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 ✨)