Stuck in a Pallu

Chapter 4: No Way Out

The pregnancy announcement had turned the rented flat into a small celebration ground.

Fatima’s family had come over that evening, her parents, Imran, a few close relatives, bringing sweets, fruits, and quiet joy. The living room was lit with fairy lights Fatima had strung up “for the baby’s room someday.” Ammi (Fatima’s mother) kept touching her daughter’s stomach, murmuring duas. Abbu (her father) sat beside Sajid on the sofa, hand on his shoulder, saying things like “You’ll be a good father, beta. Steady. Responsible.”

Sajid smiled, polite, practiced, perfect.

Inside he felt nothing.

Fatima sat beside him, hand in his, but her fingers were cold. Every time someone congratulated her, she smiled brightly, then glanced at Sajid with guilty eyes. When the guests left, she whispered to him in the kitchen while washing plates:

“I didn’t want this. Not like this.”

He dried a glass. “I know.”

“I’m sorry,” she said again, for the hundredth time that week.

He only nodded.

The joy in the house felt borrowed. Everyone celebrated except the two people at the centre of it.

Two days later, the four of them met again.

Same room in the same restaurant near the Cooum. Same heavy curtains. Same untouched tea.

This time, though, the air was different, thicker, sadder.

Rahim arrived first with Sameera.

She was dressed head to toe in the new burqa he had given her that morning.

It was heavier than her old one, thick black crepe, floor-length, double-layered opaque mesh covering even the eyes so completely that from outside she was a featureless shadow. Inside, her vision was reduced to narrow slits; the world appeared dim, fragmented, like looking through a heavy veil of net. The fabric didn’t flow, it draped, weighed down by extra lining for modesty. No shape of her body showed. No glimpse of face, hands, or feet. Only the faint outline of a woman beneath layers of black.

Rahim had presented it to her at breakfast like a gift.

“For you,” he said. “It’s more modest. Safer. You’ll feel protected.”

Sameera had looked at the garment,long, heavy, suffocating,and felt the cage tighten another notch.

She wore it anyway.

In the car, Rahim held her hand the entire drive, fingers laced tightly through the burqa’s loose sleeve. When they reached the restaurant, he didn’t let go.

“Don’t remove it,” he told her quietly outside the private room. “For your safety. Please.”

Sameera nodded once.

They entered.

Sajid and Fatima were already there.

Fatima looked pale, tired, one hand resting on her still-flat stomach.

Sajid sat straight-backed, kurta crisp, beard oiled, but his eyes were hollow.

Rahim guided Sameera to the seat beside him. He never released her hand.

The silence stretched until Fatima spoke.

“My parents… they can’t know about the boyfriend. If they find out, they’ll… they might hurt him. Or me. Honour and all that.” Her voice cracked. “I have to keep the baby and stay married to you, Sajid. At least until it’s safe.”

Rahim exhaled slowly.

Sajid looked at him.

“And you?” he asked quietly.

Rahim shrugged, small, defeated. “Priya’s gone. Her parents are already talking to other families. She’s not coming back.”

He squeezed Sameera’s hand tighter beneath the table.

“So… we wait,” he said. “Fatima stays married to you until the baby is born and things calm down. I stay married to Sameera. We… live like this. For now.”

Sajid’s voice was flat. “For now.”

Sameera tried to speak.

Rahim’s thumb rubbed the back of her hand, gentle, but it silenced her.

Sajid looked at her or tried to. The opaque mesh hid her eyes completely. He couldn’t even see if she was looking back.

No one spoke for a long minute.

Then Rahim said softly, almost to himself:

“Maybe… this is better. No running. No lies to the families. No hurting more people. We just… continue. As we are.”

Fatima nodded slowly.

Sajid said nothing.

Sameera said nothing.

The meeting ended without resolution.

No plan. No escape.

Just continuation.

Rahim held Sameera’s hand the entire walk back to the bike.

He helped her sit sideways, adjusted the burqa’s hem so it covered her ankles properly.

The ride home was quiet.

The heavy black fabric trapped the Chennai heat against her skin. Sweat collected under her arms, between her breasts, along the crease where the prosthetic met real flesh. The mesh limited her vision to narrow bands of road and Rahim’s back; the world felt small, muffled, distant. The engine’s vibration travelled up her thighs, through the cage, a constant, intimate reminder. The anklets were silent beneath the layers. The saree beneath the burqa clung damply to her legs.

She thought about choices.

About how she used to argue with Safiya over who paid the electricity bill.

About how she now folded his laundry without being asked.

About how the burqa, meant to protect, felt more like a cage than ever.

Back home, Rahim parked the bike.

He helped her down, hand lingering on her elbow.

Inside, after she removed the burqa in the bedroom, he stood in the doorway watching her fold it.

“You looked… safe today,” he said quietly.

Sameera didn’t reply.

That night, after everyone slept, Sameera sat on the bed, planning to call Sajid.

She reached for her phone.

It wasn’t on the side table.

She searched, under the pillow, in her purse, on the dresser.

Gone.

Rahim appeared in the doorway, holding it.

“It fell and the screen cracked,” he said. “I’ve sent it for repair. It’ll take a few days.”

Sameera stared at him.

He looked back, calm, almost gentle.

“I’ll get you a new one soon,” he added.

She nodded slowly.

He left.

Across the city, in the rented flat, Sajid sat on the sofa, phone in hand.

He had called Sameera three times.

No answer.

He stared at the screen, thumb hovering over her name.

Fatima slept in the bedroom.

The flat was quiet.

He dialled again.

Straight to voicemail.

He closed his eyes.

The clock kept ticking.

But now it ticked toward nothing.

Just more days.

More nights.

More pretending.

And somewhere in the dark, two people, one hidden behind opaque mesh, the other holding a broken phone, felt the same thing.

They were no longer planning escape.

They were learning to live inside the trap.