Stuck in a Pallu

Chapter 2: The Scent of What Was

Sameera moved through the household that morning with the same quiet efficiency that had become her signature. The lavender cotton saree she wore was soft and light for the heat, pleats crisp, pallu pinned neatly over her left shoulder. Beneath it, the nude lace bra lifted her breasts into gentle prominence, the straps settled into their familiar grooves on her shoulders; the high-waisted panty smoothed the prosthetic mound seamlessly. Anklets tinkled with every step across the marble floor, bangles clinked softly as she poured chai into steel tumblers.

Ammi-ji watched from the doorway, smiling. “Beti, you’re up before the birds again.”

Sameera turned, offered a small smile. “Someone has to make the tea the way Abbu-ji likes it, Ammi-ji.”

She served breakfast idlis steamed soft, coconut chutney ground fresh, aloo sabzi spiced just right placing each plate with lowered eyes and murmured “Ji.” Abbu-ji nodded once in thanks. Aisha yawned, stole a piece of idli from Sameera’s own plate, and grinned. Rahim ate in silence, eyes distant.

After the table was cleared and dishes washed, Rahim appeared in the kitchen doorway.

“I need to go to the office near Priya’s workplace,” he said quietly. “She’s still not answering my messages. I… I just want to see if she’s okay.”

Sameera dried her hands on the edge of her saree. “I’ll come with you.”

He looked surprised. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” she said simply. “Let me try talking to her. Woman to woman.”

Rahim hesitated, then nodded.

She changed quickly into something modest for the outing: a soft cream georgette salwar-kameez with silver zari embroidery, long dupatta draped over her head and shoulders. Matching cream lace bra and panty beneath, the bra lightly padded for shape. Flat kolhapuri chappals, Priya’s silver anklets tinkling faintly. A light black burqa for the ride mesh over the eyes, flowing hem.

Rahim drove the bike. Sameera sat sideways behind him, arms lightly around his waist, burqa billowing in the wind. The ride to the small graphic design studio in Nungambakkam took thirty minutes traffic thick, air heavy with dust and exhaust. She felt the engine’s thrum through her thighs, the prosthetic shifting slightly with each gear change, the breasts pressing softly against Rahim’s back.

They parked a street away. Rahim waited outside. Sameera removed the burqa in the alley, folded it carefully, and walked into the studio alone.

Priya was at a corner desk, headphones on, sketching on a tablet. She looked up when Sameera approached eyes widening, then narrowing.

“Sameera?” Priya pulled off the headphones. “What are you doing here?”

Sameera kept her voice low. “Can we talk? Just for a minute.”

Priya glanced around no one was paying attention. She sighed, stood, and led Sameera to the small restroom at the back.

They locked the door.

Priya crossed her arms. “If this is about Rahim..”

“It’s about you,” Sameera said gently. “He’s broken. He hasn’t slept properly in days. He just wants to know you’re okay.”

Priya’s eyes flashed. “I’m not okay. I thought I could wait. I thought six months was nothing. But then Fatima got pregnant and everything became real. I can’t be the secret forever. My parents are already talking to families. They want me married properly. Not waiting for someone else’s fake marriage to end.”

Sameera stepped closer. “Priya… he loves you. He’s ready to leave everything. We had a plan. It’s still possible. You could still...”

“No.” Priya’s voice cracked. “I’m done waiting. I’m done being the other woman. And honestly?” She looked at Sameera really looked. “You should stop waiting too.”

Sameera blinked.

Priya continued, softer. “Look at you. You’re… good at this. Being the wife. The bahu. The sister. Everyone in that house loves you. My parents would kill for a daughter-in-law like you. Why go back to being… whatever you were before? You fit here. You belong here.”

Sameera’s throat tightened. “It’s not real.”

Priya gave a small, sad smile. “It looks pretty real from where I’m standing.”

Silence stretched.

Then Priya’s eyes dropped to Sameera’s chest. One of the bra straps had snapped under the salwar thin lace broken, the cup sagging slightly on the left side.

“Your bra,” Priya said.

Sameera flushed, hands moving to cover. “It’s nothing...”

Priya was already unbuttoning her own kurti. “Here.”

She slipped off her own bra simple beige, lightly padded and held it out. “Take it. This kurti doesn’t need one anyway.”

Sameera hesitated.

Priya pressed it into her hands. “Go on. I insist.”

Sameera turned her back, slipped off the salwar kameez top, unhooked the broken bra. Priya’s bra fit almost perfectly same size, same gentle lift. She hooked it, adjusted the straps, felt the immediate support. Priya helped smooth the kameez back down.

Then Priya reached into her bag, pulled out a small perfume bottle floral with a hint of musk and spritzed it lightly on Sameera’s wrists and neck.

“Something to remind you you’re still beautiful,” Priya said quietly. She pressed the bottle into Sameera’s palm. “Keep it.”

Sameera looked at her eyes stinging.

Priya touched her arm. “Go home, Sameera. Be happy there. You deserve it.”

Sameera left the restroom, burqa back on, perfume rising with every breath.

Rahim was waiting outside. He noticed the new scent immediately sweet, floral, unfamiliar.

In the bike on the way back, he inhaled deeply. “You smell… different.”

Sameera kept her eyes on the road. “Priya gave me her perfume.”

Rahim said nothing more.

Back home, after dinner and prayers, Sameera went to bathe. She left the navy salwar-kameez and Priya’s bra on the hook behind the door.

Rahim entered the bathroom later unaware she had finished drawn by the lingering perfume. He picked up the bra beige lace still warm from her body brought it to his face, inhaled. The scent was intoxicating floral musk mixed with Sameera’s rose attar. His body reacted instantly; he hardened, breath quickening.

He pressed the lace to his cheek, eyes closing.

Across town, in the rented flat, Sajid sat alone on the sofa.

Fatima was asleep in the bedroom.

He opened the bottom drawer of the old cupboard Saad’s drawer and pulled out a folded shirt. One of his old favourites plain white cotton, faintly scented with the laundry detergent Safiya used to buy.

He brought it to his face. Inhaled.

The smell was faint clean cotton, a ghost of rose attar, a trace of the life he used to live.

His fingers tightened on the fabric.

Tears pricked his eyes.

He held the shirt against his chest, over the broad, masculine frame he now wore, and sat in the dark.

Neither of them slept well that night.

The perfume lingered on Sameera’s skin.

The shirt lay folded on Sajid’s lap.

And the clock kept ticking toward nothing certain anymore.