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In The Hospital That Refused to Treat – Part 3, Shalini and Prakash notice suspicious treatment inside a hospital.
Read part 2 here.
The Hospital That Refused to Treat – Part 3
Chapter 3: Prakash Mehta
“Is this seat taken?”
Shalini looked up at the gentleman standing beside her.
He appeared to be in his late sixties, perhaps early seventies. His silver hair was neatly combed, and despite the discomfort evident on his face, there was something cheerful about him.
“Not at all,” she said.
“Thank you.”
He lowered himself carefully into the chair and let out a quiet sigh.
For a few moments, they sat in silence.
Then the man glanced at the registration form on Shalini’s lap and smiled.
“First visit?”
Shalini laughed softly.
“Is it that obvious?”
“A little.”
“What gave me away?”
“The expression.”
“What expression?”
“The one that says you’re trying to decide whether this is a hospital or a five-star hotel.”
The remark caught her off guard.
She laughed again, this time more genuinely.
“My name is Prakash Mehta,” he said, extending a hand.
“Shalini Deshpande.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
Prakash shifted slightly in his seat and pressed a hand against his stomach.
“You don’t look well,” Shalini said.
“I’ve felt better.”
“How long have you been waiting?”
Prakash checked his watch.
“Almost two hours.”
Shalini stared at him.
“Two hours?”
He nodded.
“Abdominal pain.”
“And nobody has seen you yet?”
“Oh, they’ve seen me.”
His eyes twinkled with amusement.
“They’ve taken my insurance details, my medical history, and enough personal information to write my biography.”
Despite herself, Shalini smiled.
“But no doctor?”
“Not so far.”
The two shared a look.
There was humour in the exchange, but frustration beneath it.
Outside, rain tapped softly against the glass windows.
Inside, the waiting room remained strangely calm.
Prakash folded his hands across his lap.
“Are you retired?”
“School principal.”
His eyebrows rose.
“That explains it.”
“Explains what?”
“You have the look.”
“What look?”
“The one that says you can silence an entire room with a single sentence.”
Shalini laughed.
For the first time that evening, she felt herself relaxing.
They spent the next several minutes talking.
About retirement.
About children living far away.
About how quickly the city seemed to be changing.
Prakash told her he had worked as a civil engineer for nearly forty years.
Shalini spoke about the students she still occasionally met in markets and railway stations.
The conversation felt easy.
Comfortable.
Like speaking with an old neighbour.
Then the reception area suddenly became active.
A young man in an expensive suit entered through the main doors.
He looked healthy enough to be heading to an office rather than a hospital.
One of the receptionists stood immediately.
Within moments, another staff member appeared and guided him towards a private consultation room.
No forms.
No waiting.
No questions.
The entire process took less than two minutes.
Prakash watched him disappear down the corridor.
Then he glanced at Shalini.
“Interesting.”
She followed his gaze.
The elderly woman across the room was still waiting.
So was Prakash.
So was everyone else.
Yet somehow, the newcomer had gone straight in.
Neither said what they were thinking.
They didn’t need to.
Something about the situation felt wrong.
And as the consultation room door closed behind the young man, Shalini found herself wondering whether this hospital treated all patients equally—or whether some lives simply mattered more than others.
To be continued…
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