Pride in a Pallu

Chapter 23: The Final Countdown

The last two months before the end date passed like a slow, deliberate unravelling, every day a thread pulled taut, every night a reminder that the knot would soon come undone.

Sameera embraced the role completely in those final weeks. Not because she had stopped fighting, but because she told herself: it will be over soon. The humiliations no longer felt like attacks; they were simply the texture of the days. She leaned into them, determined to be the best daughter-in-law, the best wife, the most perfect version of Sameera Khan anyone could imagine.

Mornings began at 4:40 a.m. She rose before the azan, performed wudu with rose-scented water, prayed Fajr on the jaanamaz in the corner, breasts shifting forward in sujood with quiet acceptance. Then the kitchen: today a soft peach chiffon saree with silver sequins, draped so flawlessly the pleats never slipped even when she bent to light the gas. White lace bra and high-waisted panty beneath, smoothing every curve, the bra lifting her breasts into gentle prominence. She made tea the way Abbu-ji liked it,extra ginger, no sugar,parathas rolled thin and crisp, aloo sabzi spiced just right. When Ammi-ji came in, Sameera greeted her with folded hands and a soft “Assalamu alaikum, Ammi-ji,” . Ammi-ji cupped her face, kissed her forehead. “My beti, what would this house do without you?”

Sameera smiled,demure, genuine. “I’m happy here, Ammi-ji.”

Afternoons were for bonding. She and Ammi-ji sat on the balcony shelling peas or sorting rice, talking about everything: Aisha’s college fest outfits, Abbu-ji’s blood pressure diet, neighbourhood gossip. Ammi-ji confided more freely now,“You know, beta, sometimes I worry about Rahim. He’s so quiet these days.” Sameera listened, offered gentle advice: “He carries a lot, Ammi-ji. Give him time. He’ll open up.” Ammi-ji squeezed her hand. “Allah has given me the perfect bahu.”

Aisha treated her like blood. They bathed together twice a week now,big bucket of rose ubtan, laughter echoing off tiles, Sameera massaging shampoo into Aisha’s hair, Aisha scrubbing Sameera’s back. Nakedness felt sisterly, innocent; the prosthetic body was just… Sameera. Aisha never questioned. She only said, “Bhabhi, your skin is so soft. Teach me your routine.” Sameera laughed, “It’s just oil and patience, jaan.”

Abbu-ji’s love showed in silence. He began asking her to sit with him during Quran recitation in the evenings; she listened with dupatta over head, eyes downcast. When she finished a difficult recipe, mutton biryani layered perfectly, he ate two full plates, then placed a hand on her head as he left the table. “Allah keep you, beta.” Sameera’s eyes filled; she nodded, throat tight.

Even with Rahim the role felt real. He still slept on the sofa, but their late-night whispers had become ritual: he’d knock softly, sit on the bed’s edge, talk about Priya’s latest messages, the flat in Coimbatore, the countdown. Sometimes he rested his head on her shoulder; she stroked his hair like a wife comforting her husband. The bolster pillow stayed, but the distance between them felt smaller.

She was the best daughter-in-law. The best wife. And every night, when the house slept, she told herself: just a few more weeks.

Across the city, Sajid had become indispensable.

The textile godown now ran smoother under his eye. He reorganized the ledger system, caught a supplier overcharging on cotton bales, negotiated better rates with two new mills. Abbu clapped him on the back after every success: “You’re saving us money, beta. This business will grow with you.” Fatima’s mother packed him extra biryani every visit; Imran now called him “bhaiya” without irony and asked for advice on his own small side business.

Sajid lifted heavier weights at the gym, deadlifts up to 160 kg now, squats solid, shoulders broader still. The prosthetic had become background; he adjusted it absentmindedly, no longer blushing. He led prayers at the mosque three times a week; the imam now asked him to give short talks on “responsibility in marriage.” The men listened, nodded, called him “Sajid bhai” with real respect.

Fatima was packing in earnest,suitcase half-filled, visa documents in a folder. She spoke little, but once, over late-night tea, she said quietly: “Thank you, Sajid. For all of this.” He nodded. “Go build your life. I’ll be fine.”

Every night, the video call.

Sameera in soft cream nightgown, hair loose, gold glinting.

Sajid on the sofa, kurta collar open, beard shadowed.

They no longer bragged.

They talked.

“Today Ammi-ji gave me the locker key,” Sameera said one night. “Told me to keep it safe. Like I’m really staying.”

Sajid exhaled. “Abbu gave me the godown duplicate keys. Said the business will be mine one day.”

They looked at each other through the screens,long, quiet.

“I miss you,” Sameera whispered.

“I miss you too,” Sajid replied.

No more lies. No more pretending the roles were perfect.

Just the truth, raw and aching.

The day before the end-date arrived.

Sameera sat on the bridal bed, nightgown loose, phone in hand. The call connected at 11:03 p.m.

Sajid’s face appeared,beard trimmed, eyes tired but clear.

“Tomorrow,” he said quietly.

“Tomorrow,” she echoed.

A long silence.

Sameera spoke first. “The reversal… we can do it the day after Fatima leaves. Clinic in Aminjikarai. Dr. Arif will reverse everything. We’ll be us again.”

Sajid nodded slowly.

Then he said, “But… what if we wait a few days?”

She blinked.

“A few days?”

“Just… stay like this. As a couple. No families. No pretending. Just us. In the old flat. Or somewhere new. Sleeping in the same bed. Waking up together. Being… married. For real. For a little while.”

Sameera’s breath caught.

“You mean… keep the bodies?”

“For a few days,” he said. “See what it feels like. To be Sameera and Sajid. Not Saad and Safiya. Not pretending. Just… us.”

She looked down at her hands, henna faded but still visible, bangles glinting faintly.

“I’ve become good at this,” she whispered. “Being her. Being… wife. Bahu. Sister.”

“I’ve become good at being him,” Sajid said. “Husband. Son-in-law. Provider.”

Another silence.

Sameera lifted her eyes.

“Let’s do it,” she said softly. “A few days. As us.”

Sajid smiled, small, real.

“After tomorrow,” he said, “we come home.”

The call ended.

In two separate houses, two people lay awake a little longer.

Tomorrow Fatima would leave.

Tomorrow Rahim and Priya would disappear to Goa.

Tomorrow the talaqs would be spoken.

And the day after…

Sameera and Sajid would begin again.

Not as Saad and Safiya.

But as the couple they had become.

The clock struck midnight.

Two months remained.

But the end was no longer the end.

It was the beginning.