Soumyadeep Dutta The fluorescent lights above flickered like tired eyelids, buzzing faintly over rows of rusting stretchers and sweat-drenched bodies. It was 7:58 a.m. when I stepped into the emergency ward of Nilratna Chatterjee Memorial Government Hospital for the first time as a junior resident. My stethoscope clung around my neck like a nervous talisman, and in my coat pocket sat a new blue notepad with clean pages—still innocent of blood, signatures, and regrets. The smell hit me first—disinfectant poorly masking urine, vomit, and something else, something warm and fleshy, like decaying hope. Patients lined up the corridor, lying on…