Pride in a Pallu

Chapter 16: Two Months In

Two months had passed since the nikahs long enough for novelty to fade into habit, for strangeness to become ordinary, for the body to forget it was ever different.

In the Khan household, the morning of a family wedding began at 5:15 a.m. Sameera woke before the alarm, the soft chime of her phone redundant now. She slipped out of bed without disturbing the bolster pillow that still separated her side from Rahim’s empty half (he had moved to the study sofa permanently, a silent agreement neither questioned). The room smelled faintly of the jasmine oil she had massaged into her scalp the night before a nightly ritual Ammi-ji insisted on for “lustrous hair.”

She performed wudu in the attached bathroom, the cool water on her face and arms a familiar shock. Today’s outfit had been chosen the previous evening: a heavy Banarasi silk saree in deep emerald green with gold zari jaal work across the border and pallu. The blouse matching green velvet, short-sleeved, fitted was already laid out on the chair. She began with the underlayers: fresh white cotton panty (high-waisted, seamless over the prosthetic mound), then the padded lace bra in nude that lifted her silicone breasts into perfect, natural shape. The straps settled into the faint grooves they had worn on her shoulders over weeks. The petticoat followed starched cream cotton, tied so tightly at the waist that it smoothed every curve and created the classic hourglass silhouette she now wore without conscious thought.

Draping the saree took twelve minutes a process that had once required three attempts and multiple safety pins. Now the pleats fell in even, crisp folds with a single flick of the wrist; the pallu cascaded over her left shoulder in a perfect arc, pinned discreetly at the waist and shoulder. She adjusted the pleats at the navel so they sat just below the blouse hem, exposing a thin strip of midriff that caught the morning light. The weight of the silk pulled pleasantly on her hips; the zari threads glinted with every movement.

Jewellery next. The heavy gold bridal set had been replaced by everyday pieces, but today called for more: layered gold necklace with emerald pendant resting in the cleavage created by the bra, matching jhumkas that brushed her neck with cold metal kisses, glass bangles mixed with gold ones (twenty on each wrist, the sound a constant soft chime), thick gold bangles on upper arms, a slim gold waist chain that rested against her skin under the saree, anklets (Priya’s silver bells now joined by heavier gold ones), nose pin, maang tikka pinned into the centre parting of the long black wig, and a large red bindi centred on her forehead. She applied kohl thicker than usual, winged at the corners, mascara, rose-gold eyeshadow, blush, and deep maroon lipstick that made her lips look fuller, softer.

She looked in the full-length mirror. Sameera stared back poised, elegant, every inch the married daughter-in-law ready for a wedding. The reflection no longer shocked her. It simply was.

Aisha knocked softly. “Bhabhi, help me with my lehenga?”

Sameera smiled. “Come in, jaan.”

Aisha’s lehenga was rose-pink georgette with silver gota work. Sameera helped her hook the choli, drape the dupatta, pin the jewellery small silver jhumkas, delicate necklace, bangles. While doing so she chatted easily: “This colour suits your skin so well. Remember to keep the dupatta pinned at the shoulder it keeps slipping otherwise.” Aisha hugged her impulsively. “You’re the best bhabhi in the world.”

Downstairs, Ammi-ji waited in the living room, already in her maroon saree. “Sameera, beta, come taste the sweet. I added extra cardamom the way you like.” Sameera knelt beside her, accepted the small piece of kesari, nodded approval. Abbu-ji looked up from his newspaper: “You two look like sisters today. Beautiful.” Rahim entered, sherwani half-buttoned, and gave her a small, private smile. “Ready?”
“Always,” she replied softly.

The family left in two cars. Sameera wore a black burqa over her saree for the journey the silk rustling beneath the flowing fabric, the niqab mesh filtering the world into soft greys. The drive to the wedding hall in Anna Nagar was filled with chatter: Ammi-ji discussing the bride’s trousseau, Aisha showing Sameera photos on her phone, Rahim occasionally glancing at her in the rear-view mirror.

At the venue, the women’s side was a riot of colour and perfume. Sameera removed the burqa in the privacy of the changing room, folding it carefully. The emerald saree caught every eye as she stepped out. Relatives swarmed: cousins kissing her cheeks, aunts complimenting her glow (“Marriage suits you, beti”), older women pulling her to sit beside them. “How is married life treating you?” one asked. Sameera smiled demurely. “Alhamdulillah, aunty. Very peaceful. Rahim is kind.”
Another auntie leaned in: “Any good news yet?” Sameera blushed on cue, lowered her eyes. “InshaAllah soon.” The women laughed knowingly, patting her hand.

She gossiped with them like she belonged commenting on the bride’s lehenga (“The zardosi is exquisite”), the groom’s family (“Very cultured people”), the catering (“The biryani has just the right ghee”). She served sherbet to elders, adjusted Aisha’s dupatta when it slipped, helped a distant cousin pin her pallu. Every gesture was automatic now, every smile practiced perfection.

Humiliation still flickered faint but persistent. When an auntie praised her “soft voice and gentle manners,” when she caught her reflection in a mirror adjusting her pallu with hennaed hands, when she felt the weight of the saree and jewellery reminding her of the body beneath it stung. But the sting had dulled. She was no longer fighting the role. She was living it.

Across town, Sajid’s day unfolded differently.

Fatima’s father had surprised him that morning with a gift: a Royal Enfield Classic 350, matte black with chrome accents, parked outside the flat with a red ribbon tied to the handlebar. “For my son-in-law,” the older man said gruffly over video call. “A man needs reliable transport. And this one has character.”
Sajid ran his hand over the tank, the metal cool under his palm. “Thank you, Abbu. It’s… perfect.”
He rode it to the mosque for Zuhr, the engine’s deep thrum vibrating through his body, the wind tugging at his kurta sleeves, the phallus shifting with each gear change. At the mosque he led the prayer standing at the front, voice deep and steady, the congregation following without hesitation. The imam clapped him on the shoulder afterward: “Sajid bhai, you should lead more often. You have presence.”

Fatima was busy laptop open, sketching site plans, attending online meetings. She barely looked up when he returned. “I’ll be late tonight,” she said absently. He nodded, made himself tea, sat on the balcony watching the city lights come on.

That night, the call came at 10:45 p.m.

Sameera appeared on screen in a simple cream cotton nightgown, hair loose, mangalsutra resting between her breasts. Her face was calm, almost content.

Sajid sat on the sofa, kurta unbuttoned at the collar, beard shadowed in the lamplight.

“Assalamu alaikum,” he said quietly.

“Wa alaikum assalam,” she replied, voice soft.

A pause.

Sameera spoke first. “Today was a wedding function. I helped Aisha get ready, served everyone, talked with all the aunties… It felt so normal. Like I’ve always been here. Ammi-ji keeps saying I’m the perfect bahu. Even Abbu-ji asked my opinion on the new inverter. Everything is… peaceful.”

Sajid nodded slowly. “Abbu gave me a Royal Enfield today. Rode it to the mosque. Led Zuhr prayer. Everyone treats me like I belong. Work is steady. Fatima is busy with her projects. The flat is quiet.”

Another pause.

Sameera looked down at her hands, bangles glinting faintly. “My life is perfect on paper. The family, the house, the duties… I fit. But sometimes, when the house is quiet at night, something feels… missing.”

Sajid exhaled. “Same here. Respect, responsibility, everything a man should want. Yet there’s this… emptiness. Like I’m waiting for something that isn’t coming.”

Their eyes met through the screens.

The egos had cracked just a hairline fracture, but visible.

Then Sajid spoke, voice low, almost hesitant.

“Sameera… why don’t we have a date?”

She blinked.

“A date?”

“Just us. No families, no pretence. Like before. One evening. Coffee. Or a walk. Whatever. No expectations.”

Sameera stared at him for a long moment.

Her lips curved small, genuine.

“I’d like that.”

Neither smiled fully. Neither surrendered.

But the crack had widened.