The women greeted her with love and affection. They garlanded her and gave her a hero’s welcome. She was one of them. They surrounded her and engaged in small talk. They were impressed by her dramatically changed and impressive body language. Her clothes were more elegant, her demeanour more mature. Many teenagers touched her repeatedly. She had changed, they felt. It was not the Bibi who had lived among them. She had grown in stature, and they were proud to see her commanding respect from the accompanying military personnel. Yet what touched them the most was her love for Allah Rakha and his family.

Bibi hugged Shahida and burst into tears. Allah Rakha’s only son, Abbas, had returned with his family from Nepal a few months ago. Standing in a corner with a sombre expression, he watched Bibi with amazement and disbelief. He had heard many stories about her. But after meeting her, he realized her importance in his family. She attended to the barrage of visitors at the door and performed the rituals like a real daughter would. She did all the chores at home, including serving kehwa to the visitors, without paying any attention to the fact that she was an army general’s wife.

A week later, she shifted to Jalandhar, the nearest family station for army personnel engaged at the battle front. The staff had maintained the official quarters really well in Virk’s absence and the large, spacious house looked spick and span except for the study. That was the only room in the entire house that was still locked. But Bibi knew where to find the key. She opened it to find books, files, maps and documents scattered untidily on the floor. She began setting the large desk in order. While doing so, a map caught her attention. Intrigued, Bibi placed it under the table lamp and took a closer look. A small black dot was carefully encircled in red ink. It denoted Tadali. She was surprised by what she saw and bent down to read the fine text. In bold ink, Virk had scribbled, ‘Amrit Home’ on top of the dot. She held the map close to her heart. Memories came rushing back but she didn’t lose her composure. ‘Thank you so much, dear Virk! I am so grateful . . .’ she murmured and sank into the plush chair. The teenager in her was transported to the famous Sardar House in Tadali.

But life did not afford her the luxury of sitting back and thinking of days gone by.

Barely a week later, she had to rush to Delhi. Her in-laws had met with a car accident and were admitted in the army hospital. Despite the doctors’ best efforts to save them, they succumbed to their injuries a day later.