This Diwali, Ravi (name changed) turned 19. He lived in a small town, 100 km southeast of Sevagram. Fresh out of his teens, he had completed his tenth grade at a local school and enrolled in a technical college. A promising future awaited him—steady income, a stable life. His parents, both laborers in the fields, dared to dream of a brighter future for him.

But two months ago, those dreams began to crumble.

It started with low-grade fevers. His face swelled. His skin turned pale. His appetite vanished. The neighbors whispered, “It’s jaundice.” A village healer offered herbs and oil. For a brief moment, Ravi seemed to improve—but only for a week.

Then came the lumps. Tiny swellings under his arms. A hard lump above his collarbone.

“Why does my neck feel tight, Aai?” Ravi asked, his voice trembling.

Aai’s face tightened as she examined the swelling. Fear flickered in her eyes, but she tried to reassure him. “Don’t worry, beta. Let’s go see the doctor in the next town tomorrow.”

She took him to a private doctor 45 kilometers away, a man with an MD degree. The doctor’s face grew serious as he examined Ravi.

“This is not simple,” he said. “I’ll need to do blood tests, X-rays, and a biopsy.”

For two weeks, the doctor treated Ravi. IV fluids, antibiotics, and painkillers. He checked on him daily. The tests indicated a serious illness, but the results left more questions than answers.

“I’m afraid I can’t offer the care he needs here,” the doctor said, his voice full of compassion. “You must take him to Nagpur. It’s your best chance.” He waived part of the bill.

Nagpur—a city Ravi’s parents had never seen. With their sick child, they braved the journey, their hope battling their fear. They arrived at the massive teaching hospital, known for its affordable care. The OPD was packed. Lines stretched endlessly. The air was thick with exhaustion. Ravi’s parents joined the queue, their fatigue evident, both physically and emotionally.

But what lay ahead felt even harder.

By the time they entered, it was mid-afternoon. The doctor glanced up from the chart. His expression turned grave when his eyes met theirs.

“I’m sorry, but we don’t have any beds. It could take at least two weeks before one becomes available,” the doctor said softly. “He needs urgent tests. I suggest you come back after having them done as an outpatient.”

The doctor’s voice was gentle but helpless. His empathy was clear. But can empathy alone change the harsh reality?

Exhausted and hungry, Ravi’s parents made their way back home. The city felt overwhelming.

“Nagpur is not for us,” they decided.

Aai, fighting tears, nodded. “We’ll go back to the local doctor. Maybe he’ll have an answer.”

Back at the local hospital, the doctor continued his treatment. More antibiotics. More vitamins. More saline. This time, he added steroids.

Slowly, Ravi began to improve. The family breathed a sigh of relief. They praised the doctor and cursed the big city hospital.

Weeks passed. Then, Ravi’s back began to ache—sharp, relentless pain. He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t eat. His legs swelled. His face puffed up.

“We can’t just sit here and wait,” Aai said one evening, desperation in her voice. “Let’s try another doctor.”

Another town. Another doctor. More tests. More medicines. More expenses. Nothing worked.

The doctor suggested an MRI. Back to Nagpur they went. The report said tuberculosis. Finally, a diagnosis. Ravi was started on TB medications, but his condition worsened. He vomited everything. His urine turned red. They stopped the treatment.

The fear in Aai’s eyes was now replaced by anger. “What is happening to my son?” she cried.

A relative from a nearby town intervened. He arranged transport to Sevagram Hospital.

Here, the doctors listened. They examined Ravi carefully—eyes, neck, armpits, chest, abdomen—every inch of him. Scans were ordered. A surgeon biopsied the lymph node. Pathologists pored over the microscope.

The report arrived: lymphoma. The diagnosis was daunting, but the doctors knew it was treatable. If they acted quickly and aggressively, they could offer Ravi hope—hope for a full and lasting recovery.

Months of fever, night sweats, weight loss, and swollen nodes—a textbook case. Yet, it took four long months, countless visits, and a small fortune to reach this point. Four months of anguish. Four months of mounting debt. Four months of sleepless nights for a family already stretched to their limits.

Ravi’s story is far from unique. It mirrors a grim reality. Just days before, a Lancet study highlighted the delays in cancer care across India—delays in diagnosing and treating cancer patients. Ravi’s case could have been pulled straight from that very study.

Delays that steal lives. That crush dreams. That rob families of their dignity.