The Last Call on NH-44

In the summer of 2004, my cousin Rohan lived in the sprawling city of Chennai. His parents, my aunt and uncle, had retired to their ancestral village, a small hamlet nestled near the foothills of the Western Ghats. Rohan worked as a project manager for a construction firm, and his wife, Meera, was a school teacher. They had a six-year-old daughter, Anika.

One humid afternoon in May, Rohan received a call that their ancestral home was being renovated and urgent decisions required his presence. Though reluctant to travel in the scorching heat, he agreed to ride his motorcycle, a bullet, to the village, about four hours away, to settle matters quickly. His college friend, Vikram, who lived nearby, decided to accompany him for company.

They started early to avoid the worst of the heat. The road, NH-44, was notorious for its potholes and heavy truck traffic. By late evening, they had completed their work at the village, and Rohan insisted on returning immediately to Chennai, not wanting to leave his family overnight. Vikram, though tired, agreed, and they set off as the sun began to set.

About an hour into the ride, as they neared a desolate stretch where the road narrowed, a massive container truck swerved into their lane, overtaking a speeding car. Rohan tried to brake, but it was too late. The bullet skidded, and the two friends were thrown onto the asphalt. The truck’s enormous wheels ran over Rohan’s legs, pinning him beneath the undercarriage. Vikram was thrown to the side, hitting his head against a railing.

For what felt like an eternity, Rohan was trapped, the metallic smell of blood and fuel filling his nostrils. The truck had not stopped; it continued on, its taillights fading into the darkness. Rohan screamed for help, but the road was empty. His legs were crushed, and he could feel a numbness that frightened him more than the pain. Vikram was unconscious, bleeding from a gash on his forehead.

Just as his screams grew weaker, an old, rusted ambulance appeared from the direction of the village, its siren wailing like a wounded animal. The driver, a gaunt man with hollow cheeks, and an attendant, a woman in a faded white sari, pulled him out from under the truck with surprising strength, their movements mechanical, their expressions flat. They loaded him onto a stretcher, and Vikram was lifted in as well, both in the back of the ambulance without a word.

Inside, the ambulance was dimly lit, with cracked leather seats and a lingering smell of disinfectant. The woman attended to him with cold efficiency, applying makeshift bandages. Rohan asked where they were taking him, but she only muttered, ‘To Chengalpattu Government Hospital.’ He felt a sense of relief, knowing it was a real hospital, but something about the way she spoke, her voice hollow, made him uneasy.

The vehicle started with a jolt, and they sped through the night, the driver keeping the siren blaring. Rohan tried to reach for his phone, but it was dead. Vikram had not stirred. Time blurred; he didn’t know how long they had been driving. The road seemed unfamiliar, winding through dense forests, with occasional glimpses of leaden skies. He noticed the odometer spinning impossibly fast, and the landscape outside seemed to repeat: the same billboard, the same broken milestone, the same tree bent in a peculiar shape.

After what could have been hours, the ambulance stopped abruptly. The driver and attendant got out, slid the back doors open, and said, ‘We are here.’ Rohan saw the grim, concrete building of a hospital, but it looked abandoned, the nameplate over the entrance chipped and faded. The woman wheeled him through doors that creaked loudly. Inside, the lights flickered, casting long shadows. The corridors were empty, save for a few figures lying on stretchers, covered in white sheets.

A doctor, wearing a surgical mask and a crumpled coat, approached. He had sharp, intense eyes that seemed to pierce through Rohan. Without greeting, he examined Rohan’s legs, shaking his head. ‘We will have to amputate both,’ he said, his voice devoid of emotion. Rohan protested, ‘No, please, take me to a proper hospital. I have insurance. I can pay.’ The doctor ignored him, signaling the nurse to prepare for surgery.

The nurse, the same woman from the ambulance, injected something into his arm, and his vision swam. As he slipped into unconsciousness, he heard a faint melody, like a lullaby, coming from somewhere in the hospital. It was a tune he remembered his mother humming when he was a child.

When he woke, he was in a dim room, his legs wrapped in bandages, but they felt oddly light. He looked down and saw that his limbs were gone. He cried out, and a nurse, a different one, came in, her face kind but pale. She handed him a phone, saying, ‘You can call your family.’ Rohan fumbled for his wife’s number. Meera answered, her voice frantic. ‘Rohan! Where are you? I’ve been calling for hours! The police said you were in an accident, but no one could find you. They said you died on the spot!’ Her words grew frantic, then sobbing. ‘The body was taken to the morgue, but it disappeared.’

Rohan felt a chill. ‘I’m alive, Meera. I’m at a hospital in Chengalpattu.’ But as he looked around, the room had no windows, and the walls were covered in a thick grime. He found a mirror on the wall and saw his reflection: his eyes were sunken, his skin a ghastly tint, and there was a dark stain on his shirt, exactly where his heart beat, except it wasn’t beating. He realized he was not breathing

Meera’s voice turned to a whisper, ‘Rohan, you died hours ago. The accident was fatal. Your funeral is tomorrow. Please, let me go.’ The call ended with a static crackle. Rohan dropped the phone and looked at his missing legs. He understood now why the ambulance had no real sirens, why the hospital had felt so wrong. This was not a place of healing; it was a waystation for the dead.

He heard the lullaby again, clearer now, and saw a faint light at the end of the corridor. He began to crawl on the floor, his stumps dragging, toward the light. He knew he had to reach it, to escape, to find a way back to his family. But as he crawled, the hospital seemed endless, and the light receded. He passed by the covered stretchers, and one of the sheets slipped off, revealing the face of his friend Vikram, his eyes open, staring at nothing. Vikram’s head was twisted at an unnatural angle.

Rohan screamed, and the sound echoed through the empty halls. He woke, gasping, in a hospital bed, but this one was clean, and sunlight streamed through the blinds. A doctor in a white coat looked at him, his face concerned. ‘Mr. Rohan, you’re lucky to be alive. You were in a severe accident, and we had to amputate both your legs to save you.’ Rohan looked down, saw his bandaged stumps, and then looked at the doctor. The doctor had the same sharp, intense eyes as the one from his nightmare. Rohan asked, ‘Where is my friend? Vikram?’ The doctor shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, he didn’t make it.’

Rohan closed his eyes. The lullaby played in his head, and he knew, with a certainty, that the hospital he was in now was the same one from his experience, just different in appearance. He was trapped in a cycle, destined to relive the accident and the horror of the amputation and the knowledge of his death, forever.

When his wife came to visit, he gripped her hand tightly and whispered, ‘I saw the light, but I couldn’t reach it. I’m not sure I’m alive. Promise me you’ll take me to the village temple and perform the rituals.’ Meera looked at him, puzzled, and promised. But as she left, Rohan saw a nurse pass by his door, the same woman from the ambulance, her face blank, and she winked at him.