Homo Sapien's waiting Room

Waiting is a part of life—whether it’s at a bus stop, on a railway platform, or for examination results. There's always that flutter in the stomach, the silent ticking of time stretching longer than it should. But deep down, we know: the bus will come, the train will arrive, the results will show up—nothing too adverse is expected.

But a hospital waiting room? That’s an entirely different world altogether.

The atmosphere isn’t filled with noise, but with silence—heavy, prayerful silence. Time doesn’t tick here; it crawls. Every second is stretched by anxiety. Long faces, tired eyes, and slumped bodies—people here aren’t just sitting; they’re bearing the weight of hope and fear. The plushest of sofas can’t offer comfort; often, lying on the floor brings more relief than upright cushions. No one cares. No one complains. There is no shame in surrendering to exhaustion.

There’s a unique kind of EQUALITY in this space. No rich, no poor. No VIPs. Just humans—stripped of vanity, stripped of status—tied together by a common string of concern for someone inside those ICU walls. You don't care for the dirty seats. The smell of unwashed toilets doesn’t bother you. Your mind is far too occupied with the condition of your loved one fighting for life. Even the hot, humid air filled with the buzz of mosquitoes goes unnoticed. You aren't part of any 'elite class' anymore. You’re just another HOMO SAPIENS, waiting, praying.

Yes, you may come across a few materialistic types—the ones who rarely sit, who prefer to call every five minutes instead of waiting in the room. Their loud phone calls, indifferent tones, and lack of presence can be suffocating. But when you glance around and see other relatives—faces drawn, hands clasped—you choose to ignore the MAN. You focus on your silent duty, one that’s more emotional than physical. More heartfelt than mere attendance.

That’s a big cultural truth we Indians live by. We don’t let our kin suffer alone. Often, the one lying unconscious in that ward may not even know who’s out there for them. But that doesn’t matter. We wait. We stand by. We cry silently. We hold each other. That, too, is love.

And so, I salute everyone who holds the line in the waiting rooms of hospitals across the country. Salute to those who don’t kill time, but spend it with purpose—even in discomfort, even amid mosquitos, sweat, and stench. You are the unsung warriors of hope. You may not wear a uniform or perform surgery, but your presence—your waiting—is an act of profound courage and compassion.

In the end, life’s waiting rooms don’t teach us patience alone—they reveal who we are. And more importantly, who we are for.