Behind The Masks

The day had passed in a blur. By the time Aarohi glanced at the clock, it was already 2 a.m. Her body ached with exhaustion, a dull, relentless throb settling in her limbs. Sleep was a distant luxury—something she barely remembered at this point. Her first month as an anaesthesia resident at Horizon Medical Institute, Pune, had been nothing short of brutal. She had known residency would be difficult. Her mother had told her as much. It’s not just about skill, Aarohi. It’s about endurance. But hearing about it and living it were two different things. The endless hours, the mounting pressure, the constant second-guessing—it was suffocating. Tonight was no different. A senior had sent her to relay a message to Dr. Karan, a second-year surgery resident. A simple task. But even simple things felt monumental when exhaustion weighed her down. She spotted him by the patient’s bed, head bent over a file, completely absorbed. His posture was rigid, shoulders squared with the kind of tension that came from carrying too much responsibility for too long. Aarohi cleared her throat. “Sir, we’ve evaluated your patient.” No response. Not even a glance. Her fingers curled slightly. She hated when people ignored her. “Sir?” Karan finally looked up, but only briefly, as if she were nothing more than another interruption in an already too-long night. “Go on,” he said, voice clipped. Alright then. She kept her voice steady. “He’s unfit for surgery.” His pen stilled mid-motion. He looked up fully this time, frowning. “What?” She hesitated, suddenly hyperaware of the distance between them, of the quiet hum of the ward around them. “His blood pressure—” “Blood pressure?” His tone sharpened, disbelief flashing across his face. “This is a perforated appendix. If we don’t operate now, he won’t make it through the night.” “I know, sir, but his BP is—” “And you think surgery isn’t the priority here?” he interrupted, his frustration palpable now. “Do you realize how quickly this can turn into septic shock?” Her grip on the file tightened. “I do. That’s why—” “Then why are we even having this conversation?” His voice rose slightly, enough to make a passing nurse glance in their direction. “We can stabilize him post-op. Right now, waiting isn’t an option.” Aarohi took a slow breath, forcing herself to stay composed. “I know, but Dr. Akanksha disagreed,” she explained, keeping her tone even. “She thinks the risk is too high until we bring his BP under control.” Karan let out a short, incredulous laugh. “So, you’re telling me that instead of taking him to the OT, you’re standing here complaining about someone else’s bad decision?” The condescension in his voice made her jaw tighten. “I’m following my senior’s orders,” she said, her patience thinning. “Then maybe use your own judgment instead of just passing messages,” he shot back. “You think you’ll learn like this ?” And, that did it. Aarohi exhaled sharply. “Right, because a first-year resident is supposed to overrule her senior’s decision?” she said, her voice steady but edged with frustration. “Maybe next time, I should just roll the patient straight into surgery myself?” Karan blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “And You need to yell at someone? Fine. Go find Dr. Akanksha. But don’t stand here acting like I have any say in this.” She dropped the file onto the table beside him, the sound sharp in the quiet ward. “Or better yet, go argue with the BP monitor. Maybe it’ll listen to you.” Without waiting for a response, she turned and walked away, her pulse still hammering in her ears. She didn’t dare look back.