Pride in a Pallu

Chapter 24: The Day of the Wedding

The sixth month arrived like a held breath finally released.

Sameera woke at 4:30 a.m., three minutes before the azan app chimed. Today was the day, the end date. Fatima’s flight was at 11:45 p.m.; Rahim and Priya would leave for Goa at noon; the talaqs would be spoken quietly by evening. By midnight, everything would unravel. She told herself: this is the last day as Sameera Khan, the perfect bahu, the devoted wife.

She wanted to make it beautiful.

She bathed slowly, rose-scented water cascading over her body, soothing the faint redness where adhesive had begun to loosen over months. In the bedroom she dressed with deliberate care, the outfit she had chosen weeks ago, saved for today.

A heavy red Banarasi silk saree with intricate gold zardozi work across the entire field and pallu, the kind brides wear for their first reception. Beneath: new red lace bra and high-waisted panty set (bra heavily padded for maximum lift and cleavage, straps digging just enough to remind her of the weight she carried), cream silk petticoat tied so tightly it sculpted her waist into an hourglass. The saree draped like liquid fire, pleats sharp as blades, pallu cascading over left shoulder in perfect folds, pinned with tiny gold safety pins shaped like hearts. A thin sliver of midriff gleamed between blouse hem and pleats.

Jewellery was full bridal: layered gold necklace with ruby pendant nestling deep in cleavage, matching heavy jhumkas brushing her neck with cold kisses, glass bangles mixed with gold (twenty-four each wrist, chime like temple bells), thick upper-arm gold bangles, slim gold waist chain resting against bare skin under saree, Priya’s silver anklets joined by heavy gold ones that tinkled with every step, nose pin. Makeup: thick winged kohl, rose-gold shimmer on lids, deep scarlet lipstick making lips plush and inviting, faint blush on cheeks.

She looked in the full-length mirror.

Sameera Khan stared back, poised, radiant, every inch the cherished daughter-in-law and wife.

She smiled at the reflection, small, sad, proud.

This is the last time.

Downstairs, Ammi-ji waited with tears already in her eyes. “My beti looks like a queen today.” She hugged Sameera tightly; breasts pressed soft against her shoulder. Abbu-ji placed a hand on her head: “Allah keep you always happy.” Aisha twirled around her: “Bhabhi, you’re the most beautiful bride ever, even if it’s not your wedding!”

Rahim stood by the door in his sherwani, eyes soft. “Ready?”

Sameera nodded. “Let’s go.”

Across town, Sajid dressed in the rented flat.

Cream sherwani with gold zari, beard oiled to perfection, shoulders broad under the fabric. He looked in the mirror,strong jaw, deep-set eyes, solid chest, the faint bulge of the prosthetic in his trousers. He adjusted the topi, exhaled.

Last day as Sajid Ahmed, the perfect son-in-law, the responsible husband.

He rode the Royal Enfield to the venue, wind cold against his kurta, heart heavy.

The wedding hall in Anna Nagar was alive, marigolds everywhere, fairy lights strung, two stages for the two couples: one for Farida and Zubair, one symbolic for the “newly-weds” Sameera-Rahim and Sajid-Fatima to receive blessings.

Both couples arrived smiling, posing for photos, accepting congratulations.

Sameera stood beside Rahim, hand lightly on his arm, demure smile for every aunty who pinched her cheeks and said “Mashallah, kitni sundar bahu hai.” Rahim’s hand rested possessively on her waist; she let it stay.

Sajid stood beside Fatima, arm around her shoulders, nodding politely as uncles slapped his back: “Real man, beta. Taking care of everything.” Fatima smiled absently, mind already on her suitcase.

Priya hovered near the edges, eyes red but composed.

At 3:00 p.m., Fatima whispered to Sajid: “We need to make a call final confirmation with the travel agent.”

Rahim nodded to Sameera: “I’ll join them. Stay here, okay?”

The three of them, Fatima, Rahim, Priya, slipped away to a small side room.

Leaving Sameera and Sajid alone near the floral backdrop.

They stood a foot apart, eyes locked.

Sameera spoke first, voice low. “Last day.”

Sajid nodded. “Last day.”

A small, teasing smile curved her lips.

“You look very handsome, Sajid bhai. That sherwani really suits the perfect son-in-law.”

He stepped closer, voice dropping. “And you, Sameera begum, are breathtaking. That saree makes every aunty here jealous of their own bahu.”

She tilted her head. “Admit it,you’re going to miss seeing me in silk every day.”

He leaned in. “Admit it,you’re going to miss serving chai with those perfect pleats.”

They laughed, soft, real, the sound swallowed by the crowd noise.

Then Fatima’s scream cut through the hall.

Everyone turned.

She had fainted near the side room, collapsed into Rahim’s arms.

Elders rushed over. Fatima’s mother cried out. Ammi-ji hurried to help.

Sameera and Sajid pushed through the crowd.

Fatima was lifted onto a sofa, face pale. Someone called for water. The family doctor (a guest) checked her pulse, then smiled widely.

“She’s fine,” he announced. “Just a little faint. Congratulations,she’s pregnant.”

The hall erupted.

Cheers, hugs, tears.

Fatima’s mother sobbed happily. Abbu-ji beamed. Ammi-ji clasped her hands: “Allah has blessed us!”

Rahim stood frozen, face white.

Then he turned and ran toward Sameera.

He collapsed against her, head on her chest, crying,real, broken sobs.

“Priya… she broke up with me,” he whispered against the saree. “She said she can’t do this anymore. Not with running away. She left. She’s gone.”

Sameera held him automatically, arms around his shoulders, one hand stroking his back, breasts soft against his cheek as he cried like a child. She murmured comfort: “Shh… it’s okay… we’ll figure it out…”

Across the room, Sajid had lifted Fatima onto his lap, protective, husbandly, fake smile fixed on his face as relatives congratulated him: “Mubarak, beta! You’re going to be a father!”

Fatima clung to him weakly, whispering: “I’m sorry… I didn’t know…”

From distant sides of the hall, Sameera and Sajid looked at each other over the crowd.

She, holding a sobbing Rahim against her chest, saree damp with his tears.

He, cradling a pale Fatima on his lap, sherwani creased under her weight.

Their eyes met, long, stunned, shattered.

The elopement plan had collapsed.

Fatima pregnant. Priya gone.

No disappearance. No talaq. No fresh start.

The clock had stopped.

They were trapped.

And in that moment, across the sea of celebrating relatives, neither looked away.

Both of them were smiling, perfect, polite, practiced smiles for the crowd.

But their eyes said everything.

We’re still here.

And now… we might be here forever.