It was my first month at the largest hospital in the state, SMS, where trauma surgery had just begun, and I had recently joined. It was around 5 in the morning when my phone rang.

"Sir, an unknown male with a history of a four-wheeler turnover, multiple iron rod impalement injuries, polytrauma case with 'Non-recordable BP'..."

It was the resident doctor on duty in the trauma emergency department, who had been working through the night.

Hearing the words "non-recordable BP" is enough to send a surge of adrenaline through any trauma surgeon's veins, making the mind race as if on a battlefield, fighting to save a battalion surrounded by enemies. 

By 5:25 AM, the unknown patient lay unconscious on the operating table. There were no tests, no formalities—only a few bags of blood and the trauma team fighting to save a life that could end in minutes, with severe injuries to six parts of his body.

"Sir, the patient has no pulse. We need to start CPR. Push the blood fast, and arrange more blood quickly," snapped me out of my stupor. The voice from anesthesia cut through the chaos, and with the first cycle of CPR, the heart began to beat again. It felt like a divine intervention, as the anesthesia team understood the pulse of both the surgeon and the patient in such critical moments.

Iron rods pierced through major blood vessels, with blood flowing like water from a tap. Every second felt like a pendulum swinging between life and death, with us playing God's pawns, making moves to save a life. In the two-hour battle, we used over 20 units of blood.

"Sir, someone has come looking for this patient outside the OT. They want to meet you." It felt like no one is truly "unknown" in trauma; they are just victims who end up alone in accidents, often they are the sole bread earner of the family with many lives depending on them.

Outside the OT, the family had so many questions, as if they wanted to know the end of the story in that very moment. But the story was far from over; we were merely pawns. The author had long forgotten to write anything beyond the beep of the ventilator and the monitor.

Severe wounds on the head, chest, abdomen, and legs, multiple fractures— the real battle had just begun. Weeks on the ventilator, fighting infections in wounds, medications to stabilize fluctuating blood pressure, chest infections, and the constant guesswork of what was happening inside the body. Every surgery felt like a challenge, making us doubt if the end was near. Around 10-12 surgeries later, sometimes too critical to move to the OT, were performed right on the ventilator bed.

The family's persistent question: "Will he ever come home?" And our constant reply: "Hope and prayers are needed; we can't say anything in these critical conditions." A few times, we had to prepare his friends to support the family, warning that the situation could turn fatal by morning.

After nearly a month of relentless effort, we succeeded in saving that patient's life. Miracles manifest when you place your trust in God and persevere without rest. Two months later, witnessing that very patient, once teetering on the brink of hopelessness, walk into the OPD on his own was a moment of indescribable satisfaction and joy.