Chapter 3

The next morning, the silence of the hospital was replaced by a low, vibrating hum. It took me a few minutes to realize the sound wasn't in my head. It was the collective drone of hundreds of voices, camera shutters, and the idling engines of news vans parked just outside the Adarsh Private Hospital.

High above my bed, a television set was blaring. Even with my muffled hearing, the news anchor’s voice cut through the air like a jagged blade.

"MLA candidate Mr. Thakur is currently holding a press conference in front of the hospital regarding the state of the alleged victim his daughter struck with her vehicle. Public outcry is reaching a fever pitch. The question remains: will Mr. Thakur be forced to step down from the upcoming election?"

I tried to sit up, but a bolt of lightning shot through my spine. Every inch of my body felt like it had been tenderized with a hammer. My right arm was encased in a heavy, stiff bandage that smelled of iodine and stale sweat. My head felt lopsided, weighed down by thick gauze that covered my left ear and wrapped around my forehead. My mouth tasted like bitter copper and the chalky residue of high-dose painkillers they had forced down my throat earlier.

The door to my suite burst open. The lavender mist from the day before was gone. It was replaced by the suffocating scent of cheap floral hairspray and industrial-strength floor cleaner.

"We have two minutes to fix him up," a voice barked. "Chop chop! We don’t have all day."

It wasn't the secretary. This voice belonged to a woman who sounded like she chewed on gravel for breakfast. She was likely in her late fifties, her tone dripping with the kind of authority that only comes from decades of bullying subordinates.

I felt rough hands grabbing my shoulders, pushing me upright despite the groan that escaped my lips. Someone started dabbing a cold, greasy substance onto my cheeks. It smelled like stage makeup. They were painting over the bruises, trying to make the "victim" look a little less like he’d been through a meat grinder.

"Listen to me, boy," the domineering woman hissed. Her face was so close to mine that I could smell the peppermint she was using to hide the scent of cigarettes. "When you get out there, you are going to tell the press exactly what we discussed. It was your fault. You jumped in front of the car. You were distracted. Understand?"

I felt a wave of nausea hit me. The disgust in her voice was thick enough to choke on. She didn't see a human being in this bed; she saw a PR disaster that needed to be scrubbed away.

"But... I didn't jump," I rasped. My throat felt like I had swallowed a handful of sand. "Someone pushed me. I was standing on the curb and..."

"Nobody cares what you think happened," she snapped, cutting me off.

I didn't argue further. Not because I agreed, but because something impossible was happening. In the center of the black void where my vision should have been, a faint light began to glow. It wasn't a screen like the ones on the phones people used. It looked like an ancient, yellowed scroll, flickering with a ghostly radiance.

How was I seeing this? I wondered if the hospital had pumped me full of some experimental medicine that was finally melting my brain. I stared at the scroll, fascinated by the way the edges seemed to fray and burn into the darkness of my mind.

‘This must be the Prayer Count,’ I thought. ‘The thing the seniors at the office always bragged about.’

Around me, the nurses and assistants were still working, their voices a chaotic chorus of mockery.

"You should really pray to the God of Health, honey," one of the ladies snickered as she adjusted the bandage on my head. "Maybe he’ll finally cure all those problems of yours."

"How many prayers do you think it would even take to fix one of those eyes?" another asked, her voice bubbling with cruel laughter. "A billion? Or maybe he should start smaller. Since he is only partially deaf, maybe the ears are cheaper."

"What do you think he fixes first?" a third voice chimed in. "The eyes, the legs, or the ears? I bet he’d give anything just to see how ugly he actually is."

The room filled with the sound of their laughter. It was a sharp, ugly sound that felt like sandpaper on my nerves. To them, I was just a joke. I was a broken toy to be mocked while they earned their paycheck from the MLA.

‘Huh, so even blind people can see the Prayer Count. But why didn’t I see it till now?’ I thought to myself.

I ignored them. I was too busy staring at the scroll. If I could see this, did that mean I wasn’t fully blind anymore? But I couldn’t see the nurses. I couldn’t see the room. I only saw this... debt.

As they pushed me into a wheelchair and began rolling me toward the elevators, the terrifying woman leaned down one last time.

"I will give you one million Rupees," she whispered. "Accept the fault. Say you were clumsy. If you do that, the money is yours."

I nodded unconsciously. It was a reflex born from years of nodding to every insult, joke, and order thrown my way.

But my mind was focused on the numbers.

God of Health: -999,000,000,000 God of Fire: -54,000,000,000 God of Thunder: -2,200,000,000

Is a negative count even possible? I wondered if the Gods gave out loans like the banks did. I had always heard that people don’t have enough prayers for their requirements and their wishes get rejected. But this was different.

I felt the wheelchair stop. We were backstage. I could hear the roar of the crowd and the blast of loudspeakers praising the future MLA. The noise was dizzying. Does the present MLA have no power to stop this madness around a hospital?

I focused on the scroll. I wanted to see if I could interact with it. I closed my eyes and whispered a mental plea.

‘God of Health, cure my pain.’

Suddenly, the scroll flickered. The number under the God of Health shifted. It went from -999,000,000,000 to -998,999,999,999.

My heart skipped a beat. It worked. I had actually performed a prayer. Even though it was a drop in the ocean, the debt had decreased by exactly one. It meant I wasn't locked out. I was just in a hole deeper than any human could imagine.

The elevator doors opened, and a roar of sound hit me. It was the sound of the crowd outside. The heat of the morning sun began to bake the sidewalk, and I could smell the hot asphalt and the exhaust fumes of the idling news vans.

They rolled me onto a raised stage. The floodlights were so bright I could feel the heat on my eyelids. It was an intense, biting warmth. I felt exposed, like an insect pinned to a board.

The MLA, Mr. Thakur, was already speaking. He smelled of expensive cologne, old leather, and sweat. He spent what felt like an eternity singing his own praises.

I tried to use the prayer system again. I focused on my eyes.

‘Cure my blindness using prayer to the God of Health.’

A new line of text flickered onto the scroll in bright red.

[Curing Blindness: Requirement — 10,000,000 Prayers to the God of Health.] [Would you like to proceed? Yes/No]

I quickly pressed Yes in my mind.

[ERROR: INSUFFICIENT FUNDS.]

The words popped up in all caps. A small jolt of electricity buzzed through my fingers. It wasn't enough to create pain, but it was enough to wake me up if I were sleeping.

"And now," the MLA's voice boomed, his hand landing heavily on my bandaged shoulder. "Mr. Dev will tell you himself that this unfortunate incident was not my daughter's mistake."

The mic was adjusted to my height as I sat in the wheelchair.

"Uh, Yes," I started. My voice felt dry. "The MLA’s daughter is not the reason for my... accident. Even though she was breaking the speed limit within the city... Since I am blind... I didn't know. I just stepped into the street. It was my mis... mistake."

The words hung in my throat. I felt a sudden surge of heat in my chest. The memory of the slaps in the office, the teenage delinquents pushing me, and the nurses laughing at my deformed face all collided at once.

The MLA started to speak again, his voice filled with a fake, oily kindness.

"We have decided to give—"

He was about to announce the million rupees. He was about to buy my silence for a price that wouldn't even pay for a year of my life.

"The MLA has graciously decided to fix my eyes," I interrupted. My voice was louder than I expected, echoing through the loudspeakers.

The crowd went silent. I felt the MLA’s hand freeze on my shoulder.

"He told me that he will use his vast Prayer Balance to perform a miracle," I continued, my heart hammering against my ribs. "He has promised the world that he will use the God of Health's blessing to restore my sight completely. He said that if he doesn't do that, you don't have to vote for him."

I could almost hear the MLA’s brain stalling. The crowd, sensing a massive show of power and divinity, began to roar. The news cameras were flashing like a lightning storm.

I sat there, staring at the red numbers on my scroll. I didn't have the prayers to fix myself. But I had just handed the bill to the man who thought he could buy me for a million rupees.

I felt the MLA’s fingers dig into my shoulder blade, hard enough to bruise. But he couldn't take it back now. Not in front of the entire city.

He had to fix me, or he would lose everything. And I knew, better than anyone, that a prayer to cure blindness was a debt even a man like him couldn't easily pay.