Pride in a Pallu

Chapter 12: First Night, First Day

The Rahim Khan residence in Mylapore was a spacious two-storey bungalow with marble floors, carved wooden doors, and the faint perpetual scent of agarbatti. By 10:30 p.m., the wedding guests had left, the hall echoes faded, and the house settled into a quiet hum of exhaustion.

Sameera was escorted upstairs by Rahim’s mother and sister. The bridal chamber was prepared: rose petals scattered on the double bed, fairy lights strung along the headboard, a tray of milk and dates on the side table. The lehenga had been changed for a lighter but still bridal nightgown sheer peach georgette over a satin slip, the neckline modest but the fabric clinging to every silicone curve. The dupatta was draped loosely over her shoulders, heavy gold jewellery removed except for the mangalsutra, bangles, and anklets. Her feet still bore the dark mehendi patterns, cool and slightly itchy in the AC.

Rahim entered after the women left, closing the door softly. He wore a simple white kurta-pajama, looking as awkward as she felt.

They stood facing each other in the centre of the room.

“Assalamu alaikum,” he said quietly.

“Wa alaikum assalam,” Sameera replied, voice soft, eyes lowered as trained.

A long silence.

Rahim cleared his throat. “Listen… we both know this is temporary. Six months. No need to… you know. I’ll sleep on the sofa in the study. You take the bed.”

Sameera exhaled relief, but also a strange twist of ego. “Thank you. I… appreciate it.”

They sat on opposite ends of the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under their weight.

Rahim rubbed his neck. “You were… incredible today. Everyone kept saying how lucky I am.”

Sameera’s lips twitched. “And you played the perfect groom. Very convincing.”

He looked at her really looked at the kohl-smudged eyes, the faint lipstick still on, the way the nightgown outlined the breasts she hadn’t chosen. “This must be hell for you.”

Sameera laughed a small, bitter sound. “Hell with silk and gold. But I’m managing. Better than I thought.”

Rahim nodded. “Same here. The beard still itches, but… I’m surviving.”

They spoke in low tones for half an hour about Fatima, about Priya, about the absurdity of it all. No intimacy. No touching. Just two people trapped in the same farce, sharing the weight.

Finally, Rahim gathered a pillow and blanket. “Goodnight, Sameera.”

“Goodnight… husband,” she said, the word dripping with irony.

He left for the study.

Sameera lay alone in the vast bed, the rose petals sticking to her back, the mangalsutra cool against her collarbone. The chastity cage pressed flat beneath the nightgown, a sealed reminder that no relief was coming. The breasts settled to the sides as she turned, heavy and warm. Humiliation washed over her in waves: the bridal bed, empty of any real consummation, yet she was the bride. She stared at the ceiling until sleep took her.

Across the city, in the rented flat, Sajid returned alone. Fatima had left immediately after the photoshoot “friend emergency in Bangalore,” she’d told everyone, a convenient lie. She’d taken her small suitcase and gone to the airport for a late flight, promising to return in a week. “I need to sort visa papers,” she’d whispered. “Thank you again.”

The flat was silent.

Sajid removed the sherwani, folded it carefully, stood in vest and lungi. The phallus hung heavy, the scrotum warm from the day’s confinement. He scratched his beard raw, the skin beneath red and irritated. He ate leftover wedding sweets straight from the fridge, then opened his laptop on the dining table.

Work real work waited. GST filings, client emails, a pending audit. He worked until 2 a.m., the blue screen light reflecting off his beard, the deep voice in his head narrating every keystroke. The prosthetic shifted uncomfortably as he crossed his legs; he adjusted it absentmindedly, cheeks burning. Alone in the flat, no one to perform for, the humiliation felt sharper: the man who once shared a bed with his wife, now sleeping alone in a rented space, body altered, pretending to be a husband to a woman who wasn’t even there.

He finally shut the laptop, lay on the sofa (the bed felt too large), and slept fitfully.

The First Morning After

Sameera woke at 5:00 a.m. to the soft knock of Ammi-in-law.

“Beta, time for Fajr.”

She rose, body stiff from the unfamiliar bed, the nightgown clinging where sweat had dried. Bath first: quick, rose-scented, careful around the prosthetics. The water revived her skin but also highlighted every sensation the adhesive edges, the sealed cage, the breasts moving freely without a bra yet.

Dressing: a simple but elegant cotton saree in pastel yellow, chosen by Ammi-in-law for “first day as bahu.” White cotton panty and bra first supportive, lifting the breasts until they sat high and prominent. Petticoat tied tight, saree draped with expert pleats, pallu pinned over the shoulder. Minimal jewelleries small jhumkas, glass bangles,l.

She descended to the kitchen.

Ammi-in-law waited with tea. “Make chai for everyone, beti. First duty.”

Sameera nodded, hands trembling slightly as she boiled milk, added cardamom, sugar, tea leaves. The bangles clinked against the steel vessel. She served breakfast idlis, sambar, chutney to the family: Rahim’s father at the head, mother beside him, sister yawning, Rahim last.

When she placed the plate before Rahim, he met her eyes briefly. “Thank you,” he murmured.

She smiled demurely. “You’re welcome… husband.”

The word hung between them.

The day unfolded in domestic rituals. Sweeping the veranda in the saree, pleats hitched up, anklets singing. Washing dishes, suds up to her elbows, the pallu slipping repeatedly until she tucked it into her waistband. Helping Ammi-in-law fold laundry, the scent of sun-dried cotton filling the room. Lunch preparation: chopping vegetables, the knife steady but her mind racing. Sweat beaded on her forehead, trickling down to the blouse’s neckline, soaking the bra. The breasts ached from constant movement; the prosthetic vagina shifted with every bend, a slick, enclosed reminder.

Afternoon: serving tea to visiting relatives, kneeling to pour, pallu adjusted perfectly, voice soft and respectful. Compliments rained: “What a beautiful bahu,” “Rahim is so lucky.” Each word was a small cut.

Evening: helping with dinner, stirring curry while the heat made her blouse cling, saree sticking to her back. Prayers at home Maghrib and Isha on the jaanamaz, dupatta over head, knees pressing into the mat, breasts forward in sujood.

By night, exhaustion settled like lead.

Across Town

Sajid woke at 6:30 a.m. no azan call, no one to wake him. The flat was empty. He performed wudu, prayed alone on the living room rug, the phallus pressing uncomfortably during prostration. Beard still itchy. He dressed in kurta-pajama, ate a quick breakfast of bread and jam, then headed to work.

The office felt normal clients, files, spreadsheets. He worked steadily, voice deep and commanding, men calling him “bhai” with respect. Lunch alone. Evening mosque prayers. Home by 9 p.m. to silence.

Fatima still in Bangalore.

He opened the laptop again more work, emails, quiet hours stretching.

The Nightly Call

Around 10:45 p.m., Sameera slipped into her room now the bridal chamber, roses removed, bed made fresh. She changed into a cotton nightgown, sat on the edge, and dialed first her “Ammi” (the fake mother from the arranged family).

“Assalamu alaikum, Ammi.”

“Wa alaikum assalam, beti! How was your first day?”

Sameera smiled, voice sweet. “Alhamdulillah, Ammi. I served everyone, cooked, prayed… Rahim’s family is so loving. I feel so settled. Like this is where I belong.”

Ammi cooed. “Mashallah. Keep being the perfect bahu. We’re proud.”

The call ended.

Then, Sajid.

The video connected.

Sameera, nightgown modest, hair loose, face glowing from the day’s rosewater ritual.

“Assalamu alaikum, Sajid jaan.”

“Wa alaikum assalam, Sameera begum.”

She leaned closer to the camera, eyes sparkling.

“Oh darling, you won’t believe how perfect my day was. Woke early, made chai for the whole family, served breakfast to my husband with my own hands. Cooked lunch, dinner, folded clothes, prayed so peacefully. Everyone keeps saying what a wonderful wife I am. The saree felt so natural, the bangles sang all day… I’m living the dream. This feminine life? It’s bliss. You should be jealous.”

Sajid, on the sofa in vest and lungi, beard shadowed, laptop still open behind him, forced a grin.

“Sounds nice. But my day? Woke up, prayed, went to work, closed deals, led prayers at the mosque, came home to peace and quiet. No drama, no endless serving. Just respect, strength, control. Being a man is effortless. Superior in every way.”

They stared at each other through the screens lies sharp as knives, egos refusing to bend.

Neither mentioned the empty bed, the silence, the ache.

The call ended.

Two houses. Two first nights. Two people still fighting the same war.