Hi friends, I'm Boomi, working at a startup in Chennai. Our company is growing, and we're moving to a new office location. During this transition, I got the chance to work from home for two weeks. Excited, I immediately called my mom in Coimbatore to share the news. As a hostel dweller, I was craving homemade food, so I gave her a list of my favorite dishes.

That night, I booked my train ticket on the Cheran Express, departing at 10 PM. Around 11 AM, my dad called to check on me. "What are you doing, dear?" he asked. "Working, Pa, I'm in the office," I replied, since our office didn't observe Bakrid as a holiday.

Then, he told me that my mom had slipped and broken her wrist. When he handed the phone to her, I asked, "What happened, Mom? What did you do?" I didn't think it was serious until she started crying. Realizing she was in pain and scared, I reassured her, "Don't worry, I'll be home by morning and take care of you."

My parents went to Ganga Hospital, renowned for its orthopedic care. My friend dropped me at the railway station, and we bought fried rice to eat. We arrived just in time, so I couldn't eat it. He split the rice into his tiffin box since he needed to cook once he got home.

I boarded the train, settled into my upper berth, and informed my mom that I had started my journey and would be there by morning. My cousin from Chennai called to check on me. I told him I was on the train and would reach Tirupur by 5 AM. He knew about my mom's accident but wasn't sure if I had been informed. "Yes, they told me at 11 AM," I said. "Take care, dear, and travel safely," he replied.

Despite setting multiple alarms, I couldn't sleep properly, waking up every hour to check the time. Usually, I catch the bus at 5 AM, but it started at 5:30 AM that day. By the time I reached home, it was 6:30 AM. My dad was already packing for the hospital. I quickly freshened up, and we left for the hospital at 7 AM. Initially, I thought we'd park the bike at the bus stand and take the bus to Ganga Hospital, but my dad decided to drive directly to avoid traffic.

We arrived at the hospital by 8 AM, and preparations for the operation were underway. I learned about the operation only on the way to the hospital. When I saw my mom, she started crying. I patted her head and reassured her, "Don't worry, Mom, it's just a minor operation. You'll get better soon."

We waited outside the room—my dad, my brother, and I—all exhausted from lack of sleep. My brother informed me that we needed one unit of blood. The hospital would use it from the bank, but we needed to replace it by the end of the day. I started calling my friends for blood donors.

The Long Day at the Hospital

The day of the operation began with urgency. We had to swap blood for the blood bank, and while the formalities were being sorted, I started calling my people—my kind of people—the ones who get things done. They were the friends I trusted deeply, the ones who wouldn’t hesitate to help. I knew they’d search, ask around, and somehow manage it, simply because they were my circle.

Outside the operation theatre, Dad and I sat on a long bench, a nervous silence stretching between us. My brother sat across the hall, near the steps of the opposite room, quiet and restless. Time moved slowly. It was 9:45 AM when hunger finally nudged me. I turned to Dad, “Let’s go for breakfast. If we stay like this, we’ll fall sick, and we need to take care of Mom.” He nodded. My brother insisted on staying behind while we went.

We had a quick breakfast and rushed back. By the time we returned, the operation was over. Mom had been shifted to another floor for observation. The hospital was huge, almost like a maze. We were told to go to Lift Number 6 and head to the fifth floor. After asking around, getting misdirected, and retracing steps, we found it.

But even there, we weren’t allowed to visit immediately.

So, my brother offered to bring juice for Mom and asked Dad to take it in as a reason to enter. He came back after a brief visit, and then it was my turn. We assumed only one person was allowed in at a time. I went inside. A nurse stopped me at the entrance.

“Whom are you visiting?”

“My mom,” I replied, softly.

“How many people?”

“Just me. Short visit,” I assured her.

I stepped inside. There she was—her hand wrapped in bandages, the wrist freshly operated on. A painkiller had dulled her discomfort. She was awake but drowsy. I patted her gently, whispered, “Soon we’ll go to a normal room to rest.” She nodded faintly. I didn’t stay long. Just seeing her face, knowing she was okay, was enough.

Outside, I sat again. Relatives began calling to check on Mom’s condition. Around noon, her sister and brother-in-law arrived to visit. My brother asked me to pick them up from the entrance. But the hospital had strict visitor hours—we weren’t allowed in yet. So I took them to the canteen and ordered coffee. My brother joined us there, and shortly after, my friend Sindhu arrived to visit as well.

We all had lunch together. The tension eased slightly in the company of familiar faces.

Since my brother had spent the previous night in the hospital, I took over the duty from evening to the next day. I found myself going up and down so many times—picking up medicines, checking on X-rays, answering questions, escorting donors—that even a stranger once asked, “Do you work here?” I laughed, “No, just here for my mom.”

I even made friends with the lift operator. Every ride came with a new story from him. I listened. After all, sitting in a tiny box all day must feel endless—maybe a chat helped.

As night approached, I fed Mom her dinner. It was nearly 8 PM, and getting darker outside. Since outside food wasn’t allowed for patients, Dad and I had to sneak out one by one to eat. I volunteered to go first.

“Going alone?” Mom was surprised. “The person in the next bed got a parcel brought in. You go too, for our daughter,” she said.

Dad went to ask security if we could bring food in—but they refused. “No use asking,” he said, “You have to sneak it in.”

I didn’t want to take the risk, so I told Dad we’d just eat outside. Mom looked a little worried.

“Going alone?” she asked again.

Dad smiled with calm confidence. “Don’t worry, she’ll handle it. She can do it.”

That line—she can do it—stayed with me.

I stepped out into the dim light. The corridors echoed a little too much. The darkness and quiet corners reminded me of every horror film I’d ever seen. But that she can handle it gave me courage.

At the hospital canteen, I stood in line. The girl in front of me asked for a parcel.

“Can we bring food inside?” I asked her.

“Yes, but not for the patients. We can have it,” she replied.

I called Dad and ordered something for him too. I saw a box of fruit mix and picked it up—just in case Mom got hungry later.

I returned, ate quietly, and then fed her some of the fruit after checking with the nurse. They said there’d be a midnight check on her too. I settled into a chair beside her, half-asleep, half-alert, eyes blinking open with every small sound.

I didn’t want to wake Dad for anything. He’s aged, and he hadn’t slept properly the night before either.

The night was long. The day, longer. But somehow, we made it through.