Page 4 of Trapped By the Maharaja
The emergency ward was crowded. Doctors, nurses, and staff rushed around, monitors beeped in uneven rhythms, and the waiting room overflowed with restless families.
“Please! Someone help!”
A woman’s desperate cry cut through the buzz of conversations. Heads turned, some with curiosity, but most with pity. In torn sandals, a faded green saree, her hair untidy and face smeared with tears, the young mother stumbled forward, clutching a limp, nearly unconscious child in her arms.
She fell to her knees beside the patient admissions desk. “Please save him! My son is not waking up! Please help!”
A doctor on shift looked at the sick boy. When he checked the pulse, his expression grew grim before looking at the help desk. “High risk case,” the doctor muttered. “Will require surgery.”
The admissions staff at the desk understood what that meant. It meant that the young mother would not be able to pay for the treatment and surgery.
“Go to the government hospital,” the woman at the admissions desk said flatly.
The mother shook her head frantically. “But my son is not breathing properly! He’ll die by the time I take him to a government hospital!”
The staff member looked unfazed. “You need to leave, or we will call the security and have you thrown out.”
The mother clutched her son tighter. “I’ll do anything, please! I don’t have money right now, but I’ll pay somehow. Just save my son’s life!”
The staff member behind the desk sighed, her expression unmoved. “Surgeries cost lakhs. Even if we try, your son might die, and you will still have to pay the hospital fee.”
The words struck like a blow. The young mother’s face crumpled as she looked down at her son’s limp body. She knew she would do anything to save his life. She would sell her tiny home and the meager possessions she had. If only someone could help her son.
Just as the mother was about to lose hope, a middle-aged nurse approached her.
The nurse spoke in a low voice, so only the mother could hear. “There is one doctor who might help,” she whispered.
The mother blinked, desperate. “Who? Please tell me!”
“Dr. Shetty. She’s in pediatrics. Room 3B.” She pointed towards the hallway that led to the pediatrics department.
The mother clutched her child and staggered back to her feet. Thanking the young nurse, she ran in the direction mentioned.
She stumbled into the pediatric wing, scanning faces desperately.
“Where is Dr. Shetty? I need Dr. Shetty!”
“Dr. Shetty is in room 3B. Over there, send room from last.”
The mother didn’t wait. She ran with her son still in her arms. The staff and hospital security shouted behind her, but she didn’t wait. All she felt was the desperate rasp of her son's breath against her chest.
She burst into Room 3B, breathless and desperate.
Inside, there was a group of women. Most of the women were in a nurse's uniform, and only one was in a doctor’s coat.
The one in the doctor’s coat was a petite woman with a messy ponytail.
She was looking at a file with a pen dangling from her lips.
Her white coat was oversized, sleeves rolled up.
The mother looked at them frantically. “I—I’m looking for Dr. Shetty!”
The petite woman looked up with a small frown. “I am Dr. Shetty.”
The mother’s breath caught. This? This pretty, too-young-looking woman? She was expecting an older man, graying at the temples, not a young woman who looked like a teenager.
However, the young doctor’s dark eyes were sharp and intelligent, quickly assessing the situation.
“Please,” the mother gasped, collapsing to her knees and holding her son forward. “My son… please, save him. T-they said there’s no hope. Nobody is helping.”
Dr. Shetty was already by the boy’s side, her hands already assessing. Fingers on pulse. Eyes on his pallor. She leaned close, listened to the rattling breath.
“Ventricular defect,” she muttered. “No, worse… pericardial effusion. Compression. Tamponade.”
Dr. Shetty looked at a nurse. “He needs immediate surgery. Right now.”
“But the OR—” started the nurse.
“Have it readied right now,” Dr. Shetty ordered. “Get me Theater C prepped. Crash protocol. No formal clearance. I’ll take full responsibility.”
“But Dr. Shetty,” another nurse protested, “You need admin clearance , and—”
“I said prep the damn theater! And get me atropine and milrinone. I’m using the restricted batch from Dr. Seth’s lab.”
The nurses paused.
“That’s not approved for—”
“I’m not asking for permission,” she snapped. “This child’s heart is about to stop as we argue.”
Dr. Shetty stood. “Prepare right now!”
The next few minutes were a blur as the young mother watched frantically. Her son was wheeled into the operating room. Dr. Shetty followed, giving instructions and not allowing any delay. But she paused for a brief moment to look at the frantic mother.
“You did the right thing bringing your son here,” Dr. Shetty said, her voice softening. “I’ll take care of him.”
With that reassuring remark, Dr. Shetty stepped into the operating room.
The young mother waited outside. She heard the whispers from the staff outside the operating room.
“Dr. Rao is not going to be happy,” a nurse said.
“He had warned Dr. Shetty several times,” replied another. “He even warned all of us not to break protocol on Dr. Shetty’s orders.”
“Yes, but it is a matter of saving innocent children’s lives. I will always support Dr. Shetty.”
The other staff members agreed.
While the whispers followed outside the operating room, the young mother joined her palms together and prayed that the beautiful, kind-hearted yet rebellious doctor would succeed in saving her son’s life.