The ringtone pierced the quiet of the early morning. I reached for my phone before I was fully awake, blinking at the screen.

Caller ID: Group Captain Rane (CO).

I didn't need to guess. I already knew.

I answered, straightening my voice despite the sleep. "Jai Hind, sir."

"Squadron Leader," came his usual clipped tone. "We've picked up unusual movement across the border. Surveillance sorties are ongoing. Be on standby. We may need all active pilots tonight."

"I understand, sir," I said, already rising to my feet. "I'll be ready."

"You know the drill. Be alert. We'll confirm orders by 1700 hours."

I ended the call and sat on the edge of the bed, the silence around me now crackling with urgency. This was life.

The Khanna house was already stirring. I stepped downstairs into the living room, still in my plain cotton salwar. Bade Papa sat at the center, surrounded by elders sipping coffee and dissecting wedding leftovers — from food to finances to faint gossip.

I walked straight to him. "Papa," I said quietly, "I've been called in. There's likely to be a deployment at the border. I wanted to inform you before I left."

The room froze. The clamor of coffee cups vanished, replaced by a vacuum of silence.

Before Bade Papa could respond, one of the uncles leaned forward, scoffing. "She just got married. Is this the time to go flying into danger zones?"

Another aunt sighed. "These girls in uniform — no sense of family duty."

I stood still, spine straight, eyes only on Bade Papa.

His voice cut through the noise, calm but sharp. "She's informing me out of courtesy." He looked at the uncle who had scoffed. "She's wearing those wings because she earned them. I will never ask her to put them down."

The room went dead silent.

Then he turned to me, his eyes warm with a paternal calm. "Should I drop you at the Air Force Station, or will someone come pick you up?"

"My transport's already on the way, Papa."

Something warm and wordless lodged in my throat. I nodded and whispered, "Thank you, Papa."

Upstairs, I changed quickly into my IAF digital-camo fatigues, my mind already switching into protocol mode — supplies, intel, strategy.

Before leaving, I stopped by the kitchen. Ma was folding clothes on the side counter, the jasmine flowers in her hair drooping slightly. She looked up, her eyes searching mine.

"I'm heading out," I said gently.

She blinked — and then smiled. "He's in uniform. You're in uniform. What else did I expect?"

"I'll be safe," I assured her.

She walked over, cupped my cheek, and simply said, "Come back soon, Aarohi. But don't rush back. Do what you must. I know this life. I've lived it too."

We shared a quiet hug. No dramatic send-offs. Just understanding.

My ride arrived — a green Gypsy, dust-covered, the IAF emblem stark against the side. As we pulled away, I opened the file handed to me by the officer beside me, scanning the latest intel. Enemy movement had intensified.

My eyes fixed on a single line: Breach in the northern sector.

That was his area of operations. His world.

My husband was somewhere in that cold, unforgiving landscape right now. I closed the file, my mind already shifting to protocol. Flight altitudes. Weapon loadouts. Contingency plans.

The city blurred past the window. There was no time to think of the wedding, the jewelry I hadn't even unpacked, or the sacred thread still around my neck.

Duty had called. And I had answered.

Like always.