boy’s mother flinched. Raghav stood slowly, removing his gloves. His tone was respectful, but steady. “Papa, mere patients intezaar kar rahe the. Zindagi ko speeches ke liye rukna nahi chahiye.”
Mohan’s eyes hardened. “Tum neta ke bete ho. Sinha naam jodne ke liye maidan mein khade hote hain, dispensary mein nahi. Tum samajhte kyun nahi—tumhe empire chalana hai, bas operation theatre nahi.”
For a moment, silence weighed heavy between father and son. Raghav’s jaw tightened, but his calm never cracked. “Mujhe jo banaya gaya hai, woh doctor hai. Main logon ko bachaane ke liye khada hota hoon, kursi ke liye nahi.”
Mohan’s aides exchanged uneasy glances. Mohan, visibly seething, finally turned away with a dismissive snarl. “Tum meri ummeedon ko dhool bana doge ek din, Raghav.”
The storm left as abruptly as it had entered, leaving whispers in its wake.
Raghav exhaled, rubbing his temples. Before the weight could settle, a familiar voice rang out from the doorway.
“Wah, bhai!” Arjun leaned against the frame, grin as bright as the hospital’s fluorescent lights. “Tu politics se bhaagta hai, aur main politics ko samajhta hi nahi. Lucky Daadi—ek serious doctor aur ek comedy show mil gaya unko ek ghar mein.”
The tension cracked like glass. Raghav gave him a weary smile. “Tu hamesha waqt pe aata hai, Arjun.”
“Main toh hamesha waqt pe aata hoon,” Arjun quipped, stepping forward. “Bas tuition aur responsibilities pe late ho jaata hoon.”
The two brothers shared a quiet laugh, their bond a refuge against the storm of their father’s ambitions. In that laughter was truth: one carried the burden of being the heir who refused, the other the freedom of being the brother who watched, teased, and understood more than he admitted.
*thank youuuuu so much for reading ❤️*
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