Stuck in a Pallu

Chapter 12: One Month Later

One month had passed since the elopements shattered both households like glass dropped on marble.

The initial storm of shock, anger, and grief had slowly settled into something quieter, resignation, determination, and the slow, careful work of rebuilding.

In the Khan house in Mylapore, Sameera was wrapped in cotton wool.

Ammi-ji barely let her lift a finger. “You rest, beti. You’ve been through enough.” She cooked Sameera’s favourite dishesb,kesari with extra ghee, mutton korma with just the right spice, idlis steamed so soft they melted in the mouth. Abbu-ji sat with her every evening, reading Quran aloud in his low, steady voice, asking her opinion on small household matters as though she were still the decision-maker of the home. Aisha slept beside her some nights, curled up like a child whispering, “You’re not allowed to be sad alone, Bhabhi. We’re here.”

They treated her like a widow who had lost a good husband grief was allowed, expected, even encouraged. But beneath it all ran a fierce, protective love. No one blamed her. Not once.

“We’ll make a new life for you,” Ammi-ji said one afternoon while they sat on the balcony shelling peas. “A good boy. Someone kind. Someone who deserves you.”

Sameera smiled small, practiced, grateful. “InshaAllah, Ammi-ji.”

In Tirunelveli, Sajid was surrounded by the same quiet determination.

Fatima’s parents had folded him into their grief like a son who had lost his wife. Ammi-ji (Fatima’s mother) cooked his favourite biryani every Friday. Abbu-ji took him to the godown daily teaching him more, trusting him with more. Imran called him bhaiya without hesitation now, dragged him to the gym, shared late-night tea on the veranda.

They didn’t speak of Fatima’s elopement anymore. It was a wound they had all decided to let scar over.

But they spoke of the future.

“You need a good wife,” Abbu-ji said one evening over filter coffee. “Someone strong. Someone who understands family. We’ll find her.”

Sajid nodded once eyes on the floor.

“InshaAllah.”

Two weeks after the elopements, the families began to search.

Sameera’s “parents” (the fake Iqbal Ahmed family) were contacted first quiet inquiries through mutual relatives. “Our daughter is young, beautiful, pious. A good cook, gentle nature. Looking for a kind, responsible man.”

Sajid’s “in-laws” (Fatima’s family) reached out in return. “Our son-in-law is steady, hardworking, respected in the community. Needs a good wife to complete his home.”

The profiles were exchanged.

Sameera was shown Sajid’s biodata on a quiet Sunday afternoon.

Ammi-ji sat beside her on the sofa, holding the printed sheet like a treasure.

“Look, beti. Tall, handsome, accountant, pious, good family. Leads prayers at the mosque. Everyone speaks highly of him.”

Sameera stared at the photo Sajid in cream kurta, beard neatly trimmed, eyes calm and familiar.

Her heart stuttered.

She swallowed.

“He… looks nice, Ammi-ji.”

Ammi-ji beamed. “Should we say yes?”

Sameera lowered her eyes demure, perfect bahu.

“If you think he’s right for me… InshaAllah.”

Across the city, Sajid was shown Sameera’s profile.

Abbu-ji placed the sheet in front of him on the veranda table.

“Beautiful girl. Pious, good character, knows how to run a house. Soft-spoken. Everyone says she’s like a daughter to her in-laws.”

Sajid looked at the photo Sameera in a soft peach saree, eyes lowered, smile gentle.

He felt the ring on his right hand the promise ring he still wore hidden under his sleeve.

“She looks… kind,” he said quietly.

Abbu-ji nodded. “Should we move forward?”

Sajid exhaled slow, controlled.

“If you think she’s suitable… InshaAllah.”

Both families said yes.

The families met formally, politely, full of praise and small talk.

Sameera and Sajid sat across from each other eyes meeting only briefly, faces composed, voices soft and respectful.

No one noticed the way their fingers brushed under the table when passing the tea tray.

No one noticed the small, secret smile that flickered between them when the elders spoke of “a good match.”

The marriage was confirmed.

Date set.

Venue booked.

The families rejoiced.

Sameera and Sajid went home separately Rahim’s house and Fatima’s house each carrying the same quiet, burning secret.

One month of pretending left.

One month until the nikah that would finally be real.

They didn’t speak of it on the phone that night.

They didn’t need to.

The clock was no longer an enemy.

It was a promise.

And for the first time in months…

They slept smiling.