The Hospital Queue Poem by AAHAN VARMA

The fever started yesterday,
But the fear wasn't the pain.
The fear was the bill
That would arrive again.

His mother could barely stand,
His father checked his wallet twice,
Counting notes with trembling hands,
Calculating the price.

They reached the hospital early,
Yet the line already stretched far.
Some were waiting for treatment,
Some were waiting for a miracle to start.

One bed.
Ten patients.
One doctor.
Hundreds of names.

And somewhere in the middle,
Hope kept changing lanes.

The question isn't
Why people fall sick.

The question is—
Why treatment becomes so difficult.

The question isn't
Whether hospitals exist.

The question is
Why they feel out of reach like this.

Some sold jewelry.
Some sold land.
Some saved their loved ones.
Some simply couldn't.

For the rich,
An illness becomes a bill.
For the poor,
It can swallow an entire life still.

We don't ask for miracles.
We don't ask for luxury.
We just want to know,
Why does healthcare feel like a privilege instead of dignity?

Because people don't fear disease alone.
They fear what it will cost.
And when treatment becomes a gamble,

How many lives are quietly lost?