Pride in a Pallu

Chapter 20: Sameera, the Daughter-in-Law

Three months had passed since the nikah, but in the Khan household, time no longer felt like a countdown. It had become a quiet, steady rhythm, and Sameera had become its heartbeat.

She no longer woke with a jolt of wrongness. The bridal bed still had the bolster pillow down the middle, Rahim still slept on the study sofa every night, but the room itself felt like hers now. The faint scent of jasmine oil from the nightly scalp massage lingered in the pillows, the small brass tray on the side table held her favourite rose attar bottle, and the wardrobe shelves were neatly arranged with her sarees, folded exactly the way Ammi-ji had taught her: pleats facing outward, pallus tucked inside to avoid creases.

Mornings belonged to Ammi-ji.

Sameera rose at 4:45 a.m., performed wudu, prayed Fajr on the jaanamaz in the corner, then went straight to the kitchen. Today she wore a simple cream cotton saree with thin gold zari border, light enough for housework, elegant enough to please Ammi-ji. The white cotton bra and high-waisted panty smoothed everything beneath; the petticoat was tied snug, the saree draped with automatic precision: nine crisp pleats, pallu over left shoulder, pinned once at the waist.

Ammi-ji was already there, stirring upma in a heavy-bottomed kadhai.

“Sameera beti, come taste,” she called without turning.

Sameera stepped close, accepted the small spoonful Ammi-ji held out. She blew on it gently, tasted, nodded.

“Perfect salt, Ammi-ji. Maybe just one more pinch of mustard seeds next time, they’ll pop better.”

Ammi-ji smiled, eyes crinkling. “See? You know better than me now.”

They worked side by side for an hour: Sameera rolling parathas while Ammi-ji made aloo sabzi, their elbows brushing, voices low. Ammi-ji spoke of Abbu-ji’s blood pressure, of Aisha’s college admission worries, of the rising price of ghee. Sameera listened, offered quiet suggestions, less salt in the sabzi, speak to Aisha gently about studies, buy ghee in bulk from the old supplier on Godown Street. Ammi-ji nodded each time, as though Sameera’s words carried the same weight as her own.

Later, while hanging wet clothes on the balcony line, Ammi-ji suddenly reached into her saree pallu and pulled out a small brass key.

“Take this,” she said, pressing it into Sameera’s palm.

Sameera stared at the key. “Ammi-ji…?”

“The locker key. All my jewellery, my mother’s jewellery, the gold coins Abbu-ji gave me at our wedding. Everything is inside. If anything happens to me, you will take care of it. And if I’m alive… you still take care of it. Because you are the bahu of this house now. Not just in name.”

Sameera’s throat tightened. She closed her fingers around the key, felt its cool weight. “Ammi-ji… I don’t know what to say.”

Ammi-ji cupped her cheek. “Say you’ll keep it safe. And say you’ll stay happy here. That’s all I want.”

Sameera nodded, eyes stinging. She slipped the key into the small purse she kept tucked into her saree waist. It rested against her skin like a promise.

Aisha treated her like an elder sister from the very beginning, but the bond had deepened into something almost sacred.

After college, Aisha would come straight to Sameera’s room. She’d kick off her sandals, flop onto the bed, and demand: “Bhabhi, help me choose an outfit for tomorrow’s fest.” Sameera would open the wardrobe, pull out salwars and lehengas, hold them against Aisha’s shoulders, tilt her head critically. “This peach one brings out your eyes. But if you want to look bold, the maroon lehenga, pair it with silver jhumkas, not gold.”

Aisha would try them on right there, twirling in front of the mirror while Sameera adjusted the dupatta, pinned stray pleats, tightened drawstrings. Sometimes Aisha would ask Sameera to plait her hair, or apply kohl, or even help her with threading her upper lip. “You do it better than the parlour aunty,” she’d say, wincing but laughing.

One humid afternoon, after a long day of college and chores, Aisha knocked shyly. “Bhabhi… can we bathe together? Like sisters do? I’m so tired, and you always make everything feel nice.”

Sameera hesitated only a second. “Of course, jaan.”

They filled the big plastic bucket in the bathroom, added rose ubtan paste Ammi-ji had made. Aisha poured water over Sameera’s head first, giggling when it splashed. Sameera returned the favour, massaging shampoo into Aisha’s hair, fingers gentle on the scalp. They scrubbed each other’s backs with loofah, laughed when soap got in their eyes, talked about nothing and everything, crushes, exams, dreams. Nakedness felt innocent here, sisterly; the prosthetic body was just… Sameera’s body now. Aisha never stared, never questioned. She simply accepted her bhabhi as she was.

When they stepped out, wrapped in towels, Aisha hugged her from behind. “You’re the best sister I never had.”

Sameera’s throat closed. She hugged back, arms around Aisha’s shoulders, breasts pressing softly against her back. “And you’re mine.”

Abbu-ji remained stoic on the surface,few words, stern face,but his love showed in small, deliberate ways.

He never praised loudly. Instead, he would leave the newspaper open to the page with the inverter advertisement he’d asked her opinion about, a silent “you were right.” When she served him tea, he would nod once, say “Good,” and that single word carried more weight than any flowery compliment. Once, when Sameera had a mild headache, he quietly placed a strip of painkillers on the dining table beside her plate, no fuss, no announcement. Another time, he asked her to sit beside him while he read the Quran aloud in the evenings; she listened with folded hands, dupatta over her head, and when he finished he simply said, “Your voice is good for recitation too. Practice sometime.” It was the closest he came to saying he trusted her.

When she made his favourite kheer, he ate two bowls without comment, then, as he left the table, he paused and placed a hand briefly on her head. “Allah keep you happy, beta.” Sameera’s eyes filled; she nodded, unable to speak.

That evening, when Rahim returned from work, tired and dusty from traffic, Sameera was waiting at the door with a glass of nimbu pani, extra ice, just how he liked it. She took his bag, hung it on the stand, led him to the sofa, brought a damp towel to wipe his face. Ammi-ji watched from the kitchen doorway, arms folded, a small, proud smile on her face.

Later, when the house had quieted and everyone was asleep, Ammi-ji sat alone in the living room with her tasbeeh beads, murmuring prayers under her breath.

She thought of the day Sameera had first come, nervous, eyes lowered, burqa still on. She thought of how the girl had learned every recipe, every fold of the saree, every small habit of the house. How she served Abbu-ji without being asked, listened to Aisha’s teenage worries without judgment, kept the kitchen spotless, prayed five times a day without fail. How, even now, she waited for Rahim at the door with nimbu pani and a soft smile.

Ammi-ji’s fingers paused on the beads.

“She is more than a bahu,” she whispered to the empty room. “She is the heart of this house.”

She looked toward the staircase, toward the room where Sameera slept alone in the wide bed.

“Ya Allah,” she prayed softly, “keep this daughter of mine happy. Keep her here. Let her never leave. Let her give us the good news we all wait for. Let this family stay whole.”

A tear slipped down her cheek.

She wiped it away, smiled through it, and continued her tasbeeh.

In the quiet of the night, the house breathed around her, content, full, complete.

And upstairs, Sameera lay awake, the bolster pillow beside her, the locker key still tucked in her purse, the weight of belonging both a comfort and a quiet, growing ache.