Pride in a Pallu

Chapter 17: The Date

Sameera woke at 4:42 a.m., three minutes before the azan app chimed its gentle reminder. The house was still wrapped in pre-dawn quiet only the faint whir of the ceiling fan and the distant bark of a street dog. She sat up slowly in the bridal bed, the satin nightgown sliding off one shoulder, exposing the smooth curve where silicone met real skin. The breasts settled with their familiar gentle weight; the chastity cage pressed flat beneath the nightgown’s hem, a constant, muted reminder that had long since stopped shocking her.

She padded to the bathroom on bare feet, the mosaic tiles cool against her soles. Wudu first: water poured from the small copper lota, cool rivulets tracing paths down her wrists, forearms, face, neck. She dried with the soft pink towel Ammi-ji had gifted her, then returned to the bedroom. Fajr prayer on the small jaanamaz near the window dupatta draped over her head, knees sinking into the prayer mat’s weave, forehead to the ground in sujood. The breasts pressed forward, warm and heavy; the prosthetic shifted slightly with each deep breath. She whispered the surahs in her lilting voice, the words flowing without effort now.

After prayer she changed into her morning house saree a simple sky-blue cotton one with thin silver gota border and went downstairs. The kitchen was hers at this hour. She lit the gas, boiled milk for chai, added crushed ginger and cardamom the way Abbu-ji preferred. While the tea steeped she rolled out dough for parathas, the atta soft under her palms, fingers deft from months of repetition. The bangles clinked softly against the rolling pin; the anklets tinkled when she moved to the stove. By 6:15 a.m. the table was set: hot parathas, aloo sabzi, chai in steel tumblers, a small bowl of pickle.

Rahim appeared first, hair still sleep-tousled. “Morning,” he said quietly.
“Morning,” she replied, placing his plate in front of him with the small, automatic smile she had perfected.
He ate in silence, then looked up. “You still okay with today?”
She nodded once. “Yes. I told you yesterday. Just… be back by 9 p.m. Ammi-ji will worry otherwise.”
Rahim gave her a small, grateful smile. “Thank you, Sameera.”

The morning passed in its usual rhythm: serving breakfast to the family, helping Ammi-ji sort the laundry, listening to Aisha’s excited chatter about her college fest. By noon Sameera retreated upstairs to prepare.

She had chosen carefully. The outfit for the “date” was hidden in the wardrobe: a soft blush-pink georgette saree with silver sequin work along the border, lightweight enough for the evening breeze yet elegant. Beneath: matching pink lace bra and panty set (the bra slightly padded for extra lift), the fabric cool and silky against her waxed skin. She draped the saree slowly pleats sharp, pallu falling in soft folds over her left shoulder, exposing just a sliver of midriff. Makeup was subtle but deliberate: kohl winged at the corners, rose-gold eyeshadow, faint blush, nude-pink lipstick that made her lips look naturally full. She pinned fresh jasmine gajra into the wig, the scent rising every time she moved her head. A thin gold chain around her waist rested against her skin under the saree; small diamond studs in her ears; the mangalsutra, of course; and Priya’s silver anklets.

At 4:00 p.m. she slipped into the new burqa a gift from Ustadbi at the local madrasa, black crepe with two layers of opaque mesh over the eye area. From outside, even her eyes were invisible; she could see clearly through the fine netting, but the world saw only a featureless silhouette. The fabric was lighter than her old burqa, flowing beautifully, the hem brushing her ankles.

Rahim announced at tea time: “I’m taking Sameera out for a drive this evening. Fresh air, some time together.”
Ammi-ji beamed. “Good idea, beta. Go, enjoy. Come back safe.” She pressed a small packet of dates into Sameera’s hand. “For energy.”

Rahim drove her to a quiet side street near the Cooum river, away from familiar eyes. He stopped the car.

“Saad I mean, Sameera he’s waiting there.” Rahim pointed to the black Royal Enfield parked under a neem tree.

Sameera stepped out, burqa whispering around her ankles. Rahim drove off.

Sajid was leaning against the bike, cream kurta slightly open at the collar, beard oiled, hair ruffled by the wind. When he saw her, he straightened.

She lifted the niqab slightly so he could see her face. “Assalamu alaikum.”

“Wa alaikum assalam,” he replied, voice low.

She removed the burqa completely, folding it carefully and placing it in the bike’s side box. The blush-pink saree caught the late-afternoon light, shimmering softly. She smelled of jasmine and rose attar sweet, floral, feminine. He smelled of musk attar and leather from the bike seat deep, warm, masculine.

He offered her the helmet. “Ready?”

She took it, slipped it on, adjusted the dupatta beneath. He started the engine; the deep thrum vibrated through her body as she sat behind him, legs to one side in ladylike fashion, hands resting lightly on his waist at first, then sliding around more securely as he accelerated.

They rode toward the coast ECR, the East Coast Road wind whipping past, the saree fluttering against her legs, pallu threatening to fly until she tucked it firmly. She pressed closer to his back, breasts soft against his shoulder blades, the warmth of his body seeping through the kurta. He smelled of home.

They stopped at a secluded stretch of beach near Mahabalipuram not the tourist side, but a quiet curve of sand hidden by casuarina trees. No crowds. Just the sound of waves and the occasional cry of a gull.

Sajid parked the bike. They walked down to the waterline. She removed her chappals; the sand was warm under her feet, grains clinging to the mehendi patterns still faintly visible on her soles. He took her hand fingers interlacing naturally.

They walked in silence for a while.

Then she spoke. “I didn’t think I’d miss this. Just… walking. Talking. No one watching.”

He squeezed her hand. “Me neither.”

They sat on a flat rock near the water. She leaned against him; he put an arm around her waist, pulling her closer. The saree draped over his thigh. She rested her head on his shoulder. The breasts pressed softly against his side; he felt their warmth, their give. She felt the solidness of his chest, the faint bulge of the prosthetic against her hip through his trousers.

They talked really talked. About the old flat in Triplicane. About the fights over who paid the electricity bill. About the nights they stayed up watching old Tamil movies, laughing until their stomachs hurt. About how much they had taken each other for granted.

Love seeped back in quiet, stubborn, refusing to stay buried.

At sunset he pulled her onto his lap, facing the sea. She sat sideways, legs draped over his, saree pooling around them. His arms encircled her waist; her head rested against his neck. The sun turned the water gold. She turned her face to his; their foreheads touched.

“I still hate this beard,” she whispered.

“I still hate these,” he murmured, thumb brushing the side of her breast lightly not sexual, just acknowledging.

They laughed soft, real.

Before they left, he reached into the bike’s box and pulled out a carefully wrapped package.

“For you,” he said.

She opened it.

An abaya midnight blue georgette with intricate silver zari embroidery along the cuffs and hem. The cut was perfect flowing yet fitted at the shoulders, modest yet elegant. She recognized the handiwork instantly.

“My best one,” she whispered. “The one I spent three months on. The one you said looked ‘too fancy’ for everyday.”

“I kept it,” he said quietly. “After… everything. I couldn’t throw it away.”

Her eyes filled. She leaned forward and kissed his cheek soft, lingering, the faint taste of salt from the sea air on his skin.

“Thank you,” she breathed.

They rode back in silence her arms tight around his waist, cheek against his back, the abaya folded carefully in the box behind her.

Rahim was waiting at the drop-off point. Sameera slipped the burqa back on the opaque mesh hiding her flushed cheeks, her shining eyes.

Rahim drove her home.

In the bathroom that night, Sameera stood before the mirror, nightgown loose, abaya hung carefully on the door. She touched her cheek where she had kissed him. Heat rose again. She blushed deeply, girlishly and pressed her palms to her face, smiling despite herself.

Miles away, Sajid rode the Royal Enfield back to the flat, wind cold against his kurta. He touched his cheek where her lips had been. A slow, reluctant smile spread beneath the beard. He blushed hot, foolishly and accelerated into the night.

Neither had surrendered.

But something had shifted.