Pride in a Pallu

Chapter 9: The Thirty Days of Preparation – Part 3

Sajid’s day unfolded like a slow march through territory he once claimed as easy ground, now every step reminded him how treacherous it truly was. This was a typical Tuesday in the third week of the thirty-day countdown, the rented flat still smelling faintly of new paint and the lingering attar he applied every morning to mask the growing itch of his beard.

The alarm pierced the darkness at 4:30 a.m. sharp. Sajid groaned, rolling over in the double bed that felt too large for one person. The cotton lungi twisted around his thighs during the night; he sat up, the prosthetic phallus and scrotum shifting heavily downward with gravity, a dull, pendulous tug that made him wince before he even opened his eyes. The beard, thick, dark, and now fully grown, scratched against the pillowcase like coarse wire. He scratched his jaw reflexively, nails rasping over the stubble, leaving red trails that burned.

Wudu first. In the bathroom, he splashed cold water on his face, the droplets clinging to the beard like dew on thorns. The mirror showed a stranger: broad shoulders from the slight hormone-induced muscle shift, jaw shadowed, eyes tired but determined. He wrapped a fresh white cotton topi over his head, the fabric pressing against his scalp like a subtle crown of duty.

Fajr at the mosque. The walk was short but brisk in the pre-dawn chill. Leather sandals slapped the pavement; each stride made the phallus sway, brushing the inside of his thigh through the thin lungi and briefs, an intimate pendulum he could never ignore. Inside the mosque, the air was thick with musk attar and the low murmur of men. He joined the back row, tall, bearded, anonymous, knees pressing into the prayer mat, the hard weave digging into his shins. During sujood, the scrotum rested against the mat, a warm, weighted pressure that made his breath catch. The imam’s voice rolled through the surahs; Sajid’s own deep timbre joined the chorus, the sound vibrating in his chest like borrowed thunder. Humiliation simmered beneath the surface: Safiya, who once mocked men for “performing piety like a show,” now performing it flawlessly among strangers who nodded at him with respect.

Back home by 5:45 a.m. He changed into a plain white kurta-pajama for the day, crisp cotton that felt loose and liberating compared to the tight salwars he knew Sameera endured. Breakfast was quick: two parathas reheated from yesterday, eaten standing at the kitchen counter, the phallus resting comfortably against his thigh when he leaned forward. No one to serve him. No one to praise him. Just silence and the faint clink of the steel plate.

Work began at 8 a.m. The small office in Triplicane Saad’s old space, welcomed him with stacks of files and the hum of the ancient AC. Clients arrived in waves: a textile merchant haggling over input tax credit, a shop owner confused by e-invoicing. Sajid sat behind the desk, legs spread in the swivel chair, the chair’s cushion pressing the prosthetic upward, a constant, subtle pressure. He explained GST slabs in his new gravelly voice, fingers flying over the keyboard, the beard itching under the fluorescent light. One client, an older man, slapped him on the back after a successful filing: “Good man, Sajid bhai. Strong head for business.” The praise landed like salt in a wound, masculine approval he once gave, now received, and it felt hollow.

Lunch was simple: a dabba of rice, dal, and vegetable curry delivered from a nearby mess. He ate alone at the desk, the spoon clinking, the phallus shifting every time he adjusted his position. Afternoon brought more meetings, a bank visit for a client’s loan papers, standing in queues, the heat making sweat trickle down his back and pool at the base of his spine, soaking the kurta. The topi grew damp, clinging to his forehead.

Asr prayer at the office masjid, a small room on the third floor. He rolled out his mat, joined the handful of men, the deep “Allahu Akbar” rumbling from his throat again. Leading the prayer today because the regular imam was late. He stood at the front, voice steady, guiding the congregation through the rakaats. The responsibility weighed on him like the topi, he felt exposed, fraudulent, yet the men followed without question. Humiliation twisted deeper: the man who once teased women for “emotional prayers” now leading them with perfect composure.

Evening brought community duties. The mosque youth group had organized a small charity collection drive; Sajid was roped in to carry heavy sacks of rice to the distribution point. The burlap scratched his forearms, the weight pulled at his shoulders, sweat soaking through the kurta until it clung to his back like wet paper. The phallus bounced uncomfortably with each step, scrotum swinging, a private torment amid the public goodwill. Boys called him “bhai” with admiration, offering him water, thanking him profusely. Each “thank you, bhai” was a small dagger.

Maghrib and Isha at the mosque again, two more sets of prostrations, knees aching by the end. He walked home under the streetlights, the night air cooling the sweat on his skin, the beard now stiff with dried salt.

Dinner was solitary: leftover biryani warmed in the microwave, eaten on the sofa with legs spread wide, the lungi loose. He watched a cricket match on the small TV, the commentary voices filling the empty flat. The phallus rested heavily against his thigh, a constant companion he could never escape.

At 10:15 p.m., the video call connected.

Sameera’s face appeared, fresh from her own bath, hair damp under a loose dupatta, nightgown modest, eyes bright with mischief.

“Assalamu alaikum, Sajid jaan,” she cooed.

“Wa alaikum assalam, *Sameera begum*,” he replied, voice low and smug, leaning back so the camera caught his broad shoulders and trimmed beard.

They launched into the nightly ritual.

“Another perfect day,” Sajid began, stretching his arms behind his head, letting the kurta pull across his chest. “Led Asr and Isha at the mosque, the boys practically worship me now. Closed three big accounts, carried rice sacks for charity like it was nothing. This masculine life? It’s effortless. Strong, respected, in control. I could do this forever. No fuss, no drama, just pure strength. You should try it sometime, oh wait, you never will.”

Sameera laughed softly, tilting her head so the light caught her kohl-lined eyes.

“Oh darling, I’m so happy for you. But honestly? I’m thriving more. Up at dawn for prayers, so peaceful in my corner. Cooked three meals today, Ammi says my biryani is better than hers. Played badminton in a saree, sweating and laughing the whole time. Ladies’ circle thinks I’m the ideal bahu. All this softness, this care, this beauty… it’s addictive. The way the saree drapes, the bangles sing, the way everyone looks after me. I feel so complete, so feminine. I might never want to go back. Jealous, *Sajid bhai*?”

He snorted. “Jealous? Never. Being a man is superior. Power, respect, freedom.”

She smiled sweetly. “And being a woman is divine. Grace, beauty, devotion. I choose this.”

They stared at each other through the screens, egos blazing behind the lies, each advocating their current gender with fierce, humiliating conviction, neither willing to admit how deeply the roles had begun to burn.

The call ended.

The flat fell silent.

Thirty days were ticking down.