Pride in a Pallu

Chapter 14: One Month Complete

Three weeks passed in the quiet, inexorable way time moves when one is pretending to live a different life.

In the Khan household, Sameera had become as essential as the morning azan. The house no longer felt like a stage; it had absorbed her. She moved through it with the unconscious grace of someone who belonged.

Mornings - belonged to routine. She rose before the household, made tea the way Abbu-ji liked it (extra ginger, no sugar), prepared idlis soft enough for Ammi-ji’s sensitive stomach, and set the table before anyone stirred. The lavender cotton saree she wore today, draped effortlessly now pleats perfect without pins, pallu staying in place even when she bent to sweep the front steps. The bangles no longer felt like shackles; their clink had become part of the house’s soundtrack.

Ammi-ji had stopped calling her “beti” with the careful politeness of a new daughter-in-law. Now it was simply “Sameera” said with the casual affection reserved for family. They spent afternoons together on the balcony, shelling peas or sorting rice, discussing everything from the rising price of onions to which colour would suit Aisha for her next function. Ammi-ji confided in her about Abbu-ji’s blood pressure, asked her opinion on changing the curtains in the drawing room, and once, quietly, thanked her for “bringing peace back to this house.”

Aisha had become her shadow. The younger girl now knocked on Sameera’s door every evening after college, curling up beside her on the bed to share college gossip, boy troubles, or simply to lie in silence while Sameera applied oil to her hair. One night Aisha cried over a failed exam; Sameera held her, rocking gently, murmuring comfort in the soft, lilting voice that had once belonged to Saad. The silicone breasts yielded under Aisha’s cheek; the embrace felt achingly real. Humiliation still burned she was the emotional anchor, the gentle listener, the soft place yet she no longer flinched from it as sharply.

Abbu-ji spoke less, but when he did, it carried weight. He began asking her opinion on small household decisions: whether to repair the old ceiling fan or buy a new one, which brand of inverter to trust. Once, over dinner, he looked at her directly and said, “You have a good head on your shoulders, Sameera. Not just for the kitchen.” The compliment landed like a quiet coronation.

Even Rahim had settled into the rhythm. They still slept apart he on the study sofa, she in the bridal bed but the nights had developed their own small rituals. He would knock softly after everyone slept, sit on the edge of the bed for ten minutes, and they would talk in whispers: about Priya’s latest text, the absurdity of their situation. Sometimes they laughed low, guilty laughter at how convincingly they had fooled everyone. Other times they sat in silence, the bolster pillow between them like a silent witness to their shared deception.

Rahim met Priya twice during these weeks stolen coffee shop afternoons, quick hugs in parking lots. He came home quieter afterward, eyes softer. Sameera noticed but said nothing. The secret they both carried made them strangely closer.

Phone calls home had become daily. Sameera spoke to her “Ammi” (the fake mother) every evening, voice warm and natural:
“Ji Ammi, today I made your aloo paratha recipe. Abbu-ji loved it.”
Ammi would laugh, call her “my perfect bahu,” ask if she was eating well, sleeping well, being happy. Asif would snatch the phone sometimes: “Didi, when are you coming back? The house is boring without you.”
Sameera answered with the easy affection of a real daughter-in-law. The words no longer tasted like lies.

She was, in every visible way, exactly a married woman.

Across town, Sajid’s life had hardened into a different shape.

Work had become his anchor. He arrived early, left late, took on extra clients. The office staff now called him “Sajid sir” without hesitation; the bank manager invited him for tea when he visited for client loans. His deep voice filled meeting rooms with authority. The beard no longer itched he had learned to oil it properly. The prosthetic had become… background noise, an accepted discomfort.

Fatima had been back twice short, tense visits. She spent most nights at the flat working on her laptop, visa applications open, scholarship forms half-filled, flight bookings bookmarked. She spoke little, eyes constantly on screens. Sajid watched her quietly, understanding the urgency. He cooked simple meals for them both rice, dal, eggs and they ate in silence. No pretense of husband-wife intimacy; only two people waiting for the clock to run down.

Fatima’s father (his “father-in-law”) had begun treating him with increasing seriousness. One Sunday he called Sajid to the family textile godown in Tirunelveli. Over strong filter coffee, he spoke of retirement: “I’m getting old, beta. The business needs younger hands. You have a good head for accounts. Think about it after six months, when things settle, you can slowly take over.”
Sajid nodded, murmured appropriate thanks, felt the weight of a future he was never meant to inherit pressing on his shoulders.

He missed his old life fiercely the freedom of being Saad, the easy arguments with Safiya, the simple pleasure of trousers and a calculator. But pride kept his mouth shut. He would not be the first to break.

Sameera, too, missed her old self the independence, the sharp tongue, the late nights designing abayas. Yet she would not admit it. Not yet.

The one-month anniversary arrived quietly.

That night, the video call connected at 11:00 p.m. sharp.

Sameera appeared in a soft cream nightgown, hair braided loosely, mangalsutra glinting under the bedside lamp. Her face was calm, almost serene.

Sajid sat on the flat’s sofa in a plain grey kurta, beard neatly trimmed, background dark except for the laptop glow.

Formalities first.

“Assalamu alaikum, Sameera.”

“Wa alaikum assalam, Sajid.”

A pause.

Sameera spoke first, voice measured, polite.

“One month complete. Alhamdulillah. The family is… very good to me. I have settled into the routine. The house feels like home now. I perform my duties with contentment.”

Sajid inclined his head slightly.

“Alhamdulillah. Work is steady. The responsibility suits me. My place is clear. I am… comfortable in this role.”

Another pause.

Sameera folded her hands in her lap, bangles clinking once.

“I find the life of a wife… fulfilling. The care, the small joys, the place I occupy in the family. It is enough.”

Sajid’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

“The life of a husband… carries its own dignity. Respect, duty, quiet strength. I accept it fully.”

They looked at each other through the screens two people wearing masks so well they had almost forgotten the faces beneath.

Neither said: I miss you.
Neither said: This hurts more every day.
Neither said: Please let one of us surrender.

Instead, they spoke like strangers who had accepted their sentences.

“Good night, Sajid.”

“Good night, Sameera.”

The call ended.

In two separate houses, two transformed bodies lay awake a little longer than usual.

The clock kept ticking.

Five months remained.