Pride in a Pallu

Chapter 19: The Elopement Plan

Four months had passed since the transformations; three since the nikahs. Time had not healed the fractures, it had only deepened them, turning sharp edges into grooves worn smooth by daily repetition. The roles had settled into bone; the ache had become background noise. Until it wasn’t.

The idea surfaced quietly, almost accidentally, during a casual phone call between Rahim and Fatima. A shared deadline: Fatima’s visa interview was exactly one month away. If approved, she could leave for Germany within weeks. Rahim’s family was already talking about a “proper reception” for the new couple. Priya’s parents had begun asking uncomfortable questions about when the “marriage” would be consummated. The six-month clock was ticking louder.

Both families the Khans and the Iqbals, agreed it was time for the two couples to meet formally. “The Elopement” No one mentioned the obvious: the marriages were built on sand, and the tide was coming in.

They chose a private restaurant in Nungambakkam, small, discreet, with private rooms and thick curtains. Neutral ground.

Sameera arrived first with Rahim on the Royal Enfield. She wore a deep navy georgette saree with silver gota-patti work along the borders, lightweight enough for the evening but elegant enough to signal respect. Beneath: a matching navy lace bra and high-waisted panty set, the bra lightly padded to give her breasts their natural lift and gentle bounce with each breath. The petticoat was cream silk, tied snug at the waist to smooth every curve. The saree draped flawlessly pleats sharp and even, pallu cascading over her left shoulder in soft folds, a thin sliver of midriff visible where the pleats met the blouse hem. The silver threads caught the restaurant’s soft lighting like stars.

Jewellery was understated but bridal: the chain resting between her breasts, small diamond studs in her ears, a delicate gold nose stud, glass bangles in navy and silver (twelve on each wrist, their chime soft), slim gold anklets including Priya’s silver bells, a thin gold waist chain hidden under the saree. Makeup: winged kohl, rose-gold eyeshadow, faint blush, deep berry lipstick that made her lips look plush and inviting. She had pinned fresh mogra gajra (mallipoo) into the wig; the jasmine scent rose every time she turned her head.

She wore a lightweight black burqa for the ride crepe with double mesh over the eyes and removed it only once they were inside the private room.

Rahim looked tense in his cream sherwani, beard neatly trimmed, but his hand rested possessively on the small of Sameera’s back as they entered.

Sajid and Fatima arrived minutes later. Fatima in a lavender anarkali with silver embroidery, hijab pinned neatly, laptop bag slung over her shoulder even now. Sajid in a simple off-white kurta-pajama, beard oiled, shoulders broad and solid. Priya came last blue kurti and jeans, dupatta loose, eyes nervous but determined.

They sat around the circular table: Rahim and Sameera on one side, Sajid and Fatima opposite, Priya between Fatima and Sameera. The waiter brought tea and left quickly, closing the door behind him.

Rahim spoke first, voice low. “We all know why we’re here. Fatima’s visa interview is in one month. If it clears, she leaves for Germany. That means… the six months end early for us.”

Fatima nodded. “I’ve been tracking the process. Approval rate is high for my program. Once I’m there, I can file for asylum if needed. But the marriage has to end cleanly.”

Sajid’s jaw tightened. “Talaq. Simple. I give it. No questions asked.”

Rahim exhaled. “Same for us. But my family… they’ll be devastated. They already talk about grandchildren.”

Priya reached for Rahim’s hand under the table; he squeezed it, but his other hand stayed on Sameera’s knee possessive, almost reflexive.

Sameera felt the pressure and glanced at him. Then at Sajid. Their eyes met across the table brief, loaded.

Fatima continued. “The plan is simple. I disappear after the interview tell my family it was a sudden job offer or something. You give talaq quietly. Sameera is free.”

Rahim nodded. “And we… Priya and I… we run. Goa, civil marriage. Then we come back and say the first marriage didn’t work out. Divorce papers already prepared.”

Sameera spoke softly. “And me? I go back to…?”

Sajid answered before anyone else could. “To us.”

The table went still.

Rahim’s grip on Sameera’s knee tightened. Sajid’s hand clenched on the table edge. Both reflexes of the past 3 months

Sameera looked at Rahim. “I need to speak to Sajid. Alone. Just for a minute.”

Rahim’s jaw worked. He looked at her, really looked then slowly released her knee. “Go.”

Fatima glanced at Sajid; he gave a small nod. Priya squeezed Fatima’s hand.

Sameera and Sajid stepped out into the corridor. The door closed behind them.

They stood facing each other in the dim hallway light.

Sameera’s voice trembled. “Four months. Three since the nikah. I thought… I thought I could do this forever. Be the perfect bahu. The gentle wife. But every night I look at that bolster pillow and remember how we used to sleep, no walls, no pretending.”

Sajid swallowed. “I ride that bike every day and feel the wind, and all I think is how you used to laugh when I took corners too fast. How you’d hold on tighter. I lead prayers, I get respect, I get the godown offer… and it all feels like someone else’s life.”

She stepped closer. “I cried in the bathroom last week. Just… sat on the floor and cried like a girl because I wanted to touch myself and couldn’t. Because this body wants things I can’t give it. And I hated you for it. And I hated myself for not hating it more.”

He exhaled roughly. “I punched a wall outside a tailoring shop. Watched women stitch abayas, your abayas, and wanted to go in, feel the fabric, design something. But I can’t. This body won’t let me. And I hated you for turning me into this… man who can only punch, not create.”

Tears slipped down Sameera’s cheeks, smudging her kohl. “I miss us. The real us.”

Sajid reached out, hesitant, cupped her face with both hands, thumbs brushing away the tears. “I miss arguing with you. I miss your sharp tongue. I miss the way you used to throw things at me when you were angry.”

She laughed through the tears, a small, broken sound. “I miss calling you an idiot and then kissing you anyway.”

He pulled her in.

She went willingly.

Their bodies met, curves against solid chest, breasts pressing soft against him, his arms wrapping around her waist, hers sliding up to hold him under the armpits, fingers digging into the fabric of his kurta. He was taller now, broader; she was softer, smaller. But the fit was the same. Muscle memory.

They hugged like people drowning, clinging to the only solid thing left.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into her hair. “For the bet. For the pride. For letting it go this far.”

“I’m sorry too,” she breathed against his neck. “For not stopping it. For enjoying parts of it. For… becoming this.”

They pulled back just enough to look at each other, eyes red, makeup smudged, faces flushed.

Future spilled out in whispers.

“When Fatima leaves… talaq. Then we… disappear. New city. New names if we have to. But together. Real together.”

“No more games.”

“No more pretending.”

He leaned in.

She met him halfway.

The kiss was slow, careful, lips brushing, tasting salt from tears, then deeper, hungrier. Her hands fisted in his kurta; his slid up her back, fingers splaying over the saree’s soft folds. Tongues touched tentatively, then sure. Memory and longing and apology all at once.

They broke apart breathing hard.

“We end this,” he said.

“We end this,” she echoed.

Back inside the room, the others were quiet. They had heard nothing, but they saw everything in the red eyes, the smudged kohl, the way Sameera’s hand found Sajid’s under the table.

Rahim looked at Sameera. “You’re sure?”

She nodded. “I’m sure.”

Priya squeezed Fatima’s hand. “We’ll make it work.”

The plan was set: Fatima’s visa interview, her disappearance, the talaqs, Rahim and Priya’s elopement to Goa, Sameera and Sajid’s quiet exit.

No one spoke of love. But it was there, heavy in the room.

Later, outside, two bikes waited.

Rahim helped Sameera onto his Enfield. She sat sideways, burqa back on, arms around his waist for the ride home.

Sajid mounted his own Royal Enfield, Fatima climbing behind him, arms loose around his middle.

The engines started.

They pulled out of the parking lot.

One bike turned left toward Mylapore.

The other turned right toward Triplicane.

They rode in opposite directions into the Chennai night, headlights cutting through the dark, carrying two couples who were no longer pretending,and two original lovers who were finally ready to come home.