Pride in a Pallu

Chapter 1: The Equal Egos

In the narrow, sun baked lanes of Triplicane, Chennai, where the scent of jasmine from the temple flower market mixed with the diesel fumes of passing autos, stood a modest two-storey house painted the colour of faded turmeric. Number 17, Kutchery Road. The house belonged to Saad and Safiya, two people who had spent their entire lives proving to the world, and to each other, that they could survive anything.

Both were orphans.

Saad had been left at the doorstep of an Islamic orphanage in Madurai at three days old, wrapped in a thin cotton towel. No note, no name, just a tiny silver taweez around his neck that the matron later said looked like it belonged to someone who once had money. He grew up lean, sharp eyed, good with numbers, better with arguments. By sixteen he was already tutoring Class X boys in maths for pocket money, and by twenty two he had a small accounting firm in Triplicane that handled GST filings for half the textile shops on Godown Street.

Safiya had come from a similar kind of nowhere. Found at age two in the back of a Trichy bus stand, clutching a torn pink teddy bear, she was raised in a Progressive islamic orphanage run by nuns who taught her impeccable English, perfect posture, and the quiet art of never asking for anything twice. l She became a fashion designer, specialising in modest wear. Her Small Instagram page @SafiyaSilks had 17k followers; her signature was hand-embroidered georgette abayas with subtle zari work that looked expensive but cost just enough for middle class brides.

They met at twenty four, in the most predictable way possible: a mutual friend’s walima. Saad was the best man, Safiya was the bride’s cousin who designed the lehenga. He teased her about the “fancy price tags on simple cloth.” She shot back that his “cheap calculator brain” couldn’t understand beauty. Within six months they were married in a simple nikah at the same mosque where they first fought over who should pay for the catering.

Eight years later, at thirty two, they still lived in that same two-storey house. No children yet not because they didn’t want them, but because both secretly believed the other would be a terrible parent unless proven otherwise. The house was full of small battle scars: the kitchen wall where Safiya once threw a wet dosa cloth at Saad’s head after he said women’s cooking was “just chemistry with extra drama”; the living-room sofa with the permanent dent from the night Saad slept there after telling her that “real men don’t cry during movies, even if it’s Bajrangi Bhaijaan.”

Their love was real. Fierce. But so were their egos - twin mountains that refused to bow.

Dinner conversations were almost always a sport.

One humid August evening, the ceiling fan creaking above them, they sat across the small teak dining table. Safiya was in a loose cotton kaftan, hair still damp from her bath, scrolling through her phone. Saad, shirt sleeves rolled up, was eating mutton biryani with his fingers, the way he liked it - slow, deliberate, as though proving he didn’t need a spoon.

“You know what your problem is?” Safiya said without looking up. “You think being a man is just about having a loud voice and paying bills. That’s why men like you get stressed when a woman earns more.”

Saad licked a grain of rice off his thumb. “And you think being a woman is about looking pretty and complaining. That’s why women like you get shocked when the world doesn’t hand them everything on a silver thaali.”

Safiya finally looked at him. Her dark eyes narrowed. “I earn more than you some months, Saad. And I still cook. Still manage the house. Still look like this.” She gestured at herself the long neck, the kohl-rimmed eyes, the faint scent of rose attar. “You couldn’t survive one week doing what I do.”

Saad laughed short, sharp. “And you couldn’t survive one day doing what I do. Dealing with clients who haggle over two hundred rupees, standing in queues at the GST office, listening to men talk about cricket like it’s the meaning of life. You’d cry on day one.”

“I’d do it better than you,” she said, voice dangerously soft. “I’d charm them into paying double.”

“And I’d make you look like a princess in five minutes flat,” he countered. “Wax, makeup, heels, saree, everything. You’d hate it.”

“I’d rock it,” Safiya shot back. “But you? You’d be begging for your precious trousers after one day in a salwar.”

They stared at each other. The fan kept creaking. Somewhere outside a street dog barked twice.

Then, almost at the same moment, both said:

“Prove it.”

They froze.

Saad’s mouth twitched first. “You serious?”

Safiya leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Dead serious. One week. Full role reversal. I handle your online office, your clients, your mosque committees. You handle my boutique, my Instagram, my tailoring ladies, my endless phone calls. Winner takes whatever they want for the next year. No complaints.”

Saad’s eyes glittered. “And if I win, you wear whatever I tell you to wear. For a month.”

“And if I win,” Safiya said slowly, “you wear whatever I tell you to wear. For a month.”

Thinking it was a fake provocation at the moment...

They both knew what the other was thinking. They both knew it would be humiliating. They both knew they would never back down.

The next morning, everything was still normal. Saad left for the office at 8:45 like always, kissing Safiya’s forehead out of habit. She watched him go from the balcony, already planning how she would reorganise his filing system.

But the universe, it seemed, had its own plans.

Around 11:30 a.m., while Safiya was pinning a dupatta on a mannequin, her phone rang. Unknown number. Chennai code.

She answered.

“Assalamu alaikum, Safiya? This is Fatima. Fatima from your college. Remember me?”

Safiya blinked. Fatima. The quiet girl who used to sit in the last bench and sketch hijab designs. They hadn’t spoken in years.

“Wa alaikum assalam… yes, of course. How are you?”

A pause. Then Fatima’s voice, low, almost whispering.

“I need a huge favour. A really huge one. Can we meet? It’s… urgent.”

Before Safiya could reply, another phone rang in the house Saad’s landline, the old black one they still kept for “official” calls.

Saad, who had come home early for lunch, picked it up.

“Saad bhai? Rahim here. Rahim from your school football team. You remember?”

Saad frowned. Rahim. The tall, fast winger who used to steal all the girls’ attention. They hadn’t spoken since Class XII.

“Yeah… what’s up, man?”

Rahim’s voice cracked slightly.

“I’m in deep trouble, bhai. I need you. Badly. Can we talk? Today itself?”

Saad glanced toward the boutique room where Safiya was still on her mobile.

Both phones. Both old friends. Both sounding desperate.

And both, unknowingly, about to drop the exact same bomb.

Author's Note:

Hi hiiii 🌸
It’s me ,Jerusha Anne Joy.
Okay first of all… yes. I know. I vanished. Like fully disappeared. Half a year. No chapters. No stories. Just dust. 🫠
I’m really sorry about that. Life happened, brain went into buffering mode, and writing quietly curled up in a corner for a while.
But! I’m back now slightly older, slightly wiser, and still very much obsessed with spices~~ 🙈

This story took a lot of thinking, especially because it’s set around Islamic culture and family structures. I didn’t want to just “assume” things or get stuff wrong, so I shamelessly ran to my bestie for help 💕 She patiently explained customs, dynamics, little everyday details...

Also, belated Happy New Year! 🎉
Yes, I’m saying that now. Time is fake. Please accept it anyway.

Thank you for waiting. Thank you for reading. And thank you for still being here when I finally pressed “post” again 🥺💖
With lots of love,

– Jerusha Anne Joy
(Still dramatic. Still writing. Still me ✨)

Chapter 2: The Calls, the Decision, the Start

Safiya ended the call with Fatima first. Her thumb hovered over the screen for a long second before she set the phone down on the mannequin’s shoulder. The boutique room felt suddenly smaller the rolls of chiffon and crepe staring back at her like silent witnesses.

Fatima had spoken in quick, hushed bursts. She was in Bangalore now, doing her Master’s in Architecture, but her family in Tirunelveli had finally lost patience. “They’ve fixed a boy,” she’d said. “Next month engagement. I told them I’m not ready, but they don’t care. I need a fake groom for six months just long enough to get my visa stamped and leave for Germany. Someone who can come for the engagement, the nikah if they push, then disappear when I’m gone. Someone who won’t actually expect anything.”

Safiya had laughed a short, incredulous sound. “You want me to find you a man who’ll play pretend-husband?”

“No,” Fatima had whispered. “I want you to find someone… or… I was thinking… maybe Saad? You two are perfect. You’re already married, so no real complications. He just has to act the part for a bit. I’ll pay for everything clothes, travel, even a small ‘salary’. Please, Safi. You’re the only one I trust not to judge.”

Safiya hadn’t answered right away. She’d only said, “Let me think. I’ll call you back.”

Across the house, Saad was still on the landline, leaning against the wall with one hand rubbing the back of his neck.

Rahim sounded like he hadn’t slept in days.

“Bhai, listen… I’m in love with a Christian girl. Priya. We’ve been together three years. But my family you know how they are. They want a proper Muslim bride, full purdah, everything. They’ve already started looking. If I say no, they’ll disown me. I just need a fake wife for maximum six months. Someone who can come to the house, wear the abaya, do the namaz with Ammi, convince everyone I’m settled. Then Priya and I will get married quietly in Goa, civil way, and I’ll tell my family it didn’t work out. I’ll handle the divorce papers myself.”

Saad had snorted. “You want me to find you a woman who’ll pretend to be your purdahwali begum?”

Rahim’s voice dropped even lower. “Actually… I was hoping… Safiya? She’s so… convincing. She already knows how to carry herself. She can pull off the whole thing. And since you’re already married, no emotional mess. I’ll pay for all the expenses jewellery, outfits, even a small flat if you need space. Please, bhai. You’re the only one who won’t laugh in my face.”

Normally he should have been angry at this.... but

Saad had gone quiet. Then: “Give me an hour. I’ll talk to her.”

He hung up.

They met in the living room five minutes later, both standing, both trying to look casual.

Safiya spoke first. “Fatima called.”

Saad nodded slowly. “Rahim too.”

A long silence stretched between them.

Safiya crossed her arms. “She wants a fake groom. To buy her time for her visa.”

“Rahim wants a fake bride. To buy time till he can run away with his girlfriend.”

Another beat.

Then, almost at the same instant:

“She asked for you,” Safiya said.

“He asked for you,” Saad replied.

They stared.

And then because the universe has a cruel sense of humour ,both started laughing. Not polite laughter. The kind that starts in the stomach and hurts your ribs.

When it died down, Safiya wiped the corner of her eye. “This is insane.”

“Completely,” Saad agreed.

But neither of them moved to call back and refuse.

Instead, Saad said, “We were just talking about role reversal last night.”

Safiya’s lips curved. “We were.”

“If I do this…” Saad began.

“If I do this…” Safiya countered.

They both knew what the other was thinking.

Not just pretending. Not just surface-level acting.

Full. Complete. Undeniable. Role reversal.

Because anything less would be admitting defeat.

Saad spoke first, voice low. “If we do this properly… no half-measures. We go all the way. So when we switch back, no one can ever say we didn’t commit.”

Safiya’s eyes flashed. “You’re saying we actually become the other gender? For real?”

“As real as it gets,” he said. “I know a place. Underground clinic in Aminjikarai. Run by a friend from college Dr. Arif. He does… everything. Voice training, prosthetics, hormones if needed, seamless attachments. No questions asked. Expensive, but Rahim and Fatima are paying.”

Safiya swallowed. “And documents?”

“Arif has contacts. Aadhaar, PAN, passport everything can be forged with new names, new backstories. They’ll even create fake family photos, school certificates, the works.”

She looked at him for a long time.

“You’d really do this?” she asked. “Wear the burqa? The jewellery? The… everything?”

“Only if you wear the beard. The lungi. The topi. And go pray at the mosque five times a day.”

Her mouth twitched. “You’d hate every second of it.”

“So would you,” he shot back.

A slow, dangerous smile spread across both their faces.

“Then let’s make it unbearable for the other person,” Safiya said softly.

“Deal,” Saad replied.

They called back within the hour.

To Fatima, Safiya said: “Saad will do it. But we’re doing it our way. Full transformation. New name: Sameera. And you’ll get your six months.”

To Rahim, Saad said: “Safiya’s in. New name: Sajid. Full change. You’ll get your cover.”

Both friends were stunned into silence, then tearfully grateful.

The next three days passed in a blur of hushed planning.

They chose new names carefully.

Saad would become Sameera soft, feminine, North Indian sounding, because the fake family they would create would be “originally from Lucknow, migrated south twenty years ago.”

Safiya would become Sajid strong, traditional, local enough to blend in Chennai.

They told no one else. Not yet.

On the fourth day, a quiet Saturday morning, they took an auto to Aminjikarai.

The clinic was behind a small stationery shop, down a flight of stairs, unmarked door with a single brass bell.

They rang it.

The door opened.

Dr. Arif stood there mid-forties, calm eyes behind thin glasses, wearing a plain white kurta.

He looked at them both, then smiled faintly.

“Saad. Safiya. Come in.”

They stepped inside.

The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and sandalwood.

The corridor was narrow, lit by cool white LEDs.

At the end of it, a heavy door with a small sign:

Transformation Suite

Saad reached for Safiya’s hand out of habit, or maybe nerves.

She squeezed back.

Then, together, they crossed the threshold.

Chapter 3: The Making of the prides

The Transformation Suite smelled of antiseptic mixed with the faint, almost comforting trace of attar rose and oud that Dr. Arif must have sprayed to mask the clinical sharpness. The room was larger than they expected: pale green walls, two padded reclining chairs side by side like dentist chairs, soft overhead lights, and a long counter lined with trays of instruments that gleamed under sterile blue glow.

Arif spoke quietly, professionally, as though he were discussing a haircut. He is an underground scientist, testing new unknown techniques...

“Full reversible transformation. Six to eight months safe duration. No permanent changes. Hormones minimal just enough for skin texture and minor fat redistribution. Voice modulation via laryngeal adjustment and training. Prosthetics are medical-grade silicone, seamless, breathable, temperature-responsive. Everything comes off in under thirty minutes when the time comes.”

He looked at them both. “You’re sure?”

Saad and Safiya exchanged one glance the kind that said everything without words then nodded.

Saad went first.

They started with waxing. Full body. A technician a silent woman in scrubs named Ayesha worked methodically. Hot wax on chest, stomach, legs, arms, back. The rip of cloth strips felt like fire followed by sudden cold. Saad’s jaw clenched each time, but he didn’t make a sound. When it was over, his skin was baby-smooth, pink, hypersensitive to the slightest draft from the AC. Every brush of air felt like a feather dragged across raw nerves.

Next came the skin treatment: a full-body wrap of a clear, cooling gel that smelled faintly of cucumber. It tightened, then softened his pores, giving his complexion an even, almost porcelain glow. Arif explained it would last months with minimal upkeep.

The voice came after. A small injection at the base of the throat local anaesthetic first, then a precise filler to subtly reshape the vocal cords. Saad tried speaking. His voice cracked, then settled into something higher, softer, melodic. Not cartoonish. Just… undeniably feminine. He cleared his throat, tested it: “This is… strange.” The words came out in a gentle Tamil-inflected lilt. He hated how natural it sounded.

Then the prosthetics.

They brought in the breasts first. Two realistic silicone forms, C-cup, weighted, with textured skin that matched his new tone perfectly. The adhesive was surgical, applied warm, then pressed on. When the edges sealed, there was no seam. Only smooth, warm flesh that moved with his breathing. He looked down. They rose and fell naturally. When Ayesha cupped them to check adhesion, the sensation travelled straight to his brain, pressure, weight, faint ache of new nerves waking up. He swallowed hard.

The lower half was more invasive.

First, a custom flat chastity cage, medical silicone, ventilated, locked with a tiny biometric pad that would only open to his original fingerprint. It cupped him snugly, compressing everything backward, leaving a smooth, featureless front. The pressure was constant, intimate, unignorable. Every shift of his hips reminded him it was there.

Then came the vaginal prosthetic a lifelike outer labia and pubic mound, complete with realistic dark pubic hair individually implanted. It glued over the cage, creating a perfect, seamless illusion. When the technician gently parted the silicone lips for final fitting, Saad felt the cool air touch places that shouldn’t exist. The sensation was so real his stomach flipped.

They gave him a name tag: Sameera.

Safiya now Sajid watched from the other chair, eyes wide, lips pressed tight.

Her turn.

Waxing first. Legs, arms, chest, back, bikini line. She hissed through every strip, but refused painkillers. When it was done, her skin felt newborn, every hair follicle screaming.

They darkened her skin tone slightly with a safe tanning solution just enough to make her look convincingly Tamil male. Beard implants came next: individual follicles, surgically precise, dark and thick. When the anaesthetic wore off, she scratched her jaw and felt the rough stubble rasp against her palm. The weight of it was alien.

The voice adjustment: same procedure. Her pitch dropped, timbre roughened. When she spoke “Saad…?” it came out deep, gravelly, unmistakably male.

The most humiliating part was the phallus.

A realistic, weighted silicone penis and scrotum, attached with the same medical adhesive. Blood-warm, textured, veined. It hung heavy between her legs, swaying slightly with every movement. The scrotum had a faint, realistic heft. When the technician adjusted the base for fit, the tug pulled at skin she didn’t know could feel that way. She looked down, saw it, and her new voice cracked on a laugh that sounded more like a cough.

They dressed her first.

Plain white vest, then a crisp light-blue full-sleeve shirt. Dark grey trousers, belt cinched tight. Black leather sandals. A simple steel watch. A white cotton topi on her head. The mirror showed a tall, clean-shaven (except the new beard), broad-shouldered man who could have been any local accountant.

She.... i mean... he flexed his shoulders. The shirt pulled across a chest that no longer had softness. The weight between his legs shifted. He adjusted it instinctively, then froze, cheeks burning.

Now Sameera.

They started with the innermost layers.

White lace bra padded just enough to support the new breasts without looking fake. The straps dug lightly into shoulders already tender from waxing. Matching panty high-waisted, cotton-lined, smoothing everything flat and seamless. Then a cream camisole, soft against the hypersensitive skin.

Next, the salwar kameez: soft georgette in pastel peach, embroidered with tiny silver gota work. The dupatta was long, sheer, edged with gota lace. They draped it carefully over her head and shoulders.

Jewellery next. Small gold jhumkas that brushed her neck with every turn. A thin gold chain with a tiny heart pendant that rested between the breasts. Glass bangles green and gold that clinked softly when she moved her wrists. A small red bindi on her forehead. Kohl around the eyes, mascara, faint rose lipstick.

Hair: a long, wavy wig in jet black, pinned securely, smelling faintly of jasmine oil.

Finally when leaving, the burqa.

Black, flowing, two-piece. The inner abaya first silky, ankle-length. Then the outer layer with the niqab veil attached. They lifted it over her head. The fabric settled around her like a second skin cool at first, then warming to her body heat. The mesh eye screen let her see out, but the world looked softer, filtered. Her breathing sounded louder inside the cocoon. Every inhale brought the faint scent of new fabric and her own rose attar.

She looked at herself in the full-length mirror.

Sameera stared back modest, elegant, undeniably female.

Sajid stood beside her in shirt and trousers, arms folded, looking every inch the confident groom-to-be.

Arif handed them each a small envelope: new Aadhaar cards, PAN, voter ID all under their new names, with forged family histories already uploaded to the system.

They stepped outside the clinic together.

The late afternoon sun hit them like a slap.

A yellow-top auto waited at the curb, engine idling.

Sajid opened the door for Sameera first a small, automatic gesture that made her stomach twist with something between rage and reluctant amusement.

Sameera gathered the folds of her burqa, careful not to let the hem drag, and stepped in. The fabric whispered against her legs. She sat, knees together, hands folded in her lap over the small embroidered purse they’d given her.

Sajid slid in beside her, legs spread comfortably, one arm along the back of the seat.

The driver glanced in the rear-view, then asked in Tamil: “Enga, anna?”

Sajid answered in the new voice steady, deep: “Triplicane, Kutchery Road.”

The auto lurched forward.

Inside the burqa, Sameera felt the vibration of the engine travel up her thighs, through the chastity cage, a constant, humiliating reminder.

Sajid felt the new weight between his legs shift with every pothole.

Neither spoke.

But both, silently, were already planning how to make the other suffer more.

Chapter 4: The place where ego dwells

The auto dropped them at a narrow side street off Triplicane High Road, outside a three-storey building painted peeling white. Third floor. Flat number 302. Rahim had arranged it a small, furnished two-BHK rented in Sajid’s new name, paid six months in advance. “Neutral ground,” he’d said. “You two can stay together while the families are being set up. Less suspicion.”

They climbed the stairs in silence.

Sameera first burqa whispering against the concrete steps, the soft soles of her embroidered slippers barely making a sound. Every step pulled the fabric taut across her thighs, reminded her of the smooth, sealed cage beneath the prosthetic, the constant gentle pressure that made her hyper-aware of every sway of her hips. The breasts shifted slightly with each breath, a soft, unfamiliar weight she couldn’t ignore.

Sajid followed, shoes thudding confidently. The new phallus moved with his stride heavy, pendulous, brushing the inside of his thigh through the cotton briefs. He adjusted once, twice, then forced himself to stop. The beard itched already. The topi felt like a cap of responsibility he hadn’t asked for.

Inside, the flat smelled of fresh paint and new furniture. One bedroom with a double cot, one smaller room with a single bed (they hadn’t discussed who would sleep where yet), a tiny kitchen, a living room with a sofa set in cream rexine, and a balcony that overlooked a row of drying laundry and temple gopuram lights.

They stood in the living room, facing each other.

Sameera lifted the niqab veil first, revealing the perfectly made-up face kohl-lined eyes, rose lips, faint blush on cheeks. She spoke in her new voice, soft and lilting: “So… this is home for now, Sajid bhai?”

Sajid pulled off the topi, ran a hand through the short, gelled hair they’d given him. His voice rumbled low: “Looks like it, Sameera.”

The names landed like small slaps.

Sameera reached up, unpinned the hijab, let the long black waves fall. “I’m going to change. This burqa is suffocating.”

She walked to the bedroom, hips swaying more than she intended the prosthetic vagina shifting with each step, the inner lips brushing together in a way that made her cheeks burn.

Sajid watched her go, then muttered, “Enjoy your little fashion show.”

In the bedroom, Sameera stripped slowly.

First the burqa folded carefully on the bed, the fabric still warm from her body. Then the abaya, sliding off like liquid. The salwar kameez next. She stood in bra, panty, camisole. The mirror on the wardrobe door showed a woman curves, smooth skin, breasts rising with each breath. She cupped them, felt the realistic give, the faint tug of adhesive at the edges. Her fingers trembled.

She changed into something simpler for the house: a loose cotton housecoat in lavender, knee-length, with a matching dupatta draped over her shoulders. No bra underneath the breasts moved freely, nipples brushing the soft cotton, sending small shocks through her. The panty stayed; she couldn’t bring herself to remove it yet.

When she stepped out, Sajid was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, trying to make tea. The shirt strained across his broader shoulders. He turned, saw her.

“You look… comfortable,” he said, voice dripping sarcasm.

Sameera smiled sweetly. “Thank you, jaan. You look very… manly. That beard suits you.”

Sajid touched his jaw. The stubble rasped. “It itches like hell.”

“Good,” she said, stepping closer. “Maybe you’ll understand why women spend hours on grooming.”

He snorted. “And maybe you’ll understand why men don’t fuss over every little thing.”

They moved around each other like cats in a cage.

Dinner was awkward. Sameera insisted on cooking “A good wife should, right?” so she stood at the stove in her housecoat, dupatta slipping off one shoulder, stirring dal. The breasts ached slightly from the day’s compression; she adjusted them discreetly, hating how natural the motion felt.

Sajid sat at the small dining table, legs spread, scrolling through his phone. “You’re doing that wrong. Too much turmeric.”

Sameera turned, spoon in hand. “Oh? And you know how to cook now, Sajid bhai*?”

“I know how to eat. That’s enough.”

She plated the food, served him first a small, deliberate gesture of wifely duty. When she bent to place the plate, the housecoat gaped slightly; she caught him looking.

“Eyes up here,” she said softly.

He met her gaze. “Just checking if the transformation is holding up.”

“It’s holding,” she replied, sitting opposite him. “Very well.”

They ate in tense silence, forks clinking.

Later, on the sofa, watching a mindless serial, the real clash began.

Sameera curled her legs under her, dupatta draped modestly. “Tomorrow you have to go to the mosque for Fajr. Full beard, topi, everything.”

Sajid leaned back, arms behind his head. “And you have to call my I mean, your mother-in-law. Fatima’s mother. She wants to speak to her new bahu.”

Sameera’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll be perfect. Sweet, obedient, everything you always said a woman should be.”

“And I’ll be the perfect man,” he shot back. “Providing, protecting, leading prayers.”

They glared.

Then Sameera smiled slow, dangerous. “Let’s see who breaks first.”

The next morning, the doorbell rang at 10 a.m.

Sameera, now in a simple cream anarkali with light makeup and a sheer dupatta, opened the door.

A middle aged couple stood there the man in a crisp white kurta-pajama, the woman in a green saree with a heavy gold chain. Behind them, a young man of about twenty-two, lanky, with a shy smile.

The woman stepped forward, eyes soft, already moist.

“Sameera beti?”

Sameera’s heart thudded. This was it the fake family Rahim and Fatima’s contacts had assembled. Mr. and Mrs. Iqbal Ahmed, originally from Lucknow, “migrated” to Chennai twenty years ago. Their “son” Asif, the younger brother.

She lowered her gaze, folded her hands. “Assalamu alaikum, Ammi… Abbu… Bhai.”

Mrs. Ahmed pulled her into a hug immediately. “Mashallah, kitni sundar hai! Look at her, Iqbal. Our Sameera. Finally we have a daughter.”

Mr. Ahmed nodded, voice gruff but kind. “We’re so happy, beta. We’ve been waiting for this day.”

Asif grinned. “Didi, you’re prettier than the photos.”

Sameera felt the hug, smelled the woman’s jasmine attar, felt the warmth of real arms. It was too convincing. Too real.

She glanced over her shoulder.

Sajid stood in the doorway to the bedroom, now in a plain white kurta and lungi, beard neatly trimmed, topi on. He looked every inch the respectable brother-in-law.

Mrs. Ahmed noticed him, smiled. “And you must be Sajid bhai. The groom-to-be.”

Sajid stepped forward, offered salaam. “Assalamu alaikum, Aunty. Uncle.”

They exchanged pleasantries, tea was served, small talk about the wedding date just three days away, a simple nikah at a nearby hall.

Then Mrs. Ahmed took Sameera’s hand.

“Beta, pack your things. You’re coming home with us today. A bride shouldn’t stay in a rented flat before marriage. It’s not proper.”

Sameera’s stomach dropped.

Sajid’s eyes met hers across the room a flash of triumph, then something almost like worry.

Sameera swallowed, forced a smile. “Ji, Ammi. I’ll just… take a few minutes.”

She walked to the bedroom, heart hammering.

Sajid followed, closing the door softly.

“Looks like you’re moving out first,” he whispered.

Sameera turned, voice low. “Enjoy your freedom while it lasts, Sajid.”

She began folding her clothes into a small suitcase salwars, sarees, jewellery pouches, the burqa.

When she finished, she looked at him.

“See you at the wedding, husband.”

Sajid’s jaw tightened. “See you there, wife.”

Sameera lifted the suitcase, adjusted her dupatta, and walked out to where her new “family” waited.

Mrs. Ahmed linked arms with her.

“Come, beti. Let’s go home.”

They stepped out together Sameera in the middle, flanked by her fake mother and brother, the door closing behind her with a soft click.

Chapter 5: Veiled Victories

The Iqbal Ahmed residence was a cosy two-bedroom flat in Parrys Corner, overlooking the bustling Broadway market where vendors hawked everything from steel utensils to fresh idiyappam. It smelled perpetually of cardamom tea and the faint musk of old prayer mats. Sameera stepped inside that first evening, suitcase in hand, the weight of her new breasts pulling at her shoulders beneath the cream anarkali. The fabric clung slightly to her waxed skin, still sensitive from the clinic, every brush of the dupatta sending tiny prickles across her collarbone. Humiliation simmered low in her gut here she was, Saad the accountant, now a blushing bride-to-be, about to be "trained" by a fake mother she’d never met.

Mrs. Ahmed, Ammi, as she insisted wasted no time. “Beti, come, sit. You must be tired from the journey.” She guided Sameera to the living room sofa, a plush maroon set with embroidered cushions that sank under her weight. The bangles on Sameera’s wrists clinked softly, a constant reminder of the femininity glued to her. Asif, the “younger brother,” grinned from the armchair. “Didi, want some juice? Ammi makes the best mosambi.”

Sameera nodded demurely, voice soft: “Ji, bhai. Thank you.” Inside, she seethed. DIDI. The word felt like a leash.

Mr. Ahmed ,Abbu ,sat across, newspaper in hand, but his eyes were kind. “We’re so glad you’re here, Sameera. No relatives in Chennai, haan? Don’t worry. We’re your family now.” The backstory was seamless: orphaned at ten, raised in a Lucknow madrasa, modest job as a tailor’s assistant until this “arranged” match. They’d even forged old photos Sameera in a child’s salwar, “family” picnics by the Gomti River.

That night, bonding began in the kitchen. Ammi pulled Sameera in, handing her a knife. “Chop the onions, beti. A good bahu knows her way around the stove.” Sameera’s hands nails now painted faint pink ,trembled as she sliced. The sting of onion fumes burned her kohl-lined eyes, tears welling up. The prosthetic breasts pressed against the counter edge, a dull ache spreading through her chest. Humiliation bloomed: Saad, who’d mocked cooking as “women’s drama,” now dicing vegetables while Ammi chattered about “keeping the husband happy.” “Men work hard outside, beti. We make the home a paradise.”

Sameera forced a smile. “Ji, Ammi. I’ll learn everything.” But her mind raced to Sajid. *Wait till I call him.*

Across town, in the rented flat, Sajid paced the empty living room. The phallus shifted uncomfortably in his trousers with every step, a heavy, alien tug that made him wince. The beard scratched his jaw like sandpaper; he’d already scratched it raw. Fatima had texted: “Your biodata is ready. Orphan, accountant from Madurai. Simple, pious man.” He snorted. Pious? He’d have to pray five times a day now.

The next morning started his ordeal. At 4:30 a.m., the alarm blared for Fajr. Sajid dragged himself to the bathroom, splashed water on his face, the beard dripping, rough against his palms. He donned a fresh white kurta-pajama, the fabric loose but the topi pressing his forehead. The mosque was a five-minute walk, the pre-dawn air cool against his darkened skin. Inside, the men’s section smelled of musk attar and old carpets. He joined the line, knees on the mat, the phallus pressing awkwardly as he bent for sujood. Sensations flooded: the hard floor digging into his shins, the deep voice chanting “Allahu Akbar” from his own throat, the sidelong glances from other men who nodded approvingly at the “new face.” Humiliation twisted his gut , Safiya, the independent designer, now bowing with strangers, pretending to lead a life of masculine duty.

Back home, he called his “office” - Saad’s old accounting firm. The clients were waiting. “Sajid sir, the GST filing for Rahman Textiles?” He sat at the desk, legs spread in the chair, fingers flying over the keyboard. But the beard itched during calls; he adjusted the phallus discreetly under the table, cheeks burning. Easy for men? he thought bitterly. Try sitting through a three-hour audit with this thing.

That evening, the first phone call came. Sameera, alone in her new room a small space with a single bed, pink curtains, and a vanity mirror stocked with bindis and lipsticks dialed Sajid.

“Assalamu alaikum, Sajid bhai,” she purred, voice lilting.

“Wa alaikum assalam, Sameera jaan,” he replied, deep rumble masking his fatigue.

“How’s the mosque life treating you?” she asked sweetly. “I bet you’re loving all that early rising and bowing. So manly.”

He laughed forced, but bragging. “Oh, absolutely. Led the prayer row today. Clients eating out of my hand. This is easy. How’s being the perfect bahu? Chopping onions in your pretty salwar?”

Sameera glanced at her reflection: dupatta draped, bangles glinting. The breasts ached from a day of “helping” Ammi fold laundry, the constant bounce humiliating. “Loving it. Ammi taught me how to make perfect biryani. And prayers? So peaceful in the women’s corner. You should try wearing a saree sometime wait, you never will.”

They hung up, both fuming, both determined to out-brag.

The week unfolded in a haze of sensory humiliations and forced adaptations.

For Sameera: Days blurred into a routine of feminine immersion. Mornings started with Ammi’s lessons in the kitchen kneading dough for parathas, the sticky flour clinging to her waxed hands, the heat from the tawa making sweat bead under her cotton bra, trickling down to the chastity cage in a maddening itch. “A woman’s hands should be soft but strong,” Ammi said, patting Sameera’s arm. The touch made her flinch inwardly Saad’s ego screaming at the praise for “softness.”

Afternoons were prayers at home. zuhr and Asr on the jaanamaz, the dupatta veiling her head, knees pressing into the mat. The prosthetic vagina shifted during prostration, a slick, intimate sensation that made her cheeks flush. Asif joined sometimes, teasing: “Didi, you pray like a saint.” Humiliation peaked when Ammi insisted on a “beauty day” waxing her arms again (the rip of strips like fire on already sensitive skin), threading eyebrows (sharp plucks making tears flow), and applying mehendi. The cold paste on her hands dried into intricate patterns, the scent of henna filling the room. She sat still for hours, hands outstretched, unable to move, feeling utterly trapped. “For your wedding, beti,” Ammi cooed. “Rahim will love it.”

Evenings: Family time. Abbu reading Quran aloud, Sameera listening modestly, eyes downcast. The burqa came out for a market trip enveloping her in black silk, the niqab muffling her breath, the world reduced to a mesh grid. Crowds brushed against her, the fabric whispering, breasts compressed, every step a reminder of sealed-away manhood. At night, in bed, the satin nightgown Ammi gave her slithered against her body, nipples hardening from the cool fabric a betrayal that made her curl up in shame.

Yet, on calls to Sajid: “Oh, darling, today I learned embroidery. So relaxing. You’d break the needle with those clumsy hands.”

For Sajid: His week was a grind of masculine trials. Mornings at the mosque for Fajr, the cold stone floor chilling his knees, the phallus pressing uncomfortably during ruku. “Allahu Akbar” boomed from his throat, but inside, he cringed at the charade. Work was relentless client meetings in stuffy offices, haggling over taxes, the beard sweating under the AC, trousers chafing the prosthetic scrotum with every cross-legged sit. One day, a heavy rain; he sloshed through puddles in leather sandals, the weight between his legs swinging wetly, a constant, embarrassing pull.

Afternoons: More prayers at the office masjid, surrounded by men sharing chai and cricket talk. “Sajid bhai, join us for football?” He declined, but once forced into a quick game running made the phallus flop painfully, breath hitching. Evenings: Home alone, but Fatima called daily, “practicing” husband-wife chats. “Tell me about your day, jaan.” He bragged about “closing deals,” but the deep voice felt foreign, the topi a crown of irony.

Humiliations mounted: A barber visit for beard trim the razor’s scrape on his jaw, the barber’s chatter about “manly moustaches.” Adjusting the phallus in a public restroom, heart pounding. Leading Maghrib at home, alone, but imagining the judgment.

On calls to Sameera: “Closed a big account today. Mosque was packed everyone respects me. You? Still playing dress-up?”

They bragged nightly, voices laced with false joy, egos clashing like swords. “I’m thriving,” she’d say, ignoring the ache in her chest. “This is nothing,” he’d counter, scratching his beard raw.

By week’s end, the weddings loomed three days away, back-to-back in nearby halls.

A glimpse into the other sides:

In Rahim’s family home in Mylapore, a spacious villa with marble floors and antique chandeliers, Rahim sat with his parents over evening tea. His phone buzzed a message from the contact: Sameera’s biodata. Photos attached: her in a modest salwar, mehendi hands, burqa-clad at the market. “Perfect,” his mother gushed, scrolling. “From a good Lucknow family, orphaned but pious. Full purdah, just what we want.” Rahim nodded, feigning excitement. “we’ll visit them tomorrow to finalize the engagement. Simple ring exchange.” Inside, he thought of Priya, guilt twisting, but the plan was set: fake marriage to buy time.

In Tirunelveli, Fatima’s family gathered in their ancestral bungalow, the air thick with jasmine from the garden. Fatima, back home for the weekend, pulled out her phone. “Ammi, Abbu…. I’ve found someone. Sajid. An orphan from Madurai, good accountant, very pious.” She showed photos: him in kurta at the mosque, beard neat, eyes serious. “He’s kind, hardworking. Prays five times, handles everything like a real man. I… I love him.” Her parents exchanged glances. Her father nodded slowly. “If he’s good and Muslim, fine. But marriage soon no delays.” Her mother smiled. “Tell us more, beti. How did you meet?” Fatima spun the tale, heart racing, knowing it was all to stall for her visa.

The pieces clicked into place, egos and entrapments tightening like a noose.