Last Saturday morning, I thought I was going to lose my father.

He’s been bedridden for a year now, slowly slipping into the fog of Alzheimer’s. That morning, he started gasping for air. My mother panicked. So did I. In that moment of desperation, I did what we’re told to do in emergencies – I dialled 112, India’s so-called all-in-one emergency number.

What followed, however, was anything but quick or reassuring.

The call was routed to the police department, and I explained everything calmly – an elderly, bedridden Alzheimer’s patient in urgent need of medical assistance. I live in a prime location in South Delhi. It shouldn’t have been hard. Yet, it took almost an hour for an ambulance to show up.

And when it did, it was just a vehicle with a driver and one lady attendant. No paramedics. No medical equipment. No one to help lift my father. We live on the third floor of a building with no elevator. When I asked for help, the attendant simply handed me a stretcher and looked away. The stretcher they brought didn’t even have basic straps to secure a patient.

A PCR van came soon after, with an aged police officer who spent more time scribbling on a clipboard than offering help. When I told him I couldn’t carry my father down by myself, he looked at me with disdain and said – almost sarcastically – that I was wasting everyone’s time.

Eventually, I had to send the government ambulance back and call for a private one. It cost a fortune, but honestly, nothing mattered at that point. I just wanted to save my father, whatever life he

What happens when you do everything right—and the system still fails you?

We are told that 112 is a consolidated helpline for all emergencies. It’s supposed to replace 100, 101, and 108, and offer faster, more coordinated support. But in reality, it’s just another broken promise.

What if I hadn’t had the money for a private ambulance? What if it had been a heart attack or a stroke? What if time was truly running out?

This isn’t just about me. It’s about the millions of middle-class Indians who pay their taxes on time, follow the rules, and still have to beg for basic services. It’s about how we’re made to feel like asking for help is an inconvenience to the very people paid to provide it.

Taxed, tired, and trapped

Every year, the burden on the middle class grows. We’re squeezed from all sides—sky-high fuel prices, GST on food items, crumbling public services—and yet, we’re expected to stay silent. We’re told we’re “privileged” if we have a home, a job, or savings. And maybe we are, comparatively. But what’s the point of paying so much into a system that gives you nothing when you need it most?

Emergency healthcare should not be a luxury. Dignity in crisis should not be reserved only for those who can afford private hospitals and VIP numbers.

Why are we always on our own in this country?

That morning, standing on the third floor with my panicked mother and gasping father, I felt helpless. But more than that, I felt angry.

Angry at a system that leaves people to fend for themselves.
Angry that I had to choose between waiting and risking my life, or paying through my nose for what should’ve been a basic service.
Angry that our cries for help are met with sarcasm, bureaucracy, and indifference.

Some days, I envy the people who left this country. Not because I don’t love India – I do. But because they have a system that listens when they scream for help.

Here, we scream into a void.
And the silence is deafening.