Pride in a Pallu

Chapter 8: The Thirty Days of Preparation – Part 2

The thirty days stretched on, each one a meticulously woven thread in the tapestry of pretense. For Sameera, the days blurred into a symphony of submission soft fabrics, soft voices, soft expectations that chafed against the iron of her ego. But she wore it all like a crown, or so she told herself. This was one such day, mid-way through the month, when the wedding loomed close enough to taste like cardamom in the air.

It began at 4:45 a.m., the azan drifting in like a gentle summons from the nearby mosque, its melodic call weaving through the thin curtains of her pink-walled room. Sameera stirred under the lightweight cotton sheet, her body heavy with the residue of sleep. The satin nightgown, pale blue, knee-length, with delicate lace trim at the neckline, clung to her skin, damp in places from the night's humidity. She sat up slowly, the silicone breasts shifting with a natural heft that pulled at the adhesive edges, sending a faint, tingling ache across her chest. The chastity cage beneath the nightgown's folds pressed flat and unyielding against her pelvis, the prosthetic vagina's pubic mound a seamless, warm illusion that made her hyper-aware of the night's stillness. No morning relief, no familiar stir ,just the sealed smoothness, a constant, intimate humiliation that she pushed down with a deep breath.

She swung her legs over the bed's edge, bare feet touching the cool mosaic floor. The room smelled faintly of rose ittar from last night's application, mingling with the distant aroma of Ammi's early chai brewing. Sameera padded to the bathroom, the nightgown whispering against her waxed thighs, every step reminding her of the smooth, hairless expanse that felt both foreign and inescapably hers now. The door clicked shut, and she faced the small mirror above the sink her reflection a soft-featured woman with tousled black waves from the wig, kohl slightly smudged from sleep, lips parted in quiet resignation.

Bathing came next, a ritual Ammi had insisted upon: "A good wife starts her day pure, beti." Sameera turned on the geyser-spotted tap, letting lukewarm water fill the blue plastic bucket. She stripped methodically, nightgown pooling at her feet, then the white lace bra unhooked with fingers that still fumbled at the clasp, the straps releasing a sigh of relief as the breasts settled, their weight tugging gently downward. The matching high-waisted panty followed, peeled away to reveal the flat chastity cage and the glued-on vaginal prosthetic, its dark pubic hair matted slightly from the night. She avoided looking too long; the sight twisted something deep in her gut, Saad's pride recoiling at the engineered femininity.

The water was soothing at first, poured over her head in slow cascades, rivulets tracing paths down her neck, between her breasts, over the hypersensitive skin of her stomach and thighs. Soap Ammi's homemade ubtan of turmeric and besan,frothed under her palms, applied in circular motions that made her skin glow but also sting faintly where the waxing had left it raw. She washed the prosthetic carefully, fingers parting the silicone lips to clean without disturbing the adhesive, the cool water sending unwelcome shivers through the cage's confines. It felt invasive, intimate, like tending to a part of herself that wasn't real yet demanded all the care of one. By the time she rinsed, her skin was flushed pink, scented with the earthy spice, and she toweled dry with quick pats, the terrycloth rasping against her smoothness.

Dressing was the morning's quiet battle. Back in her room, she selected from the wardrobe Ammi had stocked: a simple cotton saree in soft mint green, lightweight for the day's heat, with a thin silver border that caught the dawn light filtering through the window. First, the underlayers, fresh white cotton panty, high-cut for modesty, hugging the prosthetic mound snugly, the elastic band a gentle but insistent pressure around her hips. Then the bra, hooked and adjusted, cups cradling the breasts with a supportive lift that made them feel even more prominent, nipples brushing the lining with every breath.

The petticoat came next, starched cotton, tied at the waist with a firm knot, falling straight to her ankles. She pleated the saree on the bed, nine even folds that she gathered with practiced care (thanks to Ammi's endless tutorials), tucking the end into the petticoat at her navel. The fabric draped smoothly over her hips, the pallu thrown over her left shoulder in a loose Nivi style, pinned lightly to avoid slipping. It felt light, airy a far cry from the heavy Kanjeevarams , but still confining, the cotton absorbing the morning's humidity and clinging slightly to her curves. Accessories were minimal for a "house day": a thin silver mangalsutra chain around her neck, resting cool against her collarbone; glass bangles in green and white, four on each wrist, clinking softly as she moved; small silver jhumkas that swayed with her head; and a simple red bindi dotted on her forehead. No anklets today, Ammi said they were for evenings, but she slipped on flat chappals, the leather straps crossing her instep.

Makeup was quick: a touch of kajal to line her eyes, making them almond-shaped and expressive; a swipe of pink lip balm that tasted faintly of rose; and a spritz of ittar at her wrists and neck. She looked in the mirror one last time, Sameera, the dutiful daughter-in-law, ready for the day. Humiliation flickered: the reflection was too convincing, the sway of the saree too natural. But she straightened her pallu, smiled at herself, and stepped out.

The kitchen awaited, Ammi already at the stove, stirring upma with mustard seeds popping in ghee. "Good morning, beti. Help with the chutney?" Sameera nodded, voice lilting: "Ji, Ammi." She ground coconut and green chilies on the sil batta, the stone cool under her palms, the rhythmic motion pulling at her shoulders and making the breasts bounce subtly beneath the blouse. Breakfast was a family affair: Abbu at the head of the small dining table, newspaper folded, praising her "light hand with spices." Asif wolfed down his dosas, grinning: "Bhabhi, you make it better than Ammi!" The words landed like barbs, praise for domesticity that Saad would have scoffed at, but she laughed softly, serving seconds, the bangles tinkling against the steel plate.

Morning duties flowed seamlessly. After breakfast, Sameera swept the front veranda with a short broom, the saree hitched up slightly at her ankles to avoid dust, the cotton brushing her calves with each sweep. Sweat beaded on her forehead by 7:30 a.m., trickling down her temple and into the collar of her blouse, making the bra's lace itch against her skin. The sun climbed, turning the air thick; she wiped her brow with the pallu's edge, the fabric now damp and clinging to her back.

By 9 a.m., it was laundry time, hand-washing the family's kurtas in a large plastic tub on the balcony. Kneeling on the concrete, saree tucked into her petticoat to keep it dry, she soaped and scrubbed, the water sloshing over her wrists, suds foaming up to her elbows. The repetitive motion ached her arms, the breasts pressing forward against her thighs as she leaned in, a warm, heavy pressure that made her pause and adjust discreetly. Asif joined her halfway, hanging the clothes on the line, teasing: "Bhabhi, you're a pro. Rahim bhai is lucky."

Socializing ramped up after that. Ammi's weekly ladies' circle arrived at 10:30, three aunties in colorful salwars, bearing platters of sheer khurma. They settled on the living room floor cushions, Sameera serving chai in delicate glasses, kneeling gracefully to pour (Ammi had drilled the posture: back straight, pallu adjusted). The conversation swirled around her, gossip about neighborhood weddings, recipes for sheer malai, advice on "keeping a husband happy post-nikah." "Massage his feet after a long day, beti," one auntie said, winking. "And never argue in front of in-laws." Sameera nodded demurely, refilling cups, the saree's pleats pooling around her knees, the scent of attar and sweets thick in the air. Inside, humiliation boiled ,Saad, the arguer extraordinaire, now nodding to tips on foot rubs, but she chimed in sweetly: "Ji, aunty. I'll remember."

Lunch was her domain: biryani layered with saffron rice and mutton, cooked on the gas stove while the aunties napped. The heat from the flames made her forehead glisten, sweat soaking the blouse's armpits, the cotton saree sticking to her midriff like a second skin. She ate last, as per Ammi's rule, a small portion on a steel thali, the family praising her "tender meat." Afternoon prayers followed, Dhuhr on the jaanamaz, dupatta over her head like a veil, the mat's weave pressing into her knees as she prostrated. The prosthetic shifted during sujood, a slick, enclosed sensation that made her breath hitch, but she held the pose, whispering surahs in her softened voice.

The real test came at 4 p.m.: badminton with Asif. "Come on, didi! Fresh air," he insisted, dragging her to the narrow courtyard behind the building. She protested mildly "In this saree?" , but he laughed it off: "It's cotton! Light as a feather." She hitched the saree higher, pleats tucked into her petticoat at the waist, exposing calves but keeping modesty. The racket felt awkward in her bangle-laden hand, the first serve a weak lob that Asif smashed back. They played for twenty minutes rallies of laughter and shouts, her running side to side, the saree flapping against her legs, pallu slipping repeatedly until she pinned it with one hand. Sweat poured: down her back, between her breasts (the bra now a sodden cage), along her thighs where the panty chafed the prosthetic's edges. Her chappals slapped the concrete, breaths coming in gasps, the jhumkas swinging wildly. Humiliation peaked with each dive for the shuttlecock ,breasts bouncing painfully, the cage a jarring pressure but she laughed along, feigning delight: "This is fun, bhai! I could play all day."

By evening, exhaustion settled like dusk. She helped Ammi with dinner chapatis rolled thin, sabzi stirred then Maghrib prayer, the call to prayer a relief. Family time wound down with Abbu reciting Quran, Sameera seated cross-legged at his feet, eyes downcast, the day's sweat now a faint salty film on her skin. Dinner was simple: rice and rasam, eaten with hands, fingers sticky, bangles clinking against the bowl.

Bath again at 8 p.m. quicker this time, the water a balm on her overheated body, washing away the grime of badminton and kitchen heat. She changed into a fresh nightgown, this one floral-printed, the fabric cool against her cleansed skin. Bed by 9:30, after Isha prayer on the mat, body sinking into the mattress, breasts settling to the sides, the chastity a dull throb fading into sleep's edge.

But first, the call. At 9:45, phone in hand, she dialed Sajid, propping herself against pillows, nightgown's neckline modest.

"Assalamu alaikum, Sajid jaan," she purred, voice honeyed, ignoring the ache in her arms.

"Wa alaikum assalam, *Sameera begum*," he rumbled back, video flickering on.

"Oh, you won't believe my day," she gushed, twirling a strand of wig hair. "Up at dawn for prayers so serene. Cooked biryani that had everyone raving. Then badminton with Asif in my saree sweating like a real sportswoman, but I won two points! And the ladies' circle? They adore me. Tips on being the perfect wife. Rahim sends his love already. I'm blooming here, darling. Wish you could see how much I'm enjoying this feminine life. Makes me want to extend it sarees every day, mehendi weekly. Jealous yet?"

She lied through her smile, the day's humiliations fueling the brag, eyes daring him to crack.