Mumbai
People think nurses are angels. But angels don’t have to deal with insurance forms at 3 AM.
Priya’s laugh cuts through the sterile hospital corridor like a ray of hope. She’s been working night shifts at KEM Hospital for 8 years, and her scrubs have seen more life and death than most people witness in a lifetime.
“My mother wanted me to get married, settle down, have babies. ‘Why do you want to see sick people all night?’ she’d ask. But I realized something during my training – healing doesn’t happen during visiting hours. Real healing happens in the quiet moments between midnight and dawn.”
“I once held the hand of a 70-year-old man whose family couldn’t visit because of the lockdown restrictions. He kept asking for his wife. I sat with him for two hours, just talking about his granddaughter’s wedding plans. He passed away peacefully at 4 AM. His family will never know that he wasn’t alone.”
She shows me a small notebook filled with names and dates. “Every patient I lose, I write their name here. Not because I failed, but because they mattered. Someone should remember that Ramesh Uncle loved mangoes, or that Mrs. Sharma worried about her cat every single day.”
“You know what the hardest part is? Going home at 7 AM and trying to explain to your family why you’re crying over people they’ve never met. How do you tell them that a stranger’s last words will stay with you forever?”
“But then someone recovers. Someone goes home to their family. Someone gets a second chance. And you remember why you chose to spend your nights fighting death instead of sleeping through life.”
In a city of 20 million people, Priya reminds us that sometimes the most important job is simply being present when someone needs not to be alone.
– Zara