Pride in a Pallu

Chapter 13: A Week of Becoming

A week slipped by like sand through tightly clenched fingers quiet, relentless, reshaping.

Sameera’s life in the Khan household had crystallized into a daily cadence of devotion and detail. Each morning began at 4:45 a.m. with the soft chime of the azan. She rose from the marital bed (Rahim still sleeping on the study sofa every night), performed wudu with rose-scented water, and prayed Fajr on the small jaanamaz in the corner of the bedroom, dupatta draped over her head, knees pressing into the woven mat, silicone breasts shifting forward in sujood with a familiar, humiliating weight.

By 6:00 a.m. she was in the kitchen, cotton saree (today a soft lavender with thin silver zari border) already draped, pleats crisp, pallu pinned neatly. The white cotton bra beneath lifted her breasts high, the straps digging faintly into shoulders still tender from weeks of transformation. She made tea first cardamom, ginger, milk boiled just right then idlis steaming in the cooker, coconut chutney ground by hand, the sil batta cool under her palms. The bangles clinked rhythmically; the anklets (including Priya’s silver bells) tinkled with every step across the marble floor.

Serving became ritual. She placed the steel tumbler of tea before Rahim’s father with lowered eyes and murmured “Ji, Abbu.” Then his mother “Ammi-ji” who always patted her hand and said, “Perfect temperature, beti.” Rahim last, eyes meeting hers for a brief second of shared irony before he took the cup with a quiet “Shukriya.”

Bonding deepened in small, suffocating ways. Afternoons belonged to Ammi-ji: folding fresh laundry together on the balcony, the sun-warmed cotton smelling of detergent and Chennai dust, Sameera’s saree sticking slightly to her back as sweat formed under the blouse. Ammi-ji taught her family recipes subtle adjustments to the biryani masala, the exact moment to add saffron and praised her “soft hands” and “gentle touch.” Each compliment landed like a pinprick: Saad’s ego recoiling at being celebrated for domestic gentleness.

Evenings brought Aisha, the younger sister-in-law, now her closest confidante. One night after dinner, Aisha knocked softly on the bedroom door. “Bhabhi… can we talk?” Sameera sat on the bed in her nightgown, dupatta loose. Aisha curled up beside her, voice small: “I have this… boy from college. He’s nice, but I’m scared to tell Ammi.” Sameera listened, offered gentle advice “Take your time, be sure of your heart, speak to Ammi when you’re ready” the words flowing naturally from the role she inhabited. When Aisha hugged her tightly, cheek against Sameera’s shoulder, the silicone breasts yielded realistically, the warmth of another body pressing against them in innocent trust. Humiliation flooded Sameera: she was now the feminine confidante, the emotional support pillar, the soft place for another woman’s fears.

Nights remained chaste. Rahim returned to the study sofa after a brief goodnight. Sameera slept alone in the wide bed, mangalsutra resting between her breasts, the chastity cage a constant sealed pressure, the nightgown sliding over waxed skin. She stared at the ceiling, counting the days until the six months ended, yet strangely… not hating every second.

Across the city, Sajid’s week was steady, predictable, almost peaceful. Mornings: Fajr at the mosque, deep voice joining the chorus, men nodding in quiet respect. Work filled the days client meetings, GST filings, audits his gravelly tone commanding attention, beard now groomed daily, the prosthetic phallus a familiar, if still awkward, weight beneath his trousers. He led prayers twice at the office masjid, the congregation following his rakaats without question. Evenings: gym for an hour (the phallus shifting uncomfortably during squats), then home to silence, laptop open, work until midnight. No wife waiting. No duties beyond himself. The solitude was both relief and quiet wound.

Then came the tradition: one week after the nikah, both “brides” were to visit their “parents’ house” for a few days a customary break for the new bahu to spend time with her maternal family, and for the groom to be feted at his in-laws’.

Sameera at the “Parents’ House”

The Iqbal Ahmed flat welcomed her like a long-lost daughter. Ammi (the fake mother) pulled her into a tight hug the moment she stepped inside, jasmine ittar enveloping her. “My Sameera beti! Look how radiant you are!” Sameera returned the embrace, the soft cotton saree she wore today (sky blue with silver gota) pressing against Ammi’s body, breasts yielding in the hug. Abbu patted her head. Asif grinned and ruffled her hair like a real little brother.

The evening was gentle: chai on the balcony, gossip about the wedding, compliments on her cooking skills. Night came. Sameera was given the same small room she’d occupied before the wedding, but Rahim now officially her husband was expected to stay the night “as family custom.” They lay on the narrow double bed, separated by a bolster pillow, lights off.

Rahim whispered, “This is ridiculous.”

Sameera whispered back, “Tell me about it. But we’re doing it.”

They slept back-to-back, the bolster a soft wall, Sameera’s nightgown riding up slightly, the chastity cage pressing against her thigh, breasts settling heavily to one side. Humiliation in every breath: sharing a bed with a stranger, playing husband and wife for show.

Sajid at Fatima’s “In-Laws”

Fatima’s family in Tirunelveli had insisted Sajid come for two days. He arrived to warm welcomes Fatima’s father shaking his hand firmly, mother serving him extra sweets, brother Imran calling him “bhaiya” with respect. They treated him like the prized son-in-law: best seat at the table, praise for his “responsible nature,” questions about his work met with nods of approval. “A man like you will keep our Fatima happy,” Abbu said. Sajid smiled, accepted the adulation, the phallus shifting as he crossed his legs, the beard still itching faintly.

No wife waited for him at night. He slept alone in the guest room, fan whirring overhead, the silence louder than any noise.

The Nightly Call

At 11:15 p.m., video call connected.

Sameera, in her childhood room, nightgown modest, hair loose under a dupatta, face soft from the day’s rosewater ritual.

“Assalamu alaikum, Sajid jaan.”

“Wa alaikum assalam, Sameera begum.”

She leaned closer, eyes dancing with mischief.

“Oh darling, this week has been heaven. Serving my husband every meal, folding his clothes, listening to Aisha’s heartbreaks like a real sister-in-law. Ammi-ji says my hands are so gentle, my cooking perfect. Today at my parents’ house, Ammi hugged me so tight… and sleeping beside my husband? So peaceful. I feel so complete as a wife. Soft, cared for, feminine. Honestly? I’d rather stay this way forever. Being the wife is bliss. You should try it oh wait, you never will.”

Sajid, alone in the guest room, kurta unbuttoned at the collar, beard shadowed in the lamplight.

He laughed low. “Sounds sweet. But my week? Mosque prayers, work, respect everywhere. Fatima’s family treats me like a king best seat, extra food, calling me the ideal man. No endless serving, no emotional labour. Just quiet power. Being the husband is superior. I’d never trade it. You’re the one missing out, Sameera.”

She smiled wider, voice dripping honeyed venom. “Keep telling yourself that, *jaan*. Goodnight.”

The screen went dark.

Two people, two houses, two roles each clinging to the lie, each secretly burning from the truth.