(One Week to the Wedding)

I'd applied for leave well in advance. Even my CO chuckled when I handed him my wedding invite.

"Looks like the skies will miss you, Squadron Leader," he said.

"Temporarily, sir," I smiled.

I'd planned high-risk missions with more clarity than I had planned this wedding, but the countdown had begun, and there was no ejecting now.

Back home in Chennai, the house was glowing — not just with string lights and turmeric-smeared door frames, but with the kind of excitement you could feel in the air. Silver kuthu vilakkus flickered at every corner. My mother was everywhere at once — calling caterers, checking flower deliveries, and tying jasmine garlands like she was preparing for a military drill.

Somewhere in all this, I was supposed to be the bride. Honestly? I felt more like a uniformed guest on inspection.

Relatives began arriving before I could unpack. Every room filled with chatter, silk sarees, and sandalwood fragrance. The nadaswaram rehearsals, the temple visits, the endless "Have you eaten?" — it was a new kind of war zone.

People kept asking if I was nervous. I wasn't. Excited? Not really. This wasn't about butterflies or fairy tales. It was about one thing — my father had asked me, once in his life, to consider marriage. He never pushed, never repeated it. Just hoped. And for him — the man who gave me my wings to fly a Sukhoi — I could walk down the aisle.

The mehendi debate was my first real battle.

"Full hand design! Both sides!" my aunt insisted.

"Just a small patch on the palm," I replied, arms crossed.

"It's your wedding, Aarohi!" my mother sighed.

"And I'm still in the Air Force. You want me to salute my CO with peacocks on my fingers?"

We compromised — a coin-sized design inside my palm. Enough to keep the aunties happy, small enough to fade before my next sortie.

Somewhere between rituals and saree changes, Aaliyah stormed in like a one-woman rescue team — too many bags, too much attitude, and exactly what I needed.

"You're getting married tomorrow and you haven't picked your koora pudavai?" she gasped, scandalized. "The main wedding saree? Aarohi, are you trying to give your mother a heart attack?"

"Good to see you too," I muttered, pulling her into a hug.

In minutes, my room became her command center — makeup kits, safety pins, a Bluetooth speaker blaring Bollywood, and her loud arguments with my mother over saree borders.

The koora pudavai hung in the corner — deep red silk with gold borders. The reception lehenga lay folded nearby, jewelry laid out with the precision of a pre-flight check. The whole house was ready.

We ended up on the terrace that night — me and Aaliyah — sipping filter coffee, wrapped in old shawls, letting the silence do most of the talking. For the first time in a week, I could breathe without an agenda. For a few minutes, I wasn't a bride, or a Squadron Leader, or a daughter. I was just Aarohi.

A voice cut through the silence.

"Permission to enter the war zone?"

I spun around. Group Captain Jack D'Souza stood there, fresh off a flight, duffel bag slung over his shoulder and holding a bouquet that screamed 'airport purchase.'

"You're late," I said, hugging him hard. "I almost got roped into a Bharatanatyam performance because you weren't here to bail me out."

"Ah, but I'm here for the finale," he grinned, settling in. "So, still no idea what this guy looks like?"

"Not really. His name's Vikranth. Army."

"That's it?"

She shrugged. "That's enough."

They didn't press. They knew me well enough to understand this wasn't about love stories — it was about trust, about keeping my word.

As I lay down hours later, the scent of turmeric and rosewater clinging to my skin, I switched off the lamp. Shadows stretched across the ceiling. All I knew was his name, his rank, and that he wore a uniform. That was enough.

I didn't know what marriage to him would bring. But I knew who I was — a daughter, a pilot, a woman who keeps her word. I just hoped he knew who he was, too.

And then, a thought I hadn't allowed myself crept in.

I wondered if he would like me.