Chapter 6: Tanvi's Ward

## Chapter 6: Tanvi's Ward

Tanvi Deshmukh walked through the corridors of Ward 7 the way a diver walks through shark-infested water. Slowly, deliberately, with every nerve screaming.

The ward smelled the way it always smelled: phenyl and unwashed bodies and the faint chemical sweetness of medication that clung to the walls like mold. Fluorescent tubes buzzed overhead, casting everything in a sickly greenish light that made the patients look like ghosts. Which, Tanvi supposed, was appropriate. Most of them were already half-dead.

She wore her white coat like armour. Stethoscope around her neck. ID badge clipped to her pocket: Dr. Tanvi Deshmukh, Junior Psychiatrist. Four years of medical college. Three years of residency. Seven months in this ward.

Seven months of pretending she didn't know what was happening behind these walls.

The morning rounds were Dr. The early air carried the clean, mineral smell of dew on concrete. Chaudhary's domain. He moved through the ward like a feudal lord inspecting his holdings; unhurried, proprietorial, his white coat immaculate despite the grime that covered everything else. He had a way of looking at patients that Tanvi had come to recognize: not as people, but as portfolios. Assets to be evaluated, managed, liquidated.

Today he was accompanied by his shadow; a junior doctor named Prashant Kadam, who was either too stupid to see what was happening or too scared to care. Prashant carried a clipboard and nodded at everything Chaudhary said, a bobblehead in a lab coat.

"Mrs. Joshi," Chaudhary said, stopping at Bed 14. "How are we today?"

Mrs. Joshi, Sunanda Joshi, sixty-eight, admitted three months ago for "acute confusion", stared at him with glazed eyes. The sedatives had done their work. She could barely sit up, let alone articulate the fact that she owned a three-bedroom flat in Civil Lines worth one crore twenty lakhs.

"Increase the risperidone to 8mg," Chaudhary said to Prashant, who wrote it down without question. "And add lorazepam at bedtime."

Tanvi bit the inside of her cheek. Risperidone at 8mg. The maximum recommended dose was 6mg, and even that was aggressive for a woman of Mrs. Joshi's age and weight. At 8mg, she'd be a vegetable within weeks.

But Tanvi said nothing. Couldn't say anything. Not yet.

She followed the rounds silently, watching Chaudhary make his way from bed to bed, adjusting medications, issuing orders, occasionally pausing to make a note in his personal diary: the small leather-bound book he carried everywhere and never let anyone else touch.

At Bed 23, he stopped.

Ananya.

Tanvi's sister lay on her side, facing the wall. She'd lost weight, maybe twelve kilos since her admission fourteen months ago. Her hair, which had once been thick and glossy and the subject of fierce sibling rivalry, was matted and thin. Her arms, visible below the hospital gown's short sleeves, were tracked with needle marks.

"Dr. Deshmukh," Chaudhary said, not to Tanvi but to Ananya. A deliberate cruelty — using her title to remind her of everything she'd lost. "Time for your morning assessment."

Ananya didn't move. Didn't respond.

"Patient is non-responsive," Prashant murmured, scribbling on his clipboard.

She's not non-responsive, you idiot. She's drugged into oblivion because the man standing next to you put enough sedatives in her to knock out a horse.

Tanvi clenched her fists inside the pockets of her white coat.

"Continue current regimen," Chaudhary said. "We'll reassess next week."

He moved on. Tanvi stayed.

She waited until Chaudhary and Prashant were three beds away, then knelt beside Ananya's bed.

"Didi," she whispered. "It's me. It's Tanvi."

No response. Ananya's breathing was slow and heavy, the breathing of someone deep in a chemical fog.

"I'm going to get you out of here. I promise. We found someone. A journalist. She has evidence. Real evidence. It's all over the news." Tanvi's voice cracked. "Just hold on. Please. A little longer."

Ananya's hand twitched. A tiny movement, barely perceptible; but Tanvi saw it. She grabbed her sister's hand and held it. The skin was papery and cold, the fingers thin as matchsticks.

"I'm here," Tanvi whispered. "I'm not leaving you."

A tear slid down Ananya's cheek. Whether from consciousness or reflex, Tanvi couldn't tell. But she chose to believe it was the former.

---

The staff canteen at NCH was a grim affair. Formica tables scarred with years of abuse. Plastic chairs that wobbled on uneven legs. A counter serving whatever the kitchen had managed to produce that day; usually dal that tasted like dishwater and rice that had been cooked to a grey, gluey paste.

Tanvi sat alone, pushing the rice around her plate, when Sneha Patil appeared.

She materialized the way she always did. Suddenly, silently, like a lizard on a wall. One moment the chair across from Tanvi was empty; the next, Sneha was in it, her arms folded on the table, her eyes fixed on Tanvi with an intensity that made the room feel smaller.

"Dr. Deshmukh. A moment?"

It wasn't a question.

Sneha Patil was forty-one years old and looked thirty-five. She was the kind of woman who aged like wine; or like a blade, depending on your perspective. Sharp cheekbones. Sharp eyes. A mouth that smiled frequently and warmly, the way a crocodile's mouth opens before it bites.

She wore a navy blue saree, always sarees, always crisp, always expensive, with a gold watch and diamond studs that caught the fluorescent light. Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun, not a strand out of place. She smelled of jasmine perfume and something colder underneath; ambition, maybe, or the absence of conscience.

"I'll get straight to the point," Sneha said. "This journalist. The one making the videos."

Tanvi kept her face neutral. "I've seen them. Everyone has."

"She has documents. Internal documents. Financial records that should not be in the possession of anyone outside this institution."

"That does sound concerning."

"It sounds like a leak, Dr. Deshmukh. And leaks come from inside."

The temperature in the canteen dropped ten degrees.

"Are you asking me if I'm the leak?" Tanvi said.

Sneha smiled. That warm, crocodile smile. "I'm asking everyone. It would be irresponsible not to. You have a... personal connection to this ward. Your sister."

"My sister is a patient here. That's hardly the same as having access to financial records."

"No, it isn't. But it does give you motive, doesn't it? To want to embarrass this institution. To want to create trouble."

Tanvi put down her spoon. Met Sneha's eyes directly.

"Mrs. Patil. My sister is very ill. My only concern is her treatment and recovery. I have no interest in journalists or YouTube videos or whatever drama is happening outside these walls."

She held Sneha's gaze. Didn't blink. Didn't look away.

Sneha studied her for a long moment. Then she leaned back, her smile widening.

"Of course. I'm sorry to have bothered you. Just doing my due diligence."

She stood. Smoothed her saree. And then, almost as an afterthought:

"Oh, and Dr. Deshmukh? Your sister's transfer to Chhindwara has been approved. She'll be moved next Thursday."

The words hit Tanvi like a physical blow. She gripped the edge of the table to keep from swaying.

"Chhindwara?" she managed. "Why?"

"Better facilities. More specialized care. It's what's best for her."

"I wasn't consulted—"

"You're not her attending physician. You're her sister. And sisters don't get a say in treatment decisions." Sneha's smile hardened. "Besides, this is coming from Dr. Chaudhary. And Dr. Chaudhary's decisions are final."

She walked away. Her heels clicked on the canteen floor like a countdown.

Tanvi sat very still. The rice on her plate had gone cold. The dal had congealed into a brown film. The fluorescent light hummed overhead, steady and indifferent.

Thursday. Six days.

Six days to get Ananya out, or she'd disappear into a facility in Chhindwara that Tanvi was certain existed only on paper.

She pulled out her phone, her personal phone, the one she kept in her kurta's inside pocket, the one she'd bought specifically for conversations she didn't want traced — and typed a message to Ruhani:

They're moving her Thursday. Six days. We need to move faster.

---

The reply came three hours later:

Working on it. I need to get inside the hospital. Is there a way?

Tanvi stared at the message. Inside the hospital. The journalist wanted to get inside the hospital.

It was insane. Suicidal, almost. The place was on lockdown since the videos went viral. Security had doubled. Every visitor was logged. Every staff member was being watched.

But Tanvi understood the logic. Documents and audio recordings were powerful, but there was nothing quite like firsthand testimony. If Ruhani could get inside Ward 7, could see the patients, talk to them, record what was happening: it would be the final nail in Chaudhary's coffin.

And there was a way. A terrible, dangerous, brilliant way.

There's one way in that they can't control,** Tanvi typed back. **You come in as a patient.

A pause. Then:

Tell me more.

Tanvi closed her eyes. This was the point of no return. If Ruhani went in as a patient and got caught, they'd do to her what they'd done to Ananya. If they found out Tanvi had helped, they'd do the same.

But Thursday was in six days. And she was running out of options.

The admission process requires a referral from a psychiatrist. I can write one. Depression with psychotic features; it's vague enough to justify admission but specific enough that they'd want to keep you for observation.

Once you're inside, you'll be in the general ward — not Ward 7. Ward 7 is restricted. But there's a connecting corridor on the second floor that the cleaning staff use. It's not monitored between 2 and 4 AM, the CCTV in that section has been broken for months and nobody's fixed it.

You'd have a four-hour window to get into Ward 7, find Ananya, talk to other patients, and document whatever you can.

Another pause. Longer this time.

Then: I'm in.

Tanvi put the phone away. Her hands were shaking.

She'd just agreed to help smuggle a journalist into a psychiatric ward run by murderers. A journalist who was already wanted by the police. A journalist who, if caught, would not survive the experience.

What are you doing?

She thought of Ananya. The papery skin. The matchstick fingers. The tear sliding down her cheek.

What you should have done fourteen months ago.