The chaos inside AMBH Hospital softened the moment we wheeled out of the emergency ward. The sharp clack of hurried footsteps and the metallic rattle of the stretcher echoed against the polished white walls. For a brief second, everything was motion and urgency—voices issuing instructions, nurses moving with rehearsed precision, doors swinging open and shut. Then came a silence that seeped into my bones, where every breath blared and every thought arrived uninvited.
I stood outside the sealed ICU doors, repeating a single belief:
She is in safe hands. We are here—in the biggest, the best hospital in the city.
xxx
The first time I visited AMBH was five years earlier, during my pregnancy. I remember walking through the sliding doors with one hand resting on my swollen belly. There was no harsh antiseptic sting, no trace of illness—only a soft floral fragrance with a promise of wellness. In the lobby, a massive digital screen displayed the names of specialists, their impressive degrees trailing behind them. A promotional film played quietly, showcasing miracle recoveries and grateful families. I stood there, awed.
Thirty-five floors dedicated to healing!
The orderliness struck me most. Chairs in the waiting area filled quietly—no elbows, no sighs. A line formed at the lifts, then dissolved as soon as the doors opened.
“Welcome to AMBH. We promise you a five-star experience,” the receptionist had said.
And it truly felt like one.
My complicated pregnancy was handled with calm authority. Every concern I voiced was met with reassurance; every doubt dissolved under a patient explanation. When my daughter was finally placed in my arms—pink, furious, perfect—I knew we had chosen well.
Over the next four years, AMBH became our family hospital. From Dad’s prostate troubles to mom’s pulmonary disorders, even the dreaded C that haunted my aunt, was met with unwavering precision. My daughter loved the pediatric play area with its bright slides and cartoon murals. Routine checkups and vaccinations felt effortless. Coughs, colds, and seasonal woes dissolved under expert care. For her, the hospital meant stickers, a visit to book shop in the premises and a tall glass of fresh juice from the cafeteria.
AMBH Hospital felt vast enough to contain every medical problem and competent enough to solve it.
Until the 29th of June, 2013.
xxx
My wait for answers stretched endlessly. Day one slipped into three, three into a week, weeks blurring until it was day forty-five. I spent those days whispering stories into ears that could not respond.
At first, I moved through the hospital with purpose—Neurology on the 18th floor, Infectious Diseases on the 9th, Radiology in the basement. I carried files thicker than my wrist: reports, scans, blood results. I met specialists whose names had once glowed proudly on the reception screen. They spoke gently, sometimes gravely.
“We are monitoring.”
“We are hopeful.”
I clung to each word as though it might alter the outcome.
The thirty-five floors no longer felt grand. They felt like a maze.
Between consultations, I rushed back to the ICU, sanitizing my hands until they were raw.
The cafeteria on the thirteenth floor, once a novelty, became a place where I forced down tasteless morsels. I would picture my daughter sipping her favourite juice, a white moustache lining her lips. How could I eat when she was fed through a tube?
The salon on the ground floor buzzed with cheerful conversations—doctors and mothers enjoying brief respites while waiting for consultations. The luxury felt obscene. I could not remember the last time I had slept properly, let alone soaked my aching feet in warm water.
Every night, I sat watching my child breathe with assistance.
I researched refractory epilepsy on Google. I discussed treatment plans using medical jargon I was now familiar with. I learned the nurses’ shift timings. I memorized the diet chart of each day of the week. I knew the time based on the pattern of light filtering through the windows.
On some days, there was progress—a reduced fever, a better EEG. We celebrated decimal improvements as if they were birthdays. On other days, setbacks stole the air from my lungs. Words like “complications” and “critical” appeared too often.
The hospital that once felt like a monument to healing collapsed into a single door. That door opened into one room—her ICU room—where time stood still.
I would sit beside her and tell her about the world outside. About the rain. About the play area she would run to once this was over.
“Just get better,” I would whisper. “We’ll go home.”
I imagined a smile when I said, “I got you a pink Barbie dress.”
Did her eyelids flutter when I mentioned that I got her Barbie colours and colouring books?
I often thought about that first day—the floral fragrance, the promise of five-star care, the awe I felt at the scale of it all. None of that mattered now.
What mattered was the rise and fall of my little one’s chest, the faint squeeze of her fingers around mine on the rare days she was conscious, the whispered “Mama” that sustained me for nights.
The biggest hospital in the city had become the smallest universe imaginable.
A universe measured not in floors, but in heartbeats.
And in that small, fragile universe, my little girl was fighting the bravest battle of her life.
So was I.
Footnote:
AMBH is a fictional hospital, but is broadly based on KDAH, Mumbai. KDAH has Starbucks, Subway, Costa Coffee, apart from a regual cafeteria. In addition it houses a book shop, a 7/11 store, a medical shop, a shop selling frames for eye wear and a general store that stocks chocolates, diapers, health drinks, supplements and toys. The hospital has 2 floors with bunk beds for relatives of patients admitted in the ICU apart from exclusive suites for those who can afford it.And yes, the hospital has a saloon run by Yasmin of the Nalini &Yasmin fame.
