The promise

COVER STORY

“He is no more.”

These are the words doctors usually say to the family of a deceased patient when they are unable to save a life because it was destined to end. But in Dr Palwasha’s case, she herself was the doctor, the wife and the only attendant of the man lying in the ICU, taking his final breaths.

His vital signs were dropping. His heart was about to stop beating and his lungs were struggling to breathe. She did everything she could to save him, performing CPR with trembling hands. For a brief moment, he opened his eyes. He wanted to see her one last time, to take his final breath before his beloved and to look into the eyes of the woman with whom he had made a promise years earlier, in the innocence of childhood. It was as though the angel of death was already waiting beside him.

He knew his duty was done and his promise fulfilled.

She knew her love was not dying. He knew he was not leaving her alone.

So she let him go.

There was a love between them that understood duty stood above all else.

“You have to inform Captain Batoor Khan’s family that he is no more,” said the nurse to Dr Palwasha.

“I am his family...” Dr Palwasha whispered, her voice breaking.

“Dr Palwasha... I am so sorry. I didn’t know,” Staff Nurse Sara said, still in shock. “I am sorry for your loss.”

Her heart cried, refusing to accept reality. Did I lose him? Did I?

The locket resting over his heart caught the light, a symbol of his unwavering courage and patriotism, and proof that he had kept his promise.

Three years later

She sat on the same bench where their story had begun, a story that would remain etched in their hearts forever. Once, they had been ordinary children enjoying a carefree childhood and studying together at a public school in Waziristan. Then tragedy struck, stealing their innocence in a single blow and turning them into children shaped by conflict.

Both had lost their fathers. Batoor Khan’s father was martyred in a terrorist attack, while Dr Palwasha’s father embraced martyrdom fighting the terrorists.

Before leaving Waziristan, they met one last time on that bench in the garden on a cold October afternoon, believing they might never see each other again.

“Palwasha, I heard you’re going back,” Batoor said.

“Yes, to Rawalpindi. We were here because of Dad’s posting,” she replied.

“We’ll miss you. You were a brilliant student.”

“I’ll miss you all,” she replied, her eyes filling with tears.

“What do you want to become when you grow up, Palwasha?”

“A doctor who saves lives. And you?” she asked, her childish eyes full of curiosity.

“Someone who will sacrifice his life for his country,” Batoor replied proudly.

“You mean an army officer? A captain like my father?” she asked excitedly.

“Yes, a captain.”

Palwasha took a small locket from her pocket.

“I made this for my father. Fate had other plans, so I want you to have it. It’s for a boy who dreams of being as brave as my father and is ready to sacrifice his life for his country.”

She placed it gently in Batoor’s hand.

“Thank you, Palwasha. I’ll keep it with me until the day I die.”

“Do you know what’s written in it?”

“What?” he asked curiously.

“Pakistan ka matlab kya? Promise me you’ll always wear it whenever you go on an operation. It will give you strength whenever you feel vulnerable.”

He nodded, his eyes shining with gratitude.

They were two children carrying the same grief but dreaming different dreams. One dreamed of defending the country so that no child would lose a father to terrorism. The other dreamed of saving lives so that no child would lose a parent to tragedy.

Without speaking the words aloud, they pledged in their hearts to serve the nation, and nature bore witness to that silent oath.

So how could they never meet again?

Now she was thirty, cherishing those precious memories while her three-year-old son, Khushal, played in the same garden. Though it was a warm July afternoon, she could still feel the chill of that October day.

She waved at Khushal and he waved back. Then the breeze carried another memory, one she treasured despite the loneliness it brought.

Years later, they met again at the Army Medical Hospital, where Palwasha was completing her house job. To them it seemed a coincidence, but it had been written by Allah long before. Their souls recognised one another even before their eyes did. Yet it was the name badges on their uniforms that finally confirmed what their hearts already knew.

“Dr Palwasha Khan,” Batoor read aloud.

“Captain Batoor Khan,” she replied with a smile.

Their eyes met before they both lowered their gazes shyly.

Their mothers had already begun encouraging them to marry. Although they had never promised to meet again, they had unknowingly waited for each other.

Soon afterwards, they were married and were blessed with a son, Khushal.

Then one day, Captain Batoor Khan laid down his life for his country, keeping the promise he had made as a child.

Palwasha sat for nearly an hour, watching her son play while reliving the sweetest memories of her life. She had never truly healed. She had never forgotten her father, nor had she ever forgotten Batoor.

Her heart still ached with the pain of separation, yet her eyes still shone with the determination to serve humanity and heal broken hearts.

Rain began to fall.

She had spent enough time wandering through memories that, despite their sorrow, always gave her strength.

She stood up, took little Khushal’s hand and walked back to her army residence.

“Mama,” Khushal called.

“Yes, my son?”

“Pakistan ka matlab kya?”

Palwasha smiled through her tears.

“ ”

A single tear rolled gently down her cheek.

Many sacrifices have been made, and many more will be made.

The freedom we enjoy today exists because there are still people raising their children to serve their country and safeguard its sovereignty.