31-01-2026, 05:09 PM
(This post was last modified: 31-01-2026, 05:42 PM by heygiwriter. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
Chapter 21: The Camp & The First Touch of Mercy
The medical camp glowed like a small island of light on the dark highway shoulder—white tents, portable generators humming, volunteers in blue aprons moving between cots.
The NGO-Church banner fluttered above the entrance: "Free Care for the Broken & Forgotten." Vikram was carried in on a makeshift stretcher—two camp workers holding the edges, Mirna walking beside them, one hand steady on his shoulder.
The moment they stepped inside, the buzz changed.
Heads turned. Doctors paused mid-stitch. Nurses whispered. A few volunteers stepped back instinctively.
"He looks like he was beaten half to death," someone muttered.
Another voice, low: "security officer threw him out. I saw the van drop him on the road like trash. Kms away."
Hands stilled. No one moved to help.
Mirna’s voice rose—quiet but firm, cutting through the hesitation.
"Please. He needs care. Now."
A nun—older, white habit, gentle but unyielding—stepped forward. She looked at Vikram’s swollen face, the blood on his shirt, the way he barely breathed, then at Mirna.
"You brought him in alone?"
Mirna nodded. "He collapsed on the road. I couldn't leave him."
The old doctor—an elderly man with thick glasses and steady hands—pushed through the crowd. He knelt beside the stretcher, checked Vikram’s pulse, lifted an eyelid.
"Multiple fractures. Ribs, maybe one punctured lung. Dehydration. Shock setting in."
He looked up at the nun. "Admit him soon. He needs immediate care."
But the camp buzzed with hesitation. Other doctors, staff, organizers shook their heads.
"Let's call the security officer first," one said. "We can't operate without a security officer FIR. What if he's a criminal? We could get in trouble."
Another nodded. "He looks like he escaped custody. No way we touch him without clearance."
Mirna pleaded, voice rising. "He's dying! We can't wait!"
Vikram heard every word through the haze—blurred, distant, like echoes in a storm. No energy to thank her. To defend himself. He just prayed, silent and broken: Something good… let me see her one proper look before it ends. She's the only good person a women I've witnessed in my life so far.
That was when a constable—stationed to guard the camp—pushed through the crowd. He squinted at Vikram’s swollen face, recognition flickering. He was another constable who had taken Vikram from the mansion back then. Vikram's story was popular in those circles—how women had framed a good man, false accusations that ruined him.
He didn't detail what happened to Vikram. Didn't say the words. He just realized he'd seen him in the case, and it was popular back then.
The constable pulled out his phone, dialed quickly. The call connected.
"Mohan anna? It's me. The boy from the mansion… the one with the village FIR. He's here. Badly beaten. They say security officer dumped him on the road."
A pause. Then the constable nodded.
"Okay. I'll tell them."
He hung up, turned to the old doctor. "Treat him. He's clean. That was Mohan—the hostel owner. He vouches for him."
But the hesitation lingered. "We still need an FIR," someone muttered. "security officer clearance."
Mohan was out of station. But he called Sekaran. Sekaran, with one call, sent a security officer inspector.
Within minutes, the inspector rolled up—gravel crunching under tires. He stepped inside the tent, looked at Vikram, then at the constable.
"Same kid from the mansion case?"
The constable nodded. "Same one."
The inspector exhaled. "Treat him. No charges. I'll handle the paperwork. He is not a criminal he is a good person.."
While others had a relief of knowing Vikram is Good person..
Mirna didn't seem to care.. she just cared about his well being.. irrespective of good or bad she was ready to help.. and the moment she hears he is a good person.. she felt nothing but a more relief..
The camp staff blinked in confusion as security officer vouched for the man they’d seen bleeding on the road. The doctors relented—threading needles, wrapping bandages, starting an IV.
Looking at her state, Nun and doctor decided to make Mirna as nurse appointed just to take care of VIkram.
She never left his side—checking vitals, wiping blood, adjusting pillows. Her hands were steady, her voice soft.
Even in the haze of pain and morphine, Vikram could sense her touch among all others. The doctors' hands were clinical. The nurses' were hurried. But Mirna's were different—warm, careful, lingering just long enough to comfort, never to claim.
Every time she adjusted the drip, brushed hair from his forehead, or held his hand to check his pulse, something inside him relaxed. Not lust. Not fear. Just… peace.
He had been touched by women who accused, who framed, who used. This was the first touch that asked for nothing.
She only knew he called her name in his sleep—soft, broken, like a prayer.
And she never let go of his hand.
Mirna never knew her touch was recovering a man from countless hurts.
The medical camp glowed like a small island of light on the dark highway shoulder—white tents, portable generators humming, volunteers in blue aprons moving between cots.
The NGO-Church banner fluttered above the entrance: "Free Care for the Broken & Forgotten." Vikram was carried in on a makeshift stretcher—two camp workers holding the edges, Mirna walking beside them, one hand steady on his shoulder.
The moment they stepped inside, the buzz changed.
Heads turned. Doctors paused mid-stitch. Nurses whispered. A few volunteers stepped back instinctively.
"He looks like he was beaten half to death," someone muttered.
Another voice, low: "security officer threw him out. I saw the van drop him on the road like trash. Kms away."
Hands stilled. No one moved to help.
Mirna’s voice rose—quiet but firm, cutting through the hesitation.
"Please. He needs care. Now."
A nun—older, white habit, gentle but unyielding—stepped forward. She looked at Vikram’s swollen face, the blood on his shirt, the way he barely breathed, then at Mirna.
"You brought him in alone?"
Mirna nodded. "He collapsed on the road. I couldn't leave him."
The old doctor—an elderly man with thick glasses and steady hands—pushed through the crowd. He knelt beside the stretcher, checked Vikram’s pulse, lifted an eyelid.
"Multiple fractures. Ribs, maybe one punctured lung. Dehydration. Shock setting in."
He looked up at the nun. "Admit him soon. He needs immediate care."
But the camp buzzed with hesitation. Other doctors, staff, organizers shook their heads.
"Let's call the security officer first," one said. "We can't operate without a security officer FIR. What if he's a criminal? We could get in trouble."
Another nodded. "He looks like he escaped custody. No way we touch him without clearance."
Mirna pleaded, voice rising. "He's dying! We can't wait!"
Vikram heard every word through the haze—blurred, distant, like echoes in a storm. No energy to thank her. To defend himself. He just prayed, silent and broken: Something good… let me see her one proper look before it ends. She's the only good person a women I've witnessed in my life so far.
That was when a constable—stationed to guard the camp—pushed through the crowd. He squinted at Vikram’s swollen face, recognition flickering. He was another constable who had taken Vikram from the mansion back then. Vikram's story was popular in those circles—how women had framed a good man, false accusations that ruined him.
He didn't detail what happened to Vikram. Didn't say the words. He just realized he'd seen him in the case, and it was popular back then.
The constable pulled out his phone, dialed quickly. The call connected.
"Mohan anna? It's me. The boy from the mansion… the one with the village FIR. He's here. Badly beaten. They say security officer dumped him on the road."
A pause. Then the constable nodded.
"Okay. I'll tell them."
He hung up, turned to the old doctor. "Treat him. He's clean. That was Mohan—the hostel owner. He vouches for him."
But the hesitation lingered. "We still need an FIR," someone muttered. "security officer clearance."
Mohan was out of station. But he called Sekaran. Sekaran, with one call, sent a security officer inspector.
Within minutes, the inspector rolled up—gravel crunching under tires. He stepped inside the tent, looked at Vikram, then at the constable.
"Same kid from the mansion case?"
The constable nodded. "Same one."
The inspector exhaled. "Treat him. No charges. I'll handle the paperwork. He is not a criminal he is a good person.."
While others had a relief of knowing Vikram is Good person..
Mirna didn't seem to care.. she just cared about his well being.. irrespective of good or bad she was ready to help.. and the moment she hears he is a good person.. she felt nothing but a more relief..
The camp staff blinked in confusion as security officer vouched for the man they’d seen bleeding on the road. The doctors relented—threading needles, wrapping bandages, starting an IV.
Looking at her state, Nun and doctor decided to make Mirna as nurse appointed just to take care of VIkram.
She never left his side—checking vitals, wiping blood, adjusting pillows. Her hands were steady, her voice soft.
Even in the haze of pain and morphine, Vikram could sense her touch among all others. The doctors' hands were clinical. The nurses' were hurried. But Mirna's were different—warm, careful, lingering just long enough to comfort, never to claim.
Every time she adjusted the drip, brushed hair from his forehead, or held his hand to check his pulse, something inside him relaxed. Not lust. Not fear. Just… peace.
He had been touched by women who accused, who framed, who used. This was the first touch that asked for nothing.
She only knew he called her name in his sleep—soft, broken, like a prayer.
And she never let go of his hand.
Mirna never knew her touch was recovering a man from countless hurts.
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