47,823 and Counting

A heartwarming story of a hospital lift operator in Pune, India who counts life's joys and sorrows through his unique ritual and observation of human emotions.

Author Note

You know how life sometimes gives you stories in the most unexpected places? Well, this one found me during a recent three-day stay at Dinanath Mangeshkar Hospital in Pune. Don't worry – I wasn't the patient! I was there as an attendant, and honestly, it could have been just another mundane hospital visit. But here's the thing about having a writer's brain – it never really switches off. It's like carrying around a child who's perpetually curious about everything and everyone.

Between the endless corridors and the going up and down between floors, I found myself scribbling notes about the smallest things. The way morning light hit the reception desk, how the night shift nurses walked a bit slower than the day shift ones, those little details that most people probably don't notice. But what really caught my attention was this lift operator in the patient elevator.

I never actually spoke to him (writers can be awkwardly quiet observers sometimes!), but I watched him every time I rode in his lift. One day, I overheard him telling a colleague, "Today has been interesting, lots of elderly people getting discharged in good health." There was something about the way he said it – like he was keeping score of all the good things happening in his little moving world. That's when this story started taking shape in my head.

Oh, and I have to mention – everyone at the hospital was incredible. From the doctors to the nurses to the cleaning staff, there's this beautiful thread of humility and helpfulness that runs through the place. But sometimes the best stories come from the people we barely notice, right?

Anyway, enough from me. Here's what my writer's brain made of it all.

Shiva had pressed the same buttons 47,823 times. Not that he was counting, but after eight years as the lift operator at Deenanath Mangeshkar Multi-speciality Hospital, every small detail had become a meditation. The worn-out '4' button with its half-visible number. The way the doors squeaked slightly between floors 2 and 3. The exact shade of institutional green that lined the walls of his 6x8 metal box—his office, his observatory, his confessional.

Each morning began the same way—a ritual eight years in the making. Standing in his lift, Shiva would tap his uniform coat pockets from outside, checking for the familiar shapes: smooth white pebbles in his right pocket, black ones in his left. His son Ansh had once asked why he carried stones to work. "Son," he'd replied with a gentle smile, "everyone has their way of making sense of what they see." Near the button panel hung his small utility bag, with a special pocket that would slowly fill throughout the day, pebble by pebble, story by story.

As soon as he finished ensuring his pebbles were in place, the lift stopped at its first destination. "Ground floor," he announced in his practiced monotone, though today felt different. Perhaps it was the refreshing scent of rain-soaked earth in Pune this morning, or maybe it was the comforting warmth of the masala chai his wife had packed in his thermos. Either way, as his first passengers of the day entered, Shiva felt unusually attuned to the theater about to unfold.

"Third floor, please," mumbled a middle-aged man in a wrinkled kurta, his eyes fixed on his gold ring as he twisted it nervously. Behind him was his elderly father in a wheelchair, guided by a nurse, oxygen tank hissing quietly. Shiva recognized the type—he called them "Death-watchers" The son's darting eyes and restless fingers told the story of inheritance papers waiting to be signed.

As they ascended, Shiva hummed softly, pretending not to notice when the son checked his watch for the fourth time. He'd learned that sometimes the wisest thing you could do was to be invisible while the lift traveled to its destination. "Third floor," he said and kept one hand softly on the shoulder of the old man and said "Baba, you'll live to see 100 years, be brave." Then he looked at the son who was trying to keep his annoyed expression in check and said simply, "Your floor, sir." As soon as they stepped out, he dropped a black pebble in the bag and muttered "What a start."

The morning rolled on. Floor after floor, story after story. A young cricketer with a bandaged knee who couldn't stop talking about the tournament he was missing. An elderly woman, Harsha Ben, who had undergone knee replacement surgery a month back, now stood proudly on her own legs, her smile as wide as nightfall. "Wah! Harsha Ben, you look fine, seems like you'll be running marathon soon!" They all laughed. Shiva always remembered the names of people who talked to him, though not many people talk to a lift man. Then there was the teenage girl with bandaged wrists and bruised face whose silence screamed louder than any words could. Another pebble dropped.

"Going up," Shiva announced, though sometimes he wondered if they were all going down, down into the depths of human experience, where joy and sorrow tangled like IV tubes.

During his lunch break, he was joined by Nurse Meena, who massaged her temples between bites of paratha. "Shiva" she sighed, "sometimes I think you have the harder job. At least I can walk away from my patients. You're trapped here with everyone's emotions."

He chuckled. "But Meena sister, I have the best seat in the house. Where else can you see life's entire spectrum in just a few square feet?"

The afternoon brought Dr. Shah, serene as a summer sky, heading to emergency surgery. "Fifth floor," he said quietly. The patient was Sharma ji—Dr. Shah's neighbor who endlessly complained about falling mangoes from the doctor's tree and his barking dog. Yet Dr. Shah remained the picture of grace, a true gentleman even now prepared to full-fill his duty. His assistant couldn't resist a jest: "Sir, should we make him sign a housing society peace treaty before anesthesia?" Dr. Shah's eyes crinkled with suppressed amusement but he said nothing. "Fifth floor, Dr. Sir," said Shiva, dropping a white pebble in his bag while fighting back a smile. In this moment, even life's ironies felt like blessings.

As evening approached, Shiva's lift hosted what he thought would be the final drama of the day. A couple, both red-eyed, entered. The woman clutched a file labeled "Fertility Clinic." Before he could ask their floor, she leaned into her husband's arms, her eyes asking an unspoken question. Her husband answered by kissing her forehead, as if to say - this time we'll have good news. Shiva wanted to say something but decided to be quiet and did not drop any pebble. Luck was yet to decide their fate.

"Which floor?" Shiva asked softly.

"Ground," the husband replied, holding his wife. "We'll go have some nice cofee and Bun-Maska at Cafe Goodluck, what do you say?" A smile returned to the woman's face as she wiped her wet eyes. "Yes, good luck—we need some of that."

As his shift neared its end, Shiva stood in his lift one last time. He thought about them all—the death-watcher and his father, Harsha Ben with her triumphant steps, the wounded teenage girl, the graceful Dr. Shah, and the couple seeking their miracle at Cafe Goodluck. In this small metal box with each press of a button, he'd witnessed every shade of human existence.

He pressed 'G' one final time, allowing himself a moment to count the pebbles—today the black pebbles outnumbered the white, just by one. Life was like that, sometimes showing more sorrows than joys. The close contest like this always left him uneasy.

Suddenly, the lift stopped at the second floor. "Wait a minute!" called Nurse Meera. "A patient is coming." Shiva's hands instinctively tapped both pockets. A woman entered, radiating joy, cradling a week-old baby in her arms. His hand moved unconsciously toward his right pocket, fingers closing around a white pebble. "Which floor, madam?"

"One moment, brother," she smiled. Then her husband stepped in, carrying an identical precious bundle in his arms. "Ground floor," he beamed.

Shiva's fingers, already holding one white pebble, quickly grabbed another. His voice grew thick with emotion as he said, "Yes, sir, madam. They are beautiful. May God give them long and healthy lives." The new parents' eyes sparkled with tears of joy, and for a moment, the lift seemed to glow with their happiness.

As he finally stepped out for the night, Shiva patted the lift's door frame like an old friend. In a hospital full of people rushing to save lives, perhaps his job wasn't so different. He too was a caretaker of sorts—of stories, of moments, of the spaces between tragedy and comedy where real life happened. Today, thanks to those precious twins, the white pebbles had won by one. Sometimes, he thought, life saves its sweetest surprises for last.

The security guard nodded goodbye. "Same time tomorrow, Shiva bhai?"

"Of course," he replied, feeling the weight of the remaining pebbles in his pockets. "Someone has to keep everyone moving in the right direction."

© Harsh Munjal

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