Pride in a Pallu

Chapter 22: Month 4 – The Threads Tighten

Four months into the marriages, the plan had moved from whispered possibility to quiet execution.

Fatima’s visa was confirmed: interview cleared, departure ticket booked for the last day of month six. She would vanish after a staged “family emergency in Bangalore,” leaving a short note for her parents. Sajid would issue talaq the next week, quiet, private, no drama. Rahim and Priya had already scouted a small flat in Gos; Rahim was quietly transferring funds, updating his resume for tourist firms there, telling his family he was “exploring new opportunities.” They would elope the same week Fatima left, civil marriage in Goa, then settle south as a “newly-wed couple who met through family friends.”

Everything aligned for month six end.

Until the unexpected wedding.

Ammi-ji’s younger sister’s daughter, Farida, was getting engaged to Fatima’s uncle’s son, Zubair. The families had never formally met; the match had come through a distant relative. Now both sides were insisting on a joint engagement ceremony in Chennai “to bring the two families closer.”

The venue: a private banquet hall in Anna Nagar. Neutral, elegant, large enough for both sides to mingle without suspicion.

Sameera arrived with the Khan family. She wore a deep maroon georgette saree with heavy silver zardozi work on the borders and pallu, the fabric flowing yet structured, accentuating every curve she had learned to carry with grace. Beneath: matching maroon lace bra and high-waisted panty set (lightly padded bra lifting her breasts into soft prominence, the lace cool against waxed skin), cream silk petticoat tied snug. The saree draped flawlessly, pleats sharp, pallu cascading over left shoulder, thin midriff sliver exposed. Jewellery: full bridal set today (layered gold necklace with ruby pendant nestling in cleavage, heavy jhumkas brushing neck, glass + gold bangles twenty each wrist, thick upper-arm gold bangles, slim gold waist chain under saree, Priya’s silver anklets + heavier gold pair, nose pin, maang tikka in wig parting). Makeup: thick winged kohl, rose-gold shimmer, deep berry lips. She arrived in black crepe burqa, removed it only inside the women’s section.

Rahim stayed close, hand occasionally brushing her lower back, possessive even now.

Sajid arrived with Fatima and her family. He wore cream sherwani with subtle gold zari, beard oiled and neat, shoulders broad under the fabric. Fatima in lavender anarkali, hijab pinned, looking distracted but polite. Priya came separately, simple peach salwar-kameez, dupatta loose.

The moment the two parties entered the main hall, eyes met.

Sameera froze mid-step beside Ammi-ji. Sajid paused beside Fatima’s uncle.

Ammi-ji beamed at Fatima’s mother. “Mashallah, what a beautiful family! Your daughter-in-law-to-be is glowing.”

Fatima’s mother smiled back. “And your bahu, Subhanallah, so graceful. She carries herself like she was born for this house.”

The bragging began almost immediately.

Ammi-ji pulled Sameera forward. “This is our Sameera. The way she runs the house… every meal perfect, never raises her voice, prays five times without fail. Abbu-ji says she has a better head for decisions than most men.”

Fatima’s mother nodded proudly toward Sajid. “And this is our Sajid. Steady as a rock. Handles the godown accounts better than my husband now. Leads prayers at the mosque, everyone respects him. A real man.”

Sameera and Sajid stood a few feet apart, eyes locked in the crowd.

Rahim’s hand rested on Sameera’s elbow, protective, possessive.

Sajid’s jaw tightened; his fingers flexed at his side.

They were introduced formally.

“Assalamu alaikum,” Sameera said, voice soft and measured, eyes lowered demurely.

“Wa alaikum assalam,” Sajid replied, voice deep, formal, gaze steady.

Ammi-ji laughed. “Look how shy they are! Like they’ve never met.”

Fatima’s mother chuckled. “Our Sajid is always serious. But once you know him, he’s a gem.”

Rahim smiled tightly. “Sameera is the heart of our home. We’re lucky.”

The teasing started in whispers when the elders moved away.

Sameera stepped closer to the dessert table; Sajid followed under the pretext of taking a plate.

She murmured, low enough for only him: “Looking very respectable, Sajid bhai. That sherwani really brings out your… seriousness.”

He leaned in, pretending to reach for gulab jamun. “And you, Sameera begum, are positively radiant. That saree makes you look like you were born to be someone’s perfect wife.”

She fluttered her lashes once, mocking. “Jealous?”

His voice dropped. “Of the pallu? Or the way every aunty here wants to adopt you?”

She smiled sweetly. “Both, maybe. You should try wearing one sometime. The swish is addictive.”

He snorted softly. “I prefer trousers. Less drama.”

They parted before anyone noticed.

Later, during the ring exchange ceremony, the crowd pressed close. Sameera and Sajid ended up shoulder to shoulder behind the main family.

Her dupatta brushed his arm.

He leaned down, breath warm against her ear. “Still hate the beard?”

She tilted her head slightly, lips curving. “Still hate these?” ,her voice barely audible, eyes flicking down to her own chest.

A low, reluctant chuckle escaped him.

The ceremony ended. People began to mill about for photos.

Sameera excused herself,“Need to fix my pallu”,and slipped toward the corridor leading to the restrooms.

Sajid waited thirty seconds, then followed.

The corridor was empty.

She entered the women’s restroom; he waited outside, then slipped in after her when no one was looking.

The door clicked shut.

He moved fast, pinned her wrists above her head against the tiled wall with one large hand. His body pressed close, chest to her breasts, hips to hips, the solid line of his prosthetic against her lower belly.

She gasped softly, back arching slightly, breasts pressing harder against him through the blouse.

He leaned in, beard brushing her cheek, voice low and rough.

“If I was still a woman… I’d know exactly what you’re feeling right now. Every ache, every flutter, every time the lace rubs just right and you can’t do anything about it.”

Sameera’s breath hitched. Her lips parted, berry lipstick glossy under the fluorescent light.

She tilted her chin up, defiant, witty.

“And if I was still a man… I’d know exactly how hard you’re trying not to react to a married woman pressed against you like this.”

The perfumes collided, her jasmine-rose attar sweet and heady, his musk-attar deep and warm, intoxicating in the small space.

His free hand slid to the top hook of her blouse, flicking it open slowly. The maroon velvet parted just enough to reveal the edge of the lace bra, the swell of her breasts rising with each quick breath.

“Nice bra,” he murmured, thumb brushing the lace edge. “Very… feminine.”

She arched a brow, voice breathy but sharp.

“I’m a married woman, Sajid bhai. Shouldn’t you be ashamed?”

He smiled,slow, dangerous.

“Shouldn’t you?”

Then he kissed her.

French,deep, open-mouthed, tongues meeting in slow, hungry strokes. Her wrists still pinned, body arched against the wall, breasts crushed to his chest. His free hand cupped her jaw, tilting her head, deepening the kiss until they both tasted salt and rose and musk.

When they broke apart, gasping, foreheads pressed together, both were flushed.

Her kohl slightly smudged.

His beard damp at the edges.

They stared at each other,eyes wide, breathing ragged.

No words.

Just the shared heat, the shared secret, the shared knowledge that the clock was still ticking.

They straightened clothes quickly, blouse re-hooked, pallu adjusted, burqa slipped back on outside the door.

Back in the hall, no one had noticed.

Sameera rejoined Rahim, who placed a possessive hand on her waist.

Sajid rejoined Fatima, who slipped her arm through his.

Both couples smiled politely through the rest of the evening.

But when they left, two bikes pulling out of the parking lot, Sameera’s cheeks burned beneath the niqab.

Sajid’s ears felt hot beneath the helmet.

And everyone who saw them drive away noticed the same thing:

Both of them were blushing.