Chapter 1: Stuck in a Pallu
(Sequel to Pride in a Pallu)
A week had passed since the wedding that never should have happened.
The house in Mylapore had returned to its quiet rhythm, but the air felt heavier now, like fabric soaked in rain. Sameera moved through it with the same practiced grace, saree draped, pallu pinned, anklets tinkling, but every step carried the weight of what had been revealed.
That morning she stood in the small storeroom off the kitchen, staring at the unopened packet of sanitary pads on the shelf. The plastic crinkled faintly under her fingers as she lifted one. Behind her, Ammi-ji appeared in the doorway, maroon saree rustling.
“Beta,” she said softly, stepping close. “You’re late this month?”
Sameera turned, packet in hand, face calm. “Ji, Ammi-ji. Just a few days.”
Ammi-ji’s eyes softened. She reached out, placed both hands gently on Sameera’s waist, right over the saree’s pleats, thumbs resting against the hidden waist chain. “Don’t worry, beti. This house will be filled with children soon. Allah is listening. I pray every namaz for you and Rahim.”
Sameera felt the warmth of Ammi-ji’s palms through the silk. She managed a small, tremulous smile, the perfect bahu’s smile, and nodded. “InshaAllah, Ammi-ji.”
Ammi-ji kissed her forehead, then let her go.
Sameera walked to the bathroom, door clicking shut behind her. She sat on the closed toilet lid, packet in lap. Inside her small vanity pouch was the special liquid, a clear, slightly viscous fluid in a tiny unmarked bottle. She uncapped it, soaked a pad with just enough to create the illusion of flow, then placed it carefully. The smell was faint, clinical, but convincing. She adjusted the panty, smoothed the saree, washed her hands, and stepped out, face composed, as though nothing had happened.
In the bedroom, Rahim sat on the edge of the bed, head in hands. He had barely spoken since the wedding. Priya’s breakup message still glowed in his phone: I can’t do this anymore. Not with a baby coming. I’m sorry.
Sameera knelt in front of him, took his hands gently in hers. “Rahim… look at me.”
He lifted red-rimmed eyes.
She spoke softly. “Today we have to go. The family meeting. You need to be strong. For Ammi-ji. For Abbu-ji. For Aisha.”
He nodded numbly.
She stood, helped him up. “Come. Let me get you ready.”
She chose his sherwani, cream with subtle gold zari, buttoned it with careful fingers, adjusted the collar, smoothed the fabric over his shoulders. She dabbed rose attar on his wrists, combed his beard with her fingers. When she finished, she stepped back.
“You look like the man they all respect,” she said quietly.
He managed a ghost of a smile. “And you look… like you always do. Perfect.”
She didn’t reply.
She changed into a deep navy georgette saree with silver gota-patti borders, lightweight but elegant. Matching navy lace bra and panty beneath, petticoat tied snug. Jewellery minimal: mangalsutra, small diamond studs, nose pin, glass bangles, Priya’s silver anklets. Makeup soft: kohl, faint blush, nude-pink lips. She draped the saree with quiet precision, pallu falling in soft folds.
They left together in the car, Rahim driving, Sameera beside him, burqa over the saree for the journey.
The meeting was in a private room at a small restaurant near the Cooum river, same place as before, but now the curtains felt tighter, the air thicker.
Rahim, Sameera, Fatima, Sajid.
No Priya.
They sat around the small round table. Tea arrived untouched.
Fatima spoke first, voice low and steady.
“I’m keeping the baby,” she said. “I didn’t expect it… but I found out two days after the wedding. My secret boyfriend, he’s the father. He’s from college. Muslim, good family. We’ve been together for two years. He wants to marry me properly. I’m going to tell my parents next week. They’ll be angry, but… they’ll accept it eventually.”
She looked at Sajid. “I’m sorry. You were never supposed to be stuck like this.”
Sajid nodded once. His face was calm, but his fingers gripped the table edge.
Rahim spoke next, voice cracked.
“Priya… she got scared. The pregnancy news hit her hard. She said she couldn’t be the ‘other woman,’ couldn’t wait in shadows while I stayed married. Her parents are already looking for a groom for her. She left yesterday. Blocked me.”
He looked at Sameera. “I’m sorry. I dragged you into this mess.”
Sameera reached across the table, touched his hand briefly. “We all chose this.”
Silence fell.
Sameera and Sajid looked at each other, long, wordless.
They could still run. Disappear. Leave Fatima and Rahim to clean up their own lives.
But the thought twisted like a knife.
Fatima with a baby on the way, family in shock.
Rahim broken, parents expecting a grandchild that would never come.
Sameera’s voice was quiet when she spoke.
“How long can we keep pretending?”
Sajid exhaled. “Until we find a way out. A real one.”
Fatima nodded. “I’ll marry my boyfriend as soon as my parents agree. Then… talaq. You’ll be free.”
Rahim looked at Sameera. “I’ll tell my family it didn’t work out. Divorce. No blame on you.”
Sameera’s eyes stayed on Sajid.
“We stay,” she said softly. “Until then. As it is.”
Sajid nodded slowly.
“As it is.”
The four of them sat in silence a moment longer.
Then Sameera and Sajid excused themselves, stepped out into the corridor.
The door closed.
They stood facing each other.
No pride left. Only sadness.
Sameera’s voice cracked first.
“I thought we’d be free today.”
Sajid reached out, took both her hands in his. His thumbs brushed the faded henna on her fingers.
“I thought we’d wake up tomorrow as us again.”
She stepped closer, rested her forehead against his chest.
“I don’t know how to be Saad anymore,” she whispered. “I don’t even know if I want to.”
He wrapped his arms around her, gentle, careful.
“I don’t know how to be Safiya anymore,” he said against her hair. “But I miss her. I miss you.”
They stood like that, bodies pressed close, saree against sherwani, breasts soft against his chest, his solid warmth against her curves.
No kiss. No heat.
Just quiet grief.
“We stay,” Sameera said again.
“We stay,” Sajid echoed.
They pulled apart slowly.
Adjusted clothes.
Wiped eyes.
Walked back inside.
Rahim and Fatima looked up, hopeful, guilty, tired.
Sameera sat beside Rahim. Sajid beside Fatima.
No one spoke of running anymore.
They spoke of tomorrow.
And the day after.
And the months ahead.
Back home that night, Sameera stood in the bathroom, nightgown loose, looking at the sanitary pad packet still on the shelf.
She touched her stomach, flat, smooth, empty.
Then she walked to the bedroom, slipped under the covers.
Rahim came in later, sat on the edge of the bed like always.
This time he didn’t leave for the sofa.
He lay down beside her, on top of the bolster.
She didn’t push it away.
They slept like that, close, but separated by a thin wall of cotton.
Miles away, Sajid lay on the sofa in the flat, Fatima asleep in the bedroom.
He stared at the ceiling.
Tomorrow he would go to the godown.
Tomorrow he would be the perfect son-in-law.
Tomorrow he would wait.
Both of them closed their eyes.
The clock kept ticking.
But now it ticked differently.
Not toward escape.
Toward endurance.
Stuck in a pallu.
And neither knew how to step out.