The hospital corridor buzzed with its usual rhythm—nurses hurrying by, files being shuffled, faint murmurs of patients in the distance. But in the waiting lounge, everything stood still. The Khan family, still reeling from the revelation of Noor’s rank and role, sat in an unusual silence. Their earlier ideas about her—simple, traditional, manageable—had completely shifted.
Just then, the click of boots echoed down the hallway.
Noor returned from her rounds, her clipboard now tucked under her arm, her posture as straight as ever, eyes focused, unreadable.
She stopped in front of them, tilting her head slightly. “Ap sab yahan?” Her voice was calm, but there was a subtle softness now—a courtesy.
Her mother gave her a look. “You forgot, didn’t you?”
“Forgot what?” she asked, brows knitting.
“The shopping, Noor.” Her father sighed, exasperated but smiling.
Noor blinked, then ran a hand across her forehead. “Shit.”
Everyone except her parents flinched a little at the word, but Noor didn’t care. She checked the watch strapped around her wrist and sighed again. “I have two procedures tomorrow, but nothing for the rest of today. Give me fifteen minutes.”
She turned on her heel and walked away without waiting for a reply, her back ramrod straight, her medals glinting under the hallway lights.
The family sat again, whispering among themselves.
“She forgot shopping,” Murtasim’s chachi whispered. “For someone so disciplined…”
“She’s not just disciplined,” his mother cut in softly, “she’s living in another world than us. That kind of world... doesn’t remember lehenga shopping.”
Meanwhile, Murtasim remained quiet. His eyes followed her retreating figure, something warm stirring in his chest.
Fifteen minutes later, the door to her cabin creaked open.
Noor stepped out—not in uniform this time, but in a baby blue salwaar kameez, the soft cotton hugging her figure in the gentlest way. Her long, thick hair had been freed from the bun, cascading in waves to her waist. No medals. No cap. Just her.
And yet, somehow, she looked no less regal.
The entire family stood up as if on instinct. She looked different—warmer, more relatable—but the energy around her hadn’t changed. She was still that woman who’d stood like a storm moments ago, but now wrapped in silk and simplicity.
Just as they were about to leave, a uniformed officer came jogging down the hall, holding a file.
“Ma’am! Signature required before the end of the day.”
He slowed as he saw her, then came to an abrupt stop. Standing at attention, he saluted crisply, his voice echoing through the corridor. “Lieutenant Malhotra, Ma’am!”
Noor offered a quiet nod, took the file, scanned it, signed it with a flourish, and returned it.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
She nodded again, “Carry on.”
The officer disappeared, but the moment lingered.
Murtasim’s taaya ji, who had scoffed at her earlier in the day, now looked like he'd swallowed his words. His chachi’s mouth had parted slightly. Murtasim’s sister whispered under her breath, “Even the men salute her…”
Noor adjusted her dupatta, looked at them all, and said, “Shall we go?”
Murtasim stepped beside her.
His voice was low, only for her to hear. “You forgot lehenga shopping but remembered battlefield protocols?”
She smirked, eyes fixed forward. “Priorities.”
He chuckled. God, she was something else.