Help

There he was, standing by the traffic lights, trying to catch a lift to the hospital.
He had been waiting for quite some time now, asking people here and there, to drop him to the hospital, but every single time, he got the same reply.
Nobody seemed to be going toward the hospital, or so they made him believe.
He was a stranger, to the town, to the people, to their ways. Never before had he seen such unhelpful people in his life, which he was sure had been long enough to see plenty, and more.
In his own small village, no one would think twice, before helping any man in distress, let alone an old man like he was.
For the umpteenth time, he tried asking another young man, who had just halted on the signal, to drop him to the hospital, and yet again the reply was "I'm not going in that direction".
Then, came an auto rickshaw, and halted right next to where he was standing. He checked his pockets, turned them inside out, and snap, there went the rickshaw.
He was dejected, and disappointed at the helpless attitude of the people, and more than that, at his own helplessness.
Sadly, he just sat back under the shade of the tree, the only solace the hot afternoon had to offer, waiting for someone else to come by.

He had to get to the hospital, and quickly, for what reason he could not quite remember.
His old mind had started playing games with him, and although he knew there was someone gravely ill, he could not remember who it was.
He got up all of a sudden, as he saw an auto-rickshaw coming to a halt. Frantically, he checked his pockets, and unable to find anything he could offer to the driver, he started cursing his God, the hysteria of his bad luck echoing through the silent air.
His eyes red with sadness, his throat coarse with cough, his legs trembling with panic, the old man looked on in disbelief at the world passing him by, apathetic and unmoved.
The old man turned around, and went back to the empathizing shade of the tree.