Pamela was a medical student studying Medicine in Kolkata, India. She was a good student in the second year of her medical course, known for her dedication and hard work.
One winter evening, after an exhausting day of lectures, Pamela returned home with a headache. Initially she ignored, but the pain persisted. Days turned into a week, and the headache showed no signs of abating. Her parents, growing increasingly concerned, decided to consult their trusted house physician.
Dr. Mukherjee, the house physician, was a seasoned doctor who had known Pamela since she was a child. After a careful examination and a series of questions, he sensed that something was amiss. He immediately referred Pamela to a neurologist.
The neurologist, Dr. Sen, conducted a thorough investigation, including a series of scans and a biopsy. The wait for the results was agonizing, filled with a mix of hope and dread. Finally, the day of the diagnosis arrived.
Dr.Sen's expression was grave as he delivered the devastating news. Pamela had a malignant brain cyst, an aggressive form of cancer. The room fell silent as the weight of his words sank in. Pamela's parents clutched each other, their faces etched with anguish. Her siblings, also fully comprehend the gravity of the situation. Her family tried to stay strong for her, but the fear of losing her loomed large. Pamela herself faced inner turmoil, grappling with the cruel twist of fate that threatened to cut short her dreams.
Pamela's family decided to take her to Mumbai for the best possible treatment. The Tata Memorial Cancer Hospital was renowned for its state-of-the-art facilities and world-class doctors. Pamela's family braced themselves for the long and grueling treatment that lay ahead, including chemotherapy and immunotherapy.
As the chemotherapy sessions progressed, Pamela's health deteriorated. The family faced many challenges, one of which was the need for constant vigilance to ensure that Pamela received the necessary medications and blood transfusions.
One eventful chilly December night, her immediate elder brother, Paul, was at the hospital. Pamela was in the critical care unit on the 7th floor. Like any other day, Paul had met her doctor at about 10 p.m. and then went down to the retiring room for the patients' attendants on the ground floor.
At about 2 a.m., Paul suddenly awoke from his dozing with the announcement of his sister's name. That was the rule: when the authorities required the services of any patient's close ones, they would announce it in the retiring room, asking the person to contact their doctor. Paul rushed to the 7th floor.
When he reached, he found the attending doctor and nurse already standing in front of the lift.
"Mr. Paul," the doctor said urgently, "we need two bottles of O+ blood immediately, or your sister may collapse."
Astounded, Paul rushed back downstairs. He was totally at a loss, bewildered about what to do. This was not his city; where would he go to collect blood? There was hardly anybody around who could help him. He became a mere stone, tears rolling down his cheeks at the thought of his inability to acquire blood for his sister.
"Hello, brother, do you need any help?" a voice asked.
Paul turned around and saw a diminutive hospital ward boy in a khaki uniform. "Yes, I need two bottles of blood immediately, but I don't know where to get them."
"Don't worry, come with me," the boy said.
They stepped out of the hospital into the frigid, empty night street. The cold winter air bit at Paul's skin, making him shiver beneath his thin jacket. Not a single vehicle was in sight, and the streetlights cast eerie, elongated shadows on the frosty ground. The boy suddenly whistled, and as if conjured by the sound, an auto rickshaw(a motor-based three-wheeler vehicle) materialized from the darkness. Both boarded quickly, and the boy directed the driver with urgency. Paul, still dazed, felt the chill air whip around them as the rickshaw sped off at breakneck speed, the city lights blurring past like a surreal, icy dream. After what felt like an eternity, they screeched to a halt in front of a closed shop. The boy jumped out, pounded on the shutter with determination, and returned moments later with two meticulously packed blood bags.
The auto-rickshaw rocketed back to the hospital, the cold seeping into Paul's bones despite the adrenaline coursing through him. As soon as they stopped, Paul leaped out, clutching the blood bags, and dashed for the lift. The freezing air was momentarily forgotten in his frantic haste. Reaching the seventh floor, he handed the blood to the doctor, his breath coming in frosty puffs, and hoped against hope that he had arrived in time. The rest of the night, Paul stood there, knowing only that his sister was fighting for her life. At the break of dawn, the attending doctor came out with a slight smile.
"Mr. Paul, your sister has overcome the crisis and is currently stable."
With a sigh of great relief, Paul came down and regained his composure. Suddenly, he felt hungry. At that very moment, he remembered the boy, the driver, and the whole episode. He also realized that he hadn't paid for the blood or the auto rickshaw fare.
Pamela remained in the hospital for another month, and Paul continued his duty as the night shift attendant on multiple nights. However, he never saw the ward boy or the auto rickshaw driver again. He tried every department, describing the boy's height and features, but was only told that no boy matching his description worked there. When he inquired about the auto rickshaw, he was informed that plying auto rickshaws was banned in front of the hospital.
It remained a mystery who the boy and the driver were. However, Pamela recovered and is now living in London with her doctor husband and two lovely children.