Stuck in a Pallu

Chapter 5: The Week of Spice

Ten days without a phone felt like ten years.

Sameera had stopped asking about the repair. Rahim always answered the same way: “They’re still waiting for the screen, Ma. Soon.” His smile was gentle, almost tender. She stopped pressing.

The house moved around her as though nothing had changed.

She woke at 4:40 a.m., prayed Fajr on the jaanamaz in the corner, breasts shifting forward in sujood with quiet familiarity. She dressed in a soft mustard cotton saree with thin maroon border, light for the heat, elegant enough for Ammi-ji’s approving nod. White lace bra and high-waisted panty beneath, petticoat tied snug, saree draped in nine crisp pleats, pallu pinned over left shoulder. Anklets (Priya’s silver bells and the heavier gold ones) tinkled with every step. Bangle chime, chain cool against her collarbone, small nose stud catching light.

She served breakfast before anyone stirred: tea with extra ginger for Abbu-ji, idlis steamed soft for Ammi-ji, aloo paratha for Aisha, plain dosa for Rahim. She placed each plate with lowered eyes and murmured “Ji.” Ammi-ji patted her hand every time. “You spoil us, beti.”

After breakfast came the suggestions.

Ammi-ji sat Sameera down on the balcony with a small steel bowl of kesari.

“Beta,” she began, voice soft but deliberate, “you’ve been married four months now. No good news yet?”

Sameera looked down at her hands, henna faded but still visible. “InshaAllah soon, Ammi-ji.”

Ammi-ji leaned closer. “You must eat more almonds. And dates, soaked overnight. And drink warm milk with saffron before sleeping. It helps. And…” She lowered her voice. “…ask Rahim to be gentle but regular. The first few months are important. Allah will bless you.”

Sameera nodded, cheeks warm. “Ji, Ammi-ji.”

Later, when folding laundry together, Ammi-ji added: “And don’t lift heavy things. No bending too much. Keep your body ready. You’re young, strong, but still, take care.”

Sameera folded a kurta with careful hands. “I will.”

The suggestions came daily now, small, caring, relentless.

Rahim’s advances were subtler.

He no longer slept on the sofa.

Three nights ago he had simply lain down beside her, on his side of the bolster, and stayed. No words. Just his breathing in the dark. The next night he moved the bolster to the floor. The night after that, he slept closer, arm resting across her waist, not possessive, just… there.

In the mornings he woke before her sometimes, brought her tea in bed, sat on the edge while she sipped. His fingers would brush her wrist, trace the bangle line, linger on the pulse point. “You look beautiful when you sleep,” he murmured once. She didn’t reply.

In the evenings he sat beside her on the sofa while Aisha chattered, his thigh pressed lightly against hers, hand resting on the cushion behind her back, close enough that she felt his warmth, far enough that no one noticed.

He never pushed. Never demanded.

But the touches grew: a hand on her lower back when guiding her through doorways, fingers brushing her elbow when passing her a glass, a soft kiss on her temple when saying goodnight.

Sameera felt them all.

And said nothing.

Across town, Sajid called the Khan house landline every evening.

Rahim always answered.

“Sajid bhai,” he said, voice calm, almost friendly. “Sameera is busy with Ammi-ji right now. Can I take a message?”

Sajid tried twice more. Same result.

“She’s helping Aisha with college work. I’ll tell her you called.”

After the third time, Sajid stopped calling.

Rahim took Sameera out twice that week.

First to the local market, “Fresh air will be good for you,” he said. He held her hand the entire time, fingers laced through the burqa sleeve, grip firm but not painful. He bought her fresh flowers, pinned it into her hair himself under the burqa’s hood. “For my wife,” he murmured.

She felt the possessiveness in every glance he gave other men who looked too long.

The second outing was to a small park near the river. He chose a quiet bench, sat close, arm along the backrest behind her. He didn’t speak much, just watched the water, thumb occasionally brushing her shoulder through the burqa.

Then they saw Priya.

She was walking with a friend, simple blue kurti, hair loose, laughing at something.

Rahim froze.

Then he moved.

He pulled Sameera closer, arm sliding around her waist, hand splaying over her midriff through the burqa. He turned her slightly so Priya would see them full-on: husband and wife, intimate, together.

He leaned down, pressed a slow kiss to Sameera’s temple, visible even through the mesh. Then another on her cheek. His voice was low, for her alone.

“She needs to see I’ve moved on.”

Sameera felt the lie in every touch.

But she didn’t pull away.

Priya glanced over, saw them, eyes widening. Then she looked away quickly, face pale, and walked faster.

Rahim exhaled. His hand stayed on Sameera’s waist the entire walk back to the bike.

That evening, after dinner, Rahim brought her a small velvet box.

Inside: a pair of permanent anklets solid gold, no clasp, designed to be welded shut.

“They’re traditional,” he said quietly. “Once on, they stay. Like a promise.”

Sameera looked at them, beautiful, heavy, unbreakable.

Rahim took her foot gently, slipped one on, then the other. Then he called the family jeweller to come the next day to weld them permanently.

Sameera said nothing.

That night Rahim didn’t go to the sofa.

He lay beside her, bolster gone completely now.

His arm came around her waist. She didn’t move away.

They slept like that, bodies close, breathing in sync, no words.

Across town, Sajid sat alone in the flat.

Fatima was asleep.

He opened the drawer, took out the old shirt, Saad’s shirt.

He held it to his face.

The scent was almost gone.

But he inhaled anyway.

And cried, quietly, shoulders shaking, for the man he used to be.

For the woman he used to love.

For the life slipping further away every day.

The clock kept ticking.

No escape.

Just more days.

And more nights.

And more pretending.

Until even pretending began to feel like truth.