The rain softened by morning, though Kolkata's sky still hung low and heavy, as though the storm had only paused, not ended. Inside Genesis Super Speciality Hospital, the night's chaos left its mark—nurses moved with tired precision, doctors exchanged clipped words, and somewhere in the ICU, Mrs. Das fought quietly for life.
Dr. Anshuman Chatterjee stood near the window, his white coat still damp from last night's rain. The smell of antiseptic mixed with the faint scent of tea brewing in the nurse station.
He had faced his first emergency, silenced an MLA's wrath, and walked away with a patient alive. But the weight of the night clung to him like a second skin.
Near the ICU doors, Priya approached with her usual steady stride, tablet in hand.
"She's stable for now," she said, eyes softer than yesterday. "You did well, Doctor."
Anshuman nodded. "It wasn't just me. You, Vivek, everyone in that room—we held the line together."
From down the corridor came Vivek Roy, the cardiology resident, sleeves rolled up, hair still damp from an early shower.
"Anshuman," he called with a grin, "Das didn't break your head after all. Good sign."
"Not yet," Anshuman said dryly. "I'll take it one day at a time."
The rhythm of the hospital shifted when MLA Das himself appeared mid-morning. Flanked by two aides, the MLA cut through the corridors like a storm wrapped in a white kurta.
He stopped outside the ICU, eyes locked on Anshuman. For a moment, no one spoke.
Then Das said, voice low but edged, "She lives because you kept your head, Doctor. I'll remember that."
It wasn't praise. Not yet. More like a truce offered across a battlefield.
Anshuman met his eyes. "She needs rest, good care, and no politics inside these walls."
Das gave a short nod. "Do your job well. I'll stay out of the way." And he was gone, his men following like shadows.
Priya exhaled softly. "You just told an MLA to stay quiet. Brave or foolish?"
"Both, maybe," Anshuman said, watching the door swing shut behind Das.
In Doctors' Quarters
By late afternoon, Anshuman finally found his way to the doctors' quarters, a three-story block tucked behind the main hospital building. The corridors smelled faintly of old paint, tea leaves, and monsoon air.
His room sat on the second floor, door half-open, light spilling across the hallway. Inside: three cots, one wobbling table, a window streaked with rain.
"New guy!" A water bottle arced across the room. A lean man with quick eyes and a quicker grin caught it himself before offering his hand.
"Kamlesh, orthopedics. I fix bones, drink tea, break nothing else."
On the far bed, a man with surgeon's hands, quiet eyes, and a half-finished anatomy sketch gave a short nod.
"Arjun, surgery. Speak less, cut precise."
At the table, a woman closed her neurology atlas, pen tapping once against the cover.
"Meera, neuro. You made the MLA sit down yesterday. Interesting choice for your first day."
Anshuman smiled faintly, setting his bag down. "Anshuman, medicine. I didn't choose the MLA. He chose chaos."
New Bonds
"Word spread fast," Kamlesh said, dropping onto his bed. "Priya swears you ran that code like a veteran."
"Vivek was there," Anshuman said. "And Rina from pediatrics. Bimal too."
Meera looked up, pen pausing. "Bimal keeps the wards running. Knows more hospital secrets than administration itself."
Kamlesh grinned. "He knows which tea stall sells on credit after midnight. More useful than secrets."
Laughter broke some of the day's tension.
Arjun pushed a tiffin toward Anshuman. "Dal, rice, aloo posto. Ma sent extra. Eat. Then learn the rules here."
Rules of Survival
Over dinner, the introductions expanded.
Vivek Roy, cardiology, appeared mid-meal, damp hair sticking to his forehead.
Rina Sen, pediatrics, leaned against the doorframe with a smile that carried exhaustion and warmth together.
"Rule one," Kamlesh declared, waving his spoon. "Never miss terrace tea at eleven. Rain or no rain."
"Rule two," Meera added, twisting her Rubik's cube, "Don't sign papers without reading. Genesis keeps files better than it keeps promises."
"Rule three," Vivek said, dropping onto the bed, "If the power goes out during surgery, Arjun keeps operating. We just hold torches."
Arjun didn't deny it.
Rina laughed softly. "And rule four: Don't argue with Priya. She runs the wards more than administration does."
By nightfall, Anshuman felt some of the day's weight lift. The storm had eased, the air smelled of wet earth and tea leaves.
Then his tablet buzzed.
Report to Department Head Dr. Manish Singha. Immediately.
The room fell silent.
Kamlesh let out a low whistle. "Night summons. Never a good sign."
Meera packed her books calmly. "Walk slow. Speak slower. Don't interrupt."
Vivek grinned. "If he survives, terrace tea still happens."
Anshuman pocketed his pen, his ID card, and the warning glances of his new companions. The corridor outside glowed under emergency lights, rain dripping steadily from the eaves.
Genesis waited.