The Patient Behind the Ambulance

Raghu’s greatest weakness was believing that being late made him unusually inventive. If he left home fifteen minutes late, he expected the road to reward him with a discovery unavailable to people who had set alarms.

That Tuesday, he was due at a furniture showroom to meet his wife, Pallavi. They had spent three weekends discussing sofas and were now in the dangerous final stage, where every wrong remark could reopen the entire decision. Pallavi’s message was brief: “Please reach before I choose the mustard one.”

Raghu left immediately.

Near a busy stretch outside HSR, an ambulance approached behind the queue. Drivers began making room. Raghu moved his scooter aside as well. This was sensible. What followed was not.

When the ambulance passed, he slipped in behind it, imagining that the opening belonged to whoever appreciated it quickest. Another rider gestured for him to hang back. Raghu pretended not to understand. This was his second inventive act of the morning and considerably less impressive than he thought.

The ambulance driver continued towards a hospital. Raghu followed for a short distance before realising he had missed his own turn. By then, his grand shortcut had delivered him to a hospital entrance, where a security guard waved the scooter towards a clear stopping area.

“Relative?” the guard asked.

Raghu removed his helmet. “No.”

“Coming with ambulance?”

“No. Actually, furniture.”

The guard looked at the scooter, then at Raghu, and allowed the silence to do some work.

Raghu explained that he had been trying to reach a showroom. The explanation sounded significantly worse in daylight. The guard, whose badge read BASAVARAJ, pointed to where the ambulance team needed to work.

“Then why come behind them? They need that space.”

There was no shouting. Raghu had prepared internally for shouting. Calm disappointment was much harder to negotiate with.

A staff member approached, carrying a folded wheelchair. “Family waiting outside?”

Basavaraj shook his head. “This gentleman is selecting a sofa.”

The staff member stopped for a moment. Raghu considered whether he could simply dissolve into his rain jacket. Instead, he apologised and moved his scooter where Basavaraj directed, clear of the entrance.

His phone vibrated. Pallavi had sent a photograph of a yellow sofa. Under it: “This one is growing on me.”

Raghu replied, “I made a stupid decision. Delayed. Please give me ten minutes.” It was the most accurate travel update he had sent in years.

Before leaving, he asked Basavaraj how to get back towards the showroom. The guard explained the route. Raghu listened without interrupting, which Basavaraj appeared to regard as a promising early improvement.

“Go normally,” the guard said. “Furniture will wait.”

At the next signal, Raghu stopped behind the line, left the available space alone, and resisted the urge to hunt for a clever angle. He had plenty of time to consider that an ambulance was carrying someone’s emergency, not his personal solution to poor planning.

He reached the showroom seventeen minutes later. Pallavi stood beside the mustard sofa with a salesperson who had already learned far too much about their living room.

“You look serious,” she said.

Raghu told her what happened. She listened, then said, “Good that somebody told you.” He agreed. This surprised her enough that she abandoned the small argument she had been preparing.

They chose a plain blue sofa. The salesperson asked whether they wanted express delivery.

“No need,” Raghu said quickly.

Pallavi glanced at him. “Normal delivery is fine.”

He saved the showroom appointment in his calendar before leaving.

That evening, she saved Basavaraj’s final advice as Raghu’s contact nickname: Furniture Will Wait.

For once, he did not request a correction.

Read when you’re a passenger or safely off the road. Never while driving.