Pride in a Pallu

Chapter 10: The Eve of Two Nikahs

The day before the wedding arrived like a held breath finally released heavy, humid, electric. Chennai simmered under a late-afternoon sun that turned the air into warm syrup. In the Iqbal Ahmed flat, the scent of henna and jasmine already hung thick, as if the house itself knew tomorrow would change everything.

Sameera’s Day – The Parlour

Sameera woke at 5:00 a.m., earlier than usual, the azan still echoing when she opened her eyes. The satin nightgown was damp against her back from night sweats; the silicone breasts felt heavier than ever, their weight a constant downward pull that made her shoulders ache before she even sat up. The chastity cage pressed flat beneath the prosthetic, the sealed smoothness now as familiar as breathing and just as suffocating.

Today was the final preparation: full bridal parlour treatment, booked by Ammi at a high-end salon in Nungambakkam known for “modest Muslim brides.” After Fajr and a hurried breakfast of idli and chutney (her hands trembling slightly as she served), Ammi, Aisha, and two aunties bundled her into an auto. Sameera wore a simple black burqa over a cotton salwar, niqab down, the mesh screen filtering the world into soft greys. Sweat began almost immediately the black fabric trapping the morning heat, beads forming along her hairline under the wig, trickling down her temples to soak the collar.

The parlour was air-conditioned heaven cool, scented with sandalwood and rose attar, soft ghazals playing low. They ushered her into a private bridal suite. The burqa came off first; the rush of cool air against her skin felt like a caress, goosebumps rising on her waxed arms and legs.

They started with the bath a large marble tub filled with warm water infused with milk, turmeric, rose petals, and sandalwood paste. Sameera stepped in naked except for the prosthetics, the water enveloping her like silk. The milk soothed the faint redness from weeks of waxing; the turmeric gave her skin a golden glow that made the silicone blend even more seamlessly. She lay back, eyes closed, while two attendants gently scrubbed her back, arms, legs, their hands gliding over every inch, the sensation both intimate and clinical. When they washed between her thighs, careful around the glued prosthetic, she felt the water lap against the silicone folds, a cool tickle that made her thighs clench involuntarily. Humiliation burned low in her belly: this body, prepared like a gift, wasn’t hers, yet it responded as if it were.

Next, threading. Eyebrows shaped into perfect arches, upper lip, chin,each pluck a sharp sting followed by cooling aloe. Tears welled from the pain; the attendants dabbed them away, cooing, “Beautiful bride must suffer a little for perfection.” Then full-body threading for stray hairs, the cotton thread snapping against skin already hypersensitive, leaving her raw and glowing.

Facial came after: a fruit pack of papaya and honey smeared thick, left to dry while they massaged her scalp with warm coconut oil scented with jasmine. The oil dripped down her neck, pooling at the base of her throat, the scent intoxicating. When the mask cracked and peeled off, her skin felt newborn, smooth, luminous, almost translucent.

Manicure and pedicure: nails shaped oval, painted deep maroon to match the wedding lehenga, topped with tiny gold foil accents. Toenails the same, feet soaked in rosewater until they felt soft as butter. Henna followed, the most elaborate yet. The artist worked for three hours, covering both hands and feet in intricate paisley, peacocks, and floral vines that climbed halfway up her forearms and calves. The cold paste tingled, then warmed, then began to itch as it dried. She sat motionless, arms outstretched on cushioned rests, feet propped, the scent of mehendi filling the room like earth after rain. Darkening meant love, they said. She stared at the patterns, the irony twisting like a knife.

Makeup trial: foundation blended to porcelain perfection, kohl thick and winged, false lashes applied one by one (each glue dot a tiny prick), cheeks dusted with rose-gold shimmer, lips stained deep berry that made them look fuller, softer. A small red bindi was dotted, then a maang tikka pinned into the wig, parting the waves like a crown.

By late afternoon, she was exhausted, skin glowing, hands and feet patterned, body scented and smoothed. Ammi paid, tears in her eyes: “My Sameera, tomorrow you become a begum.”

They stepped out into the humid evening.

The Unexpected Meeting

Outside the parlour, waiting near the auto stand, stood Priya.

Rahim’s real love, tall, fair, in a simple blue kurti and jeans, dupatta loosely draped, eyes nervous but kind. Rahim had arranged it secretly: “She wants to meet you once. To thank you.”

Priya approached, voice low. “Sameera? I’m… Priya. Thank you. For everything.”

Sameera’s heart thudded. The burqa was back on, niqab up, but she lifted it just enough to speak softly.

“Hello...”

Priya handed her a small cloth bag. “Gifts. For you. I know what you’re doing. It’s… brave.”

Inside: a delicate silver anklet with tiny bells, a pair of pearl studs, and a handwritten note: “May Allah make your path easy after this. You’re saving my life. I’ll never forget.”

Sameera’s throat tightened. The anklet felt cool in her hennaed palm. She nodded, voice muffled. “Take care of him.”

Priya’s eyes glistened. “I will. And you… take care of yourself.”

They parted quickly, the auto ride home silent except for the clink of Sameera’s new anklets against the floorboard.

Sajid’s Day – The Quiet Counterpoint

Across town, Sajid spent the day in deliberate solitude ,the calm before the storm he pretended to relish.

He woke at the same early hour, performed Fajr at the mosque, then returned to the flat. No parlour, no fuss. He trimmed his beard carefully with clippers, the buzz vibrating against his jaw, the mirror showing a man who looked ready l strong jaw, deep-set eyes, broad shoulders under the white kurta.

He spent the morning at the office, closing final files, handing over pending work to a junior with quiet instructions. Afternoon: a long walk along Marina Beach, kurta sleeves rolled up, the sea breeze cooling the sweat on his neck, the phallus swaying with each step, a familiar ache he’d learned to endure. He bought a new sherwani from a small shop in Parry’s Corner, cream silk with gold zari, simple but elegant. The tailor adjusted the shoulders, calling him “sir” with deference.

Evening: mosque again for Maghrib and Isha, leading one rakaat, the congregation’s murmured “Ameen” following his voice. He walked home, bought fresh dates and milk, ate alone on the balcony, watching the city lights flicker on.

No gifts. No meetings. Just the steady weight of what he’d become.

The Morning of the Nikah

Dawn broke soft and golden.

Sameera rose at 4:00 a.m., the flat already alive with women’s chatter. She bathed again quick, rose-scented then the lehenga arrived: heavy red velvet with gold zardosi, choli fitted like a second skin, dupatta sheer with gota work. The bra and panty underneath were new red lace, supportive, the fabric cool against her skin. The lehenga’s weight pulled at her hips as the women helped drape it; the choli squeezed her breasts until she could only take shallow breaths, nipples brushing the lining with every inhale. Jewellery cascaded: heavy jhumkas, layered necklaces, maang tikka, bangles up both arms, anklets (including Priya’s gift), nose ring, finger rings. Makeup reapplied ,bolder, bridal: kohl thick, lips scarlet, cheeks shimmering.

She looked in the mirror. A bride. The reflection stared back, eyes wide behind the makeup.

A decorated car waited white Maruti with marigold garlands. Sameera stepped out, burqa over the lehenga for modesty, niqab down. Ammi, Aisha, and aunties flanked her. The auto ride to Triplicane hall was short, the engine’s hum vibrating through the seat, the lehenga’s weight pressing her thighs together, sweat already forming under the layers.

Across town, Sajid dressed in the cream sherwani, beard oiled, topi pinned. A simple auto took him to Mylapore hall, the sherwani rustling, the phallus shifting with every bump.

Two halls. Two nikahs. Two egos marching toward collision.

The day had begun.