It’s hard to explain how I feel after that near death-like experience. I wouldn’t deny that I consider myself lucky to have survived despite the close shave, but at the same time, I also feel extremely sad when I think of those who could not make it. Many of my fellow patients in the female ward of the cardiology department where I was admitted, were not so lucky on that horrible day.

As fate would have it, I was supposed to be released on Thursday, but certain health-insurance formalities delayed my discharge, making me wait for another day. I was anxiously waiting to go back home and take my four-year-old granddaughter Rahela on my lap, but I had no option but to wait.
The hospital formalities had kept me busy throughout the evening. On Thursday night, the nurse gave me a sleeping pill as prescribed. However, I could not sleep even after having the pill due to the day-long tension over my discharge. I asked one of the on-duty nurses of my ward to give me another pill, but she refused.
We were 15 of us in the ward. Although I cannot recall the exact time when the fire broke out, I know for a fact that it was just before dawn. I woke up when I heard someone complain of feeling suffocated. The woman was admitted with a breathing problem, and so the young nurses ignoring her cry kept cajoling her to go back to sleep. But things didn’t seem quite normal, as I too could get a burning smell. However, it took a few minutes before we realised about the impending doom that was to strike us. I saw nurses running helter-skelter, talking agitatedly over their cellphones.
Opposite our ward, there was a male ward of the cardiology department. Some of the nurses rushed out to the corridor and started speaking to the male nurses. And then I saw smoke slowly fill up the corridor. I went near the window to peep outside, but could not see anything as it was still dark.
Every second, every minute seemed like hours. I screamed, demanding that we leave the place immediately. A woman, who was admitted with a fractured hip, lamented that she would not be able to even move.
There was no one to tell us what exactly had happened. Suddenly, one of the male nurses rushed inside our ward with some iron rods and started smashing the glass panes to let the smoke out. Even as we were trying to figure out how to get out of the place, a youth with a gamchha tied on his face (to avoid the poisonous fume), appeared near our broken window. Soon, a fireman followed.
I am afraid of heights. I don’t even take the Metro to avoid the escalator. But with death staring me in the face, I gathered courage as the youth kept encouraging me. He tied the bedsheets to make a long rope to bring us down. Before sliding down off the window, I looked backed and saw the terrified face of the young girl, who was admitted with kidney failure. The lost look in her eyes and the helplessness of the other woman with a hip fracture still remain etched in my memory.
Soon, the fireman asked me to step slowly out, placing my feet carefully on the rope ladder. As I came down, I could see stretched hands of youth from the nearby slums ready to hold me. I remember telling them, “Save the others, some of whom can’t even move.” Many women from the slum came forward with blankets as I was in the hospital uniform. I could see frantic patients in front of my eyes screaming for help.
I was numbed by the enormity of the situation. Some people asked me to go towards the main block of the hospital, but I craved to get back home as I stay just opposite the hospital. I borrowed a cellphone from a person and called up my daughter-in-law Debjani, as my son Sutirtha is abroad. My brother, my nephew and my daughter-in-law came to take me back.
As I came back home, I heard the sirens of the ambulance, which did not subside even till late afternoon. I am not sure, but I think only six of the women patients in my ward survived, because others were either too frail or seriously ill. They also longed to live, but their hopes were crushed by the callousness of the hospital authorities.
This was surely an experience of a lifetime. Until a few days ago, “I have got a new lease of life” was just a meaningless phrase for me. Today, I know what it really means.

As told to Tanya Bagchi