Vermillion of the Deal

Chapter 1 - The Price of a Life The air outside the ICU was heavy, thick with the pungent smell of phenyl and the haunting, rhythmic ‘beep-beep’ of the ventilator. The twenty-lakh rupee check in Saanvi Verma’s hand wasn't just a piece of paper; it was the death certificate of her freedom. Beyond the glass door, her mother, Sumitra, was battling for life. The doctors had been blunt: "Advanced Acute Heart Failure." Her heart valves needed replacement, and her lungs were filling with fluid. If surgery didn't begin within two hours, Saanvi would lose her entire world. Saanvi’s eyes had run dry; only a hollow emptiness remained. Her mind played the struggles of the last five years like a film. Her father, an idealistic school teacher, had spent his life in honesty. But honesty fills the stomach, not hospital bills. His cancer treatment had consumed their life savings, PF, and even the small patch of ancestral land in the village. After he passed, Saanvi and her mother were left alone. As for relatives, Saanvi had learned her lesson long ago. On the thirteenth day after her father’s death, her own uncle had said, "Saanvi, we have our own expenses; we cannot take your responsibility." Poverty is a disease that makes even your own people flee. Her mother’s pension went entirely toward repaying debts, and Saanvi’s 15,000-rupee salary at a small publishing house barely covered rent and medicines. Today, twenty lakhs felt like an insurmountable mountain. She approached the cash counter, trembling. The clerk looked her up and down—a simple kurti, disheveled hair, and swollen eyes. "Madam, I told you, this is a personal check. Clearance takes three days. We need cash or RTGS now. This hospital isn't a charity." "Sir, please... she’s my mother..." Saanvi’s voice cracked. Suddenly, the clerk’s landline rang. He picked it up irritably, but his face turned pale within seconds. He almost stood up from his chair. "Yes... Yes, sir! The Trustee? Mr. Aryan’s office? Absolutely, sir... right away!" After hanging up, the clerk’s hands were shaking. He looked at Saanvi with a new mix of respect and fear. "I am sorry, Ma'am. There was a call from Rathore Industries. Your mother’s surgery is now a priority. The surgical team is getting ready." Saanvi breathed a sigh of relief, but a weight settled in her heart. It wasn't money talking; it was the terror of the name 'Rathore.' To save her mother's heartbeat, she had mortgaged her own breath.