Stuck in a Pallu

Chapter 7: The Next Day

The morning after felt like walking on broken glass, sharp, careful, every step deliberate.

Rahim woke before me. I felt the mattress dip as he sat up, then the soft brush of his fingers pushing a strand of hair from my face. When I opened my eyes he was already looking at me, eyes red-rimmed, face raw.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered before I could speak.

I sat up slowly, nightgown slipping off one shoulder. The permanent gold anklets chimed faintly against the sheet.

“Rahim....”

“No, let me.” He took both my hands in his. “I was wrong last night. I was… desperate. Trying to prove something to myself. To Priya. To the world. But it wasn’t fair to you. You’ve given everything to this house, to me, and I”

His voice cracked.

“I still love her,” he said quietly. “I tried to bury it. I tried to make this real. But every time I close my eyes I see her laugh, the way she used to tuck her hair behind her ear when she was nervous, the way she looked at me like I was enough. I can’t let go. Not yet. Maybe not ever.”

I listened without interrupting.

He kept going,voice low, halting, like he had rehearsed it all night.

“I don’t want to hurt you. You’ve become… important. More than I expected. The way you take care of Ammi-ji, the way you make Aisha smile, the way you sit with Abbu-ji and listen like his words matter. I see it. I feel it. But it’s not the same. It never will be. And I’m sorry for pretending it could be.”

Tears slipped down his cheeks.

I reached out, wiped them with my thumb.

“I know,” I said softly. “I’ve known for a long time.”

He bowed his head, shoulders shaking.

“I’ll stop,” he whispered. “The touches. The closeness. I’ll go back to the sofa. I won’t...”

“No,” I said. “Don’t. Not yet. We still have to live here. We still have to pretend. If you pull away suddenly, they’ll notice. They’ll ask questions. Let’s just… keep going. The way we were. Until we can’t anymore.”

He looked up at me, searching.

I gave him the smallest nod.

“Okay,” he breathed. “Okay.”

Breakfast was quiet.

I served like always,chai, idlis, paratha, sabzi. Ammi-ji patted my hand. Abbu-ji nodded thanks. Aisha stole a piece of paratha from my plate and grinned.

Then she leaned close while no one was looking.

“Bhabhi,” she whispered, eyes sparkling with mischief, “I heard sounds last night. From your room.”

My cheeks burned instantly.

She giggled. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell Ammi-ji. But… finally, huh? About time.”

I forced a smile, swatted her arm lightly.

“Eat your food, naughty girl.”

She laughed and obeyed.

The day passed in its usual rhythm,laundry, sweeping, helping Ammi-ji sort rice, listening to Aisha’s college gossip. Every task felt heavier today, every smile more practiced. I kept waiting for the moment my phone would be returned.

It came at 4:17 p.m.

Rahim walked into the kitchen holding it, screen new, shining.

“They fixed it,” he said quietly. “Sorry for the delay.”

I took it. My fingers trembled slightly.

“Thank you.”

He nodded once and left.

I slipped upstairs to the bedroom, locked the door, sat on the edge of the bed.

I dialled Sajid.

He answered on the first ring.

“Sameera?”

His voice cracked on my name.

I burst into tears.

“I’m here,” I whispered. “I’m here.”

We cried together, quiet, broken sobs over the line.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he said.

“I thought the same.”

We talked, halting at first, then faster.

He told me about Fatima’s guilt, the family celebration that felt like a funeral, the way Abbu kept clapping him on the back and saying “good father” like it was a done deal.

I told him about Rahim’s confession, the tears, the way he still loved Priya, the way he had almost crossed a line last night and then crumbled.

“I almost let it happen,” I admitted. “I almost let him… because it felt easier than fighting.”

Sajid was silent a long moment.

“I almost did too,” he said quietly. “With Fatima. Not because I wanted her. Because I was tired. Tired of waiting. Tired of being alone in this body.”

We both exhaled at the same time.

“What do we do now?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “But I know I can’t keep pretending forever.”

“Me neither.”

Another silence.

Then he said, “We wait. We watch. We look for the crack. And when it comes… we take it.”

I nodded even though he couldn’t see.

“Okay.”

We stayed on the call until the battery warning beeped, forty-seven minutes of silence and whispers and shared grief.

When we hung up, I felt lighter.

And heavier.

That night I bathed alone.

I stood under the bucket shower, rose-scented water cascading over me, washing away the day’s sweat and the faint trace of Priya’s perfume still clinging to my skin from yesterday.

I thought of last night.

Rahim’s mouth on my breast.

His hand between my thighs.

The moment he saw Priya’s photo and broke.

I thought of how close I had come to letting him inside me, not because I wanted him, but because I was tired. Tired of the emptiness. Tired of the ache that built every day with no release.

My hand slid down, almost automatically, between my thighs.

The prosthetic mound was smooth, warm, realistic.

I parted the silicone lips with two fingers.

Felt the faint give, the cool air on the inner folds.

I pressed, slow circles over where the clit would be.

Nothing.

No hardness. No pulse. Just pressure against the cage beneath.

The arousal built anyway, feminine, deep in the belly, a throbbing emptiness that had nowhere to go.

I thought of Sajid.

Of the way he used to kiss the inside of my wrist.

Of the way he used to laugh when I threw a wet cloth at his head.

Of the way his hands used to feel, rough from work, gentle on my skin.

I thought of in Ooty, his arm around my waist, foreheads touching, the taste of salt on his cheek.

My fingers moved faster futile, desperate.

I imagined him here real him, Sajid pressing me against the wall, hands pinning my wrists, mouth on my neck.

I imagined him inside me not this body, not this cage, but the way it should be.

The ache peaked sharp, hollow and then faded into nothing.

No release.

Just tears mixing with the shower water.

I sank to the floor of the bathroom, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around myself.

The permanent gold anklets chimed once soft, mocking.

I cried quietly until the water ran cold.

Then I stood, dried myself, slipped into the nightgown, and went back to bed.

Rahim was already there on his side, back to me.

I lay down.

He didn’t turn.

But his hand reached back found mine and held on.

We slept like that hands clasped, bodies apart, hearts aching for different people.

The clock kept ticking.

No escape.

Just more nights.

And more pretending.

Until even the pretending began to feel like the only truth left.