Pride in a Pallu

Chapter 2: The Calls, the Decision, the Start

Safiya ended the call with Fatima first. Her thumb hovered over the screen for a long second before she set the phone down on the mannequin’s shoulder. The boutique room felt suddenly smaller the rolls of chiffon and crepe staring back at her like silent witnesses.

Fatima had spoken in quick, hushed bursts. She was in Bangalore now, doing her Master’s in Architecture, but her family in Tirunelveli had finally lost patience. “They’ve fixed a boy,” she’d said. “Next month engagement. I told them I’m not ready, but they don’t care. I need a fake groom for six months just long enough to get my visa stamped and leave for Germany. Someone who can come for the engagement, the nikah if they push, then disappear when I’m gone. Someone who won’t actually expect anything.”

Safiya had laughed a short, incredulous sound. “You want me to find you a man who’ll play pretend-husband?”

“No,” Fatima had whispered. “I want you to find someone… or… I was thinking… maybe Saad? You two are perfect. You’re already married, so no real complications. He just has to act the part for a bit. I’ll pay for everything clothes, travel, even a small ‘salary’. Please, Safi. You’re the only one I trust not to judge.”

Safiya hadn’t answered right away. She’d only said, “Let me think. I’ll call you back.”

Across the house, Saad was still on the landline, leaning against the wall with one hand rubbing the back of his neck.

Rahim sounded like he hadn’t slept in days.

“Bhai, listen… I’m in love with a Christian girl. Priya. We’ve been together three years. But my family you know how they are. They want a proper Muslim bride, full purdah, everything. They’ve already started looking. If I say no, they’ll disown me. I just need a fake wife for maximum six months. Someone who can come to the house, wear the abaya, do the namaz with Ammi, convince everyone I’m settled. Then Priya and I will get married quietly in Goa, civil way, and I’ll tell my family it didn’t work out. I’ll handle the divorce papers myself.”

Saad had snorted. “You want me to find you a woman who’ll pretend to be your purdahwali begum?”

Rahim’s voice dropped even lower. “Actually… I was hoping… Safiya? She’s so… convincing. She already knows how to carry herself. She can pull off the whole thing. And since you’re already married, no emotional mess. I’ll pay for all the expenses jewellery, outfits, even a small flat if you need space. Please, bhai. You’re the only one who won’t laugh in my face.”

Normally he should have been angry at this.... but

Saad had gone quiet. Then: “Give me an hour. I’ll talk to her.”

He hung up.

They met in the living room five minutes later, both standing, both trying to look casual.

Safiya spoke first. “Fatima called.”

Saad nodded slowly. “Rahim too.”

A long silence stretched between them.

Safiya crossed her arms. “She wants a fake groom. To buy her time for her visa.”

“Rahim wants a fake bride. To buy time till he can run away with his girlfriend.”

Another beat.

Then, almost at the same instant:

“She asked for you,” Safiya said.

“He asked for you,” Saad replied.

They stared.

And then because the universe has a cruel sense of humour ,both started laughing. Not polite laughter. The kind that starts in the stomach and hurts your ribs.

When it died down, Safiya wiped the corner of her eye. “This is insane.”

“Completely,” Saad agreed.

But neither of them moved to call back and refuse.

Instead, Saad said, “We were just talking about role reversal last night.”

Safiya’s lips curved. “We were.”

“If I do this…” Saad began.

“If I do this…” Safiya countered.

They both knew what the other was thinking.

Not just pretending. Not just surface-level acting.

Full. Complete. Undeniable. Role reversal.

Because anything less would be admitting defeat.

Saad spoke first, voice low. “If we do this properly… no half-measures. We go all the way. So when we switch back, no one can ever say we didn’t commit.”

Safiya’s eyes flashed. “You’re saying we actually become the other gender? For real?”

“As real as it gets,” he said. “I know a place. Underground clinic in Aminjikarai. Run by a friend from college Dr. Arif. He does… everything. Voice training, prosthetics, hormones if needed, seamless attachments. No questions asked. Expensive, but Rahim and Fatima are paying.”

Safiya swallowed. “And documents?”

“Arif has contacts. Aadhaar, PAN, passport everything can be forged with new names, new backstories. They’ll even create fake family photos, school certificates, the works.”

She looked at him for a long time.

“You’d really do this?” she asked. “Wear the burqa? The jewellery? The… everything?”

“Only if you wear the beard. The lungi. The topi. And go pray at the mosque five times a day.”

Her mouth twitched. “You’d hate every second of it.”

“So would you,” he shot back.

A slow, dangerous smile spread across both their faces.

“Then let’s make it unbearable for the other person,” Safiya said softly.

“Deal,” Saad replied.

They called back within the hour.

To Fatima, Safiya said: “Saad will do it. But we’re doing it our way. Full transformation. New name: Sameera. And you’ll get your six months.”

To Rahim, Saad said: “Safiya’s in. New name: Sajid. Full change. You’ll get your cover.”

Both friends were stunned into silence, then tearfully grateful.

The next three days passed in a blur of hushed planning.

They chose new names carefully.

Saad would become Sameera soft, feminine, North Indian sounding, because the fake family they would create would be “originally from Lucknow, migrated south twenty years ago.”

Safiya would become Sajid strong, traditional, local enough to blend in Chennai.

They told no one else. Not yet.

On the fourth day, a quiet Saturday morning, they took an auto to Aminjikarai.

The clinic was behind a small stationery shop, down a flight of stairs, unmarked door with a single brass bell.

They rang it.

The door opened.

Dr. Arif stood there mid-forties, calm eyes behind thin glasses, wearing a plain white kurta.

He looked at them both, then smiled faintly.

“Saad. Safiya. Come in.”

They stepped inside.

The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and sandalwood.

The corridor was narrow, lit by cool white LEDs.

At the end of it, a heavy door with a small sign:

Transformation Suite

Saad reached for Safiya’s hand out of habit, or maybe nerves.

She squeezed back.

Then, together, they crossed the threshold.