Stuck in a Pallu

Chapter 8: The Private Meeting

Rahim insisted on the meeting.

He brought it up at breakfast quietly, almost casually while Sameera was serving chai.

“We need to talk to them again,” he said, eyes on his tumbler. “Properly. All four of us. No more waiting for things to fix themselves.”

Ammi-ji looked up from her idli. “What’s wrong, beta?”

Rahim forced a smile. “Just some spousal matters. Sameera and I will handle it.”

Sameera paused mid-pour. “I have a lot of work today...”

Rahim’s hand brushed hers under the table, gentle, but firm. “It won’t take long. I already called them. They’re coming this evening. Private room at the same restaurant.”

She met his eyes. Saw the quiet determination there.

She nodded once.

“Okay.”

She didn’t fight it.

Even though every instinct screamed to stay away.

Even though the thought of facing Sajid again, after the hallway kiss, after the promise that never came, made her chest ache.

She dressed carefully that afternoon.

Not because she wanted to impress.

But because she needed armor.

She chose the same heavy black crepe burqa Rahim had given her, the one with double opaque mesh over the eyes, the one that turned her into a shadow even in daylight. He hadn’t asked her to wear it today. He hadn’t even mentioned it.

But she put it on anyway.

The fabric was heavier than her old one, extra lining for modesty, hem brushing the floor, sleeves loose enough to hide her hands completely. Inside, her vision narrowed to thin slits; the world felt dim, distant, safe. She wore a simple cream cotton saree beneath, lightweight, modest, nothing flashy. White lace bra and panty, petticoat tied snug. No heavy jewellery today, just the chain, small diamond studs, nose pin, and the permanent gold anklets that chimed softly under the burqa’s hem.

When Rahim saw her ready, he paused.

“You didn’t have to wear it,” he said quietly.

“I wanted to,” she answered.

He didn’t argue.

He took her hand, fingers laced through the burqa sleeve, and they left.

The restaurant room was the same, dim lights, thick curtains, round table, four chairs.

Fatima and Sajid were already there.

Fatima looked exhausted, dark circles under her eyes, one hand resting protectively on her stomach. Sajid sat straight-backed, kurta crisp, beard oiled, but his jaw was tight.

Rahim guided Sameera to the seat beside him. He never let go of her hand.

The silence was thick until Fatima spoke.

“My boyfriend and I… we have a plan,” she said, voice low. “He’s applied for a student visa to Germany, same university, different program. He’s been accepted. We leave in three weeks. I’ll tell my parents it’s a sudden job offer abroad. They’ll be angry, but they won’t stop me once the tickets are booked. Once we’re there… we’ll marry properly. And then I’ll send the talaq papers.”

Sajid exhaled slowly. “And the baby?”

“I’ll raise it with him,” Fatima said. “My parents will come around eventually. Or they won’t. But I can’t stay here pretending.”

Rahim leaned forward. “And us?”

Fatima looked at him. “Priya won’t talk to you. But if she did… if she saw you were really free… maybe she’d listen.”

Rahim’s grip on Sameera’s hand tightened.

Sameera spoke voice muffled slightly by the mesh, but steady.

“I’ll talk to her. Somehow. Secretly. I’ll find a way.”

Rahim turned to her sharply. “No ”

“I’ll be careful,” she said. “I promise.”

He searched her face or tried to, through the opaque mesh. Then he nodded once reluctant.

Fatima looked between them. “Then… we wait three weeks. If Priya comes back, we all walk away clean. If not… we stay. Until the baby is born. Until it’s safe.”

No one argued.

The plan was fragile, half-formed, desperate.

But it was something.

Rahim squeezed Sameera’s hand once more possessive, protective then released it.

“Give us a minute,” Sajid said suddenly, eyes on Sameera.

Rahim stiffened.

Fatima touched his arm. “Let them.”

Rahim exhaled sharp, unhappy but stood.

He and Fatima stepped outside.

The door closed.

Sameera and Sajid were alone.

Neither moved for a long second.

Then Sajid stood, walked around the table, stopped in front of her.

She rose slowly.

He reached out careful lifted the front layer of the burqa’s mesh just enough to see her face. Her eyes were red-rimmed, kohl slightly smudged.

“Sameera…” he breathed.

She stepped into him.

He wrapped his arms around her burqa and all pulling her close. She felt the solid warmth of his chest, the faint musk attar beneath his kurta, the steady beat of his heart.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into the top of her head. “For not fighting harder. For letting it get this far.”

She shook her head against him. “We both let it.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her.

Then he kissed her soft at first, lips brushing hers through the lingering mesh. Then deeper mouth opening, tongue seeking, tasting salt and rose and desperation.

She kissed back hungry, aching hands fisting in his kurta.

When they parted, both breathing hard, he reached into his pocket.

A small velvet box.

He opened it.

A simple silver ring thin band, tiny sapphire in the centre.

“A promise ring,” he said quietly. “Not marriage. Not yet. Just… a promise. That we’ll get back. No matter what. No matter how long.”

Tears slipped down her cheeks.

She held out her hand.

He slipped the ring onto her right ring finger under the burqa sleeve, hidden from the world.

She looked at it small, shining, real.

Then she reached up, pulled off one of her own earrings a small diamond stud pressed it into his palm.

“Your promise,” she whispered.

He closed his fingers around it, then pinned it to the inside of his kurta collar hidden, close to his heart.

They kissed again slower, deeper, tongues sliding, foreheads pressed together.

“I love you,” he said against her lips.

“I love you too,” she answered.

They held each other until footsteps sounded in the corridor.

They stepped apart.

Sameera lowered the mesh back into place shadow once more.

Sajid returned to his seat.

Rahim and Fatima came back in.

No one asked what happened.

No one needed to.

The meeting ended.

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

He helped her sit sideways, adjusted the burqa hem, started the engine.

The ride home was quiet.

She felt the ring on her finger small, secret, burning.

She felt the weight of the burqa protective, suffocating.

She felt the vibration of the bike through her thighs, the press of her breasts against Rahim’s back, the permanent anklets chiming under the layers.

And she felt hope small, fragile, dangerous flicker back to life.

Back home, she removed the burqa in the bedroom.

Rahim watched from the doorway.

“You kept it on the whole time,” he said quietly.

She folded the black crepe carefully.

“I felt safer,” she answered.

He stepped closer, touched her cheek.

“I’m glad.”

She didn’t reply.

That night, when the house slept, she lay beside him his arm around her waist, her back to his chest.

She felt the ring on her finger.

She felt the ache in her chest.

And for the first time in weeks, she let herself hope.

Just a little.

Just enough.

The clock kept ticking.

But now it ticked toward something.

Not freedom yet.

But possibility.

And that was enough.

For tonight.