He found solace in farming. The fields didn’t judge. The soil welcomed him. Each harvest, each sun-drenched day, gave him purpose and distance from the hurt. His belly still grew, but in the quiet of the countryside, it was easier to pretend everything was fine.
As he aged, however, the discomfort worsened. Breathing grew harder. The pain in his chest crept in more frequently. His once-strong body began to betray him. Something was wrong. And on one hot afternoon, Rohan collapsed in his field, gasping for air, surrounded by panicked workers.
He was rushed to Mumbai’s Tata Memorial Hospital, far from his familiar fields. The cold sterility of the hospital only heightened his anxiety. He was poked, scanned, examined—doctors swarming like bees around a strange flower. The X-ray results had come in, but no one would tell him what they saw.