Stuck in a Pallu

Chapter 11: The Families

The next morning broke over Mylapore like any other, soft sunlight filtering through the curtains, the distant call of the azan, the smell of cardamom chai drifting from the kitchen.

But in the Khan household, everything had changed.

Rahim was gone.

Sameera found the letter at 6:12 a.m., tucked under her pillow like a secret. She had woken early as always, performed wudu, prayed Fajr on the jaanamaz, then sat on the edge of the bed still in her cream cotton nightgown and reached for the mangalsutra that rested on the side table.

The folded paper slipped out instead.

Her name was written on it in Rahim’s careful hand.

She opened it with fingers that did not shake.

Sameera,

I’m sorry.

I tried. I really tried. For you, for Ammi, for Abb, for Aisha, for this house that became more home than I expected. But I can’t keep pretending. Every night I lie beside you and think of her. Priya. The life we planned. The one I threw away.

I’m going to find her. I don’t know if she’ll take me back. I don’t know if she’ll even speak to me. But I have to try. If I stay, I’ll only hurt you more. You deserve better than half a husband.

I’m giving you talaq. Three times, as required. You are free.

Tell Ammi-ji and Abbu-ji I’m sorry. Tell them I was weak. Tell them not to blame you you did nothing wrong. You were perfect. Too perfect.

Keep the anklets. Keep the keys. Keep this house if they’ll let you. You belong here more than I ever did.

I hope one day you forgive me.

Rahim

Sameera folded the letter carefully, pressed it to her chest, and let the tears come quiet, controlled, the tears of a perfect bahu who has just lost her husband.

She didn’t have to fake the grief entirely.

The house woke slowly.

Ammi-ji found her first sitting on the bedroom floor, nightgown pooled around her, letter clutched in both hands.

“Beta?” Ammi-ji’s voice cracked.

Sameera looked up eyes red, face wet.

“He’s gone,” she whispered. “He… he gave talaq.”

The scream that tore from Ammi-ji brought the whole house running.

Abbu-ji read the letter next face hardening with every line, then softening into something like grief.

Aisha stood frozen in the doorway, hand over her mouth.

Rahim’s absence was immediate, total no suitcase missing, no clothes gone, just the letter and the empty space where his shoes used to be by the door.

Abbu-ji was furious at first voice rising in the living room, calling his son every name he could think of: coward, selfish, betrayer.

Ammi-ji cried deep, wrenching sobs clutching Sameera to her chest.

“You poor child,” she kept saying. “My poor beti. What did we do to deserve this?”

Sameera let herself be held head on Ammi-ji’s shoulder, tears soaking the maroon saree.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered again and again. “I’m so sorry.”

Abbu-ji knelt in front of her old knees creaking took her hands.

“Listen to me,” he said, voice rough with emotion. “You are our daughter. Not daughter-in-law. Daughter. This house is yours. This family is yours. We will not let you leave. We will make a life for you here, with us. You will never be alone.”

Aisha threw her arms around Sameera from behind.

“You’re stuck with us, Bhabhi,” she sobbed. “Forever.”

Sameera cried harder real tears now because part of her wanted to stay. Part of her had grown roots here. Part of her loved these people.

And part of her knew she couldn’t.

Across the city, in Tirunelveli, the Fatima house was also breaking.

Fatima’s elopement had been discovered at dawn her room empty, a short note on the pillow:

Abbu, Ammi,

I’m sorry. I love someone else. I’m going to be with him. The baby is his. Please forgive me one day.

Your daughter,
Fatima

Abbu-ji sat on the veranda steps face in his hands silent fury radiating from him.

Ammi-ji wept openly clutching Fatima’s old dupatta like a lifeline.

Imran paced angry, helpless.

Sajid stood apart kurta rumpled from a sleepless night watching it all.

Abbu-ji looked up at him finally eyes red, voice hoarse.

“She’s gone,” he said. “My daughter is gone.”

Sajid knelt beside him.

“I’m sorry, Abbu.”

Abbu-ji grabbed his shoulder hard.

“You’re not,” he said fiercely. “You’re still here. You stayed. You took care of her. You took care of us. You are our son now. Not son-in-law. Son.”

Ammi-ji reached out, pulled Sajid into her arms.

“You’ll stay,” she whispered against his chest. “You’ll stay with us. We’ll make a life for you here. This house is yours. This family is yours.”

Sajid let her hold him.

Let the tears comenquiet, hidden against her shoulder.

Because part of him wanted to stay too.

Part of him had grown roots here.

And part of him knew he couldn’t.

The two housesvmiles apart grieved separately.

One for a son who left.

One for a daughter who ran.

Both clung to the one who remained.

Both promised a future.

Both believed it.

And both were wrong.

Because tomorrow when the shock wore off, when the anger cooled, when the questions began Sameera and Sajid would disappear too.

Not today.

Not yet.

But soon.

The clock had almost stopped.

And when it started again…

It would be on their terms.