Pride in a Pallu

Chapter 7: The Thirty Days of Preparation – Part 1

The thirty days before the nikah felt like a slow, deliberate tightening of ropes invisible, silk-smooth, but unyielding. For Sameera and Sajid, the calendar became a shared enemy they pretended to love.

Sameera’s days in the Iqbal Ahmed household settled into a rhythm designed to mould her completely. Mornings began at 4:45 a.m. with the soft call of the azan filtering through the window. She rose from the narrow bed in her pink-curtained room, the satin nightgown clinging to her waxed thighs and the undersides of her silicone breasts. The chastity cage pressed flat and constant, a sealed secret that made every morning stretch feel like surrender. She performed wudu in the tiny bathroom, water cool against her smooth skin, then wrapped herself in a simple cotton house abaya for Fajr. Kneeling on the jaanamaz in the women’s corner of the living room, dupatta over her head, she felt the breasts shift forward during sujood, heavy, warm, realistic ,a humiliating reminder that pressed against her ribcage.

Ammi was relentless in her “wife training.” Breakfast duty fell to Sameera: rolling out perfect phulkas on the hot tawa, the heat making sweat bead between her shoulder blades and trickle down to the small of her back, soaking the thin camisole beneath her housecoat. “A husband likes soft rotis and a soft wife,” Ammi said every morning, patting Sameera’s hand approvingly. The praise stung worse than the burns on her fingertips from the tawa.

Afternoons were for learning the finer arts. Ammi taught her how to apply perfect kohl without smudging, how to drape a saree in ten different styles (each one requiring hours of practice standing in front of the mirror, hips aching, pallu slipping again and again until she mastered the fold). One day it was the Gujarati style, the next Bengali, then the classic Tamil Nadu drape ,each variation pulling the saree tighter across her waist, accentuating the prosthetic curves she couldn’t escape. The silk weighed on her like judgment.

Shopping trips were the worst, and the most frequent. Twice a week, Ammi took her to T. Nagar or Pondy Bazaar, Sameera always in full burqa, niqab down, only eyes visible through the mesh. The black fabric trapped Chennai’s humidity like a greenhouse. Sweat collected under her arms, between her breasts, along the crease where the prosthetic vagina met her real skin. The anklets tinkled faintly beneath the hem, the bangles clinked inside the sleeves. Crowds pressed close; strangers’ shoulders brushed her, the heat made the adhesive on her prosthetics feel sticky and precarious. Ammi bargained fiercely for blouses, petticoats, jewellery “For my beti’s wedding!” - while Sameera stood silent, demure, dying inside.

One afternoon they bought a bridal lehenga heavy red velvet with intricate zardosi work, the dupatta embroidered with gold gota patti. Sameera had to try it on in the cramped changing room of the boutique, the lehenga’s weight pulling at her shoulders, the choli squeezing her breasts until she could barely breathe. The mirror showed a bride. She hated how convincingly she looked the part.

Evenings brought more bonding: henna nights with Aisha and Ammi’s friends, sitting cross-legged on the floor while cool mehendi paste was applied in ever-more elaborate patterns up her arms and feet. The scent of henna filled the room; her hands and feet itched as it dried, immobilising her for hours. “Dark colour means your husband will love you deeply,” the aunties teased. Sameera forced smiles, the glass bangles clinking with every tiny movement.

And every night, the phone call.

Sajid’s days were a different kind of forge.

He woke at the same early hour, the alarm cutting through the silence of the rented flat. Fajr at the local mosque had become routine the cold marble under his knees, the phallus shifting uncomfortably during ruku and sujood, the deep voice of “Allahu Akbar” rumbling from his chest like a stranger’s. The elders greeted him warmly now: “Sajid bhai, you’re becoming one of us.” He hated the approval.

Work consumed the mornings: client meetings, GST audits, endless spreadsheets. The beard itched constantly; he’d taken to scratching it raw in the office bathroom, staring at the mirror at the rough, masculine face that wasn’t his. The prosthetic hung heavy in his trousers, swaying with every step down the corridor, a constant, humiliating pendulum. One day a client meeting ran long; he had to sit cross-legged on the floor for a group discussion, the scrotum pressing painfully against his thigh. He smiled through gritted teeth.

Afternoons often meant community duties: helping organise a small iftar gathering for the mosque youth, carrying heavy trays of dates and water, the kurta sticking to his back with sweat, the topi slipping on his damp forehead. Evenings: more prayers Maghrib, Isha leading sometimes when the imam was late. The responsibility felt like a crown of thorns.

Shopping was different for him brisk, functional. He bought sherwanis for the nikah, plain lungis for home, a new steel watch “to look responsible.” The salesman called him “sir” with respect. Each “sir” landed like mockery.

But the phone calls were the battlefield.

Every night, around 10 p.m., the video call connected.

Sameera, fresh from her evening bath, hair damp under a loose dupatta, face glowing from Ammi’s nightly rosewater ritual, would smile sweetly into the camera.

“Assalamu alaikum, Sajid jaan. How was your big strong man day?”

Sajid, lounging on the sofa in vest and lungi, beard freshly oiled (though it still itched), voice deep and smug: “Wa alaikum assalam, Sameera begum. Oh, you know closed two big accounts, led Isha prayer, the boys at the mosque think I’m the next imam. This is living.”

Sameera laughed softly, adjusting her dupatta so it framed her face perfectly. “Mashallah. I’m so proud. Me? Spent the whole day shopping with Ammi bought the most beautiful bridal lehenga. Tried it on. Felt like a real queen. And the mehendi yesterday? So dark. They say it means you’ll adore me.”

Sajid snorted. “Adore? Of course. I’m thriving out here. No drama, no fuss. Just pure masculine energy.”

“Same here,” she purred. “Learning to be the perfect wife. Cooking, draping sarees, praying so peacefully in my corner. It’s… liberating.”

They lied beautifully, voices dripping with false joy, eyes flashing with challenge. Neither admitted the sweat, the ache, the constant sensory assault of their new bodies.

Until the day they met by accident.

It was a Saturday afternoon, peak shopping hour in T. Nagar. Sameera was out with Ammi again full burqa, niqab down, shopping for wedding favour boxes. The heat was brutal; sweat poured down her back, soaking the inner abaya, making the silicone breasts feel slippery and precarious. Her ankles ached from the weight of the saree she wore underneath, the anklets silent under the black folds. She walked slowly, breathing shallow through the mesh, every step a reminder of the sealed cage and the prosthetic folds that rubbed with damp friction.

She turned a corner near the jewellery section and froze.

Sajid stood there in crisp white kurta-pajama, beard oiled, topi on, carrying two large bags of wedding sherwanis. He was alone, haggling with a shopkeeper.

Their eyes met through her mesh screen.

For a second, neither moved.

Then Sameera inclined her head slightly, voice soft, muffled: “Assalamu alaikum… bhai.”

Sajid’s jaw tightened. He returned the salaam, voice low: “Wa alaikum assalam… behen.”

Ammi, ahead, didn’t notice the tension. She called back: “Sameera beti, come see these bangles!”

Sameera stepped closer to Sajid, just enough for privacy in the crowd.

“Enjoying the shopping, Sajid bhai?” she whispered, the niqab hiding her smirk.

“Immensely, Sameera,” he replied, eyes hard. “You look… comfortable in all that black.”

“Very. Keeps me modest. You look… busy being the provider.”

They stood inches apart she cocooned in fabric and sweat, he solid and outwardly confident both burning with the same unspoken fury.

Ammi called again.

Sameera turned, pallu slipping slightly, then walked away, anklets tinkling faintly under the burqa.

Sajid watched her go, bags heavy in his hands.

The thirty days were only beginning.