Pride in a Pallu

Chapter 6: Rings and Revelations

The morning of the engagement dawned humid and golden over Chennai, the kind of day where the sun filtered through the haze like a promise of sweat and scrutiny. In the Iqbal Ahmed flat, the air buzzed with preparation. Ammi had woken Sameera at 5 a.m. for Fajr, the prayer mat still warm under her knees as she prostrated, the prosthetic breasts pressing into the floor with a dull, insistent ache that made her grit her teeth. The chastity cage shifted slightly, a sealed reminder of her entrapment, the pubic hair of the vaginal prosthetic itching faintly from the previous day's mehendi session. Humiliation gnawed at her , Saad, once the head of his own house, now rising early to pray like a dutiful daughter-in-law-to-be.

After prayers, the real ordeal began: dressing up.

Ammi led her to the bedroom, where an exquisite silk saree waited, laid out like a royal decree. It was Kanjeevaram , deep maroon with gold zari borders, heavy with tradition, sourced from a Mylapore boutique on Rahim's dime. "This will make you shine, beti," Ammi said, eyes sparkling. Sameera stood in her petticoat and blouse , the blouse a fitted maroon velvet with short sleeves, hugging her silicone curves so tightly that every breath tugged at the adhesive edges, sending phantom sensations rippling through her chest. The bra beneath was lace-trimmed, padded for extra lift, the straps digging into her waxed shoulders like subtle chains.

First came the petticoat, tied snug at the waist, smoothing over the flat front where the prosthetic vagina sat seamless, its inner folds brushing with every adjustment. Then the saree itself: Ammi draped it expertly, pleating the front with precise tucks that fell to her ankles. The silk whispered against her legs, cool at first, then warming to her skin, the weight pulling her posture straighter. Pins secured the pallu over her left shoulder, the gold threads catching the light. Sensations overwhelmed: the fabric's heaviness on her hips, the faint rustle with each movement, the way it accentuated the sway she couldn't suppress.

Accessories next. Gold jhumkas heavy, dangling, brushing her neck with cold metal kisses. A matching necklace that rested in the hollow of her throat, chains linking to a mang tikka that parted her long wig hair. Bangles stacked on both wrists glass and gold, clinking like a melody of submission. Anklets with tiny bells that tinkled softly on her bare feet, painted toenails peeking out. A small nose ring clipped on, the pinch sharp but fleeting.

Makeup was meticulous. Ammi sat her at the vanity: foundation blended over her smooth, gel-treated skin, giving a flawless glow. Kohl thick around the eyes, mascara lengthening lashes that fluttered unnaturally. Blush on cheeks, rose-red lipstick that made her lips feel plump and foreign. Finally, a red bindi centered on her forehead, and jasmine flowers pinned into her hair, their scent intoxicating, mingling with her rose ittar.

Sameera stared at the mirror. A bride stared back elegant, modest, utterly feminine. Her stomach twisted with humiliation; the breasts heaved with each nervous breath, the saree pallu draping to hide but highlight. This is what you get for ego, she thought bitterly. But aloud, to Ammi: "Thank you. I feel... beautiful."

They waited in the living room Ammi fussing over tea trays, Abbu in his best sherwani, Asif snapping selfies. Sameera sat demurely on the sofa, knees together, pallu adjusted, the saree’s silk pooling around her like a trap. Every shift sent the anklets tinkling, the bangles clinking, reminders of her role. The wait stretched, her waxed skin prickling under the fabric, the chastity cage a constant, sealed pressure.

Across town, Sajid prepared differently. He’d risen for Fajr at the mosque, the elders two older uncles from the community, invited as “chaperones” for propriety nodding approval at his deep voice and neat beard. Back at the flat, he dressed in a simple cream sherwani with subtle embroidery, the fabric loose but the phallus hanging heavy beneath, shifting with every step as he adjusted the drawstring pajama. The beard itched fiercely now, a rough rasp against his collar. Humiliation burned: Safiya, the designer who mocked men's "easy" lives, now embodying one, complete with the awkward heft between her legs.

They traveled by cab to Tirunelveli a three-hour drive south, the elders chatting about hadiths and politics. Sajid sat in the back, legs spread for “comfort,” the prosthetic scrotum pressing against his thigh with every bump on the NH44. The elders quizzed him lightly: “Beta, what do you do for work?” He answered smoothly, voice rumbling: “Accounting, uncle. Simple life, but Alhamdulillah.” Inside, he seethed at the paternal tone.

Rahim’s family arrived first at the Ahmed flat. The doorbell chimed at 11 a.m. Rahim entered tall, clean-shaven, in a navy pathani suit, looking every inch the reluctant groom. Behind him: his parents, Mr. and Mrs. Khan Abbu a retired banker in a grey sherwani, stern but fair; Ammi in a pearl-white abaya, warm and chatty. His younger sister, Aisha, twenty-five, bubbly in a pink lehenga, and an aunt, Khala, in her fifties, sharp-eyed in a green saree, the family gossip.

Greetings flowed: salaams, hugs for the women. Rahim’s Ammi pulled Sameera into an embrace. “Mashallah, kitni pyari! Look at her, Rahim. Perfect for you.” Sameera lowered her eyes modestly, the jasmine scent wafting, her heart pounding. The family settled in the living room, tea served. Checking out began subtly: Rahim’s Abbu asked about her “background” the forged Lucknow story, her “orphan” life. Sameera answered softly, voice lilting: “Ji, uncle. I was raised in a madrasa. Simple prayers and sewing.” Humiliation surged as they nodded approvingly, eyes scanning her saree draped form, the bangles clinking as she passed sweets.

Rahim sat beside her, awkward. “You look... nice,” he whispered. Sameera smiled faintly, the lipstick sticky on her lips. Aisha gushed: “Bhabhi, your mehendi is so dark! Means Rahim bhai loves you a lot.” Laughter rippled. Khala probed: “Do you cook well, beti?” Sameera nodded, describing “her” biryani recipe, the words tasting like ash. Interactions warmed: group photos, elders blessing them. Finally, the ring a simple gold band with a small diamond. Rahim slipped it on her finger, his hand brushing hers; the metal cold, the weight symbolic. Couple photos followed: posed on the sofa, her pallu over her head, his arm tentatively around her shoulder. Flashes blinded, but the real sting was internal the saree’s silk clinging, breasts aching from the pose.

In Tirunelveli, Fatima’s family home was a sprawling bungalow with verandas and mango trees. Sajid arrived at noon, elders in tow. Fatima waited pretty in a lavender anarkali, hijab pinned neatly. Her family: Abbu, a textile merchant, broad and jovial in a white kurta; Ammi, elegant in a blue saree; older brother, Imran, thirty, protective in casual shirt-pants; and a cousin sister, Riya, chatty in salwar.

Salaams exchanged. Fatima’s Abbu shook Sajid’s hand firmly. “Welcome, beta. Fatima speaks highly of you.” They sat in the drawing room, elders adding weight to the “arranged” feel. Questions came thick: Imran grilled, “What’s your income? How will you support her?” Sajid answered steadily, voice deep: “Enough for a good life, bhai. I pray five times, handle my duties.” Ammi asked about family: “Orphan? Sad, but Allah provides.” Sajid nodded, the beard scratching as he smiled. Fatima blushed demurely beside him. Riya teased: “Bhaiya, you look so serious! Smile for Fatima di.” Humiliation peaked as Abbu probed faith: “Do you lead prayers at home?” Sajid lied smoothly: “Always, uncle.” The phallus shifted uncomfortably as he crossed his legs.

Ring exchange: Fatima’s silver band with emerald, slipped on by her trembling hand. Photos: group, couple Sajid’s arm around her waist, the sherwani hiding his unease.

Both sides fixed the nikah for 30 days later coincidentally, nearby halls in Chennai: one in Triplicane for Rahim-Sameera, the other in Mylapore for Sajid-Fatima. “Allah’s plan,” everyone said.

That night, back in their spaces, they video called.

Sameera, still in saree remnants, makeup smudged, breasts sore from the day’s compression. “How was your big day, Sajid bhai? Bet you loved being quizzed like a prize bull.”

Sajid, sherwani off, beard red from scratching, phallus aching from the drive. “Oh, fantastic, Sameera jaan. Leading the pack, answering like a king. You? Paraded in that saree? Must have been thrilling.”

She lied: “Absolutely. Felt like a queen. Ring fits perfect.” Humiliation burned, but ego held.

He bragged: “They adored me. Easy as breathing.” Lies, but the game continued.

The call ended, screens dark, both alone with their truths.

Chapter 7: The Thirty Days of Preparation – Part 1

The thirty days before the nikah felt like a slow, deliberate tightening of ropes invisible, silk-smooth, but unyielding. For Sameera and Sajid, the calendar became a shared enemy they pretended to love.

Sameera’s days in the Iqbal Ahmed household settled into a rhythm designed to mould her completely. Mornings began at 4:45 a.m. with the soft call of the azan filtering through the window. She rose from the narrow bed in her pink-curtained room, the satin nightgown clinging to her waxed thighs and the undersides of her silicone breasts. The chastity cage pressed flat and constant, a sealed secret that made every morning stretch feel like surrender. She performed wudu in the tiny bathroom, water cool against her smooth skin, then wrapped herself in a simple cotton house abaya for Fajr. Kneeling on the jaanamaz in the women’s corner of the living room, dupatta over her head, she felt the breasts shift forward during sujood, heavy, warm, realistic ,a humiliating reminder that pressed against her ribcage.

Ammi was relentless in her “wife training.” Breakfast duty fell to Sameera: rolling out perfect phulkas on the hot tawa, the heat making sweat bead between her shoulder blades and trickle down to the small of her back, soaking the thin camisole beneath her housecoat. “A husband likes soft rotis and a soft wife,” Ammi said every morning, patting Sameera’s hand approvingly. The praise stung worse than the burns on her fingertips from the tawa.

Afternoons were for learning the finer arts. Ammi taught her how to apply perfect kohl without smudging, how to drape a saree in ten different styles (each one requiring hours of practice standing in front of the mirror, hips aching, pallu slipping again and again until she mastered the fold). One day it was the Gujarati style, the next Bengali, then the classic Tamil Nadu drape ,each variation pulling the saree tighter across her waist, accentuating the prosthetic curves she couldn’t escape. The silk weighed on her like judgment.

Shopping trips were the worst, and the most frequent. Twice a week, Ammi took her to T. Nagar or Pondy Bazaar, Sameera always in full burqa, niqab down, only eyes visible through the mesh. The black fabric trapped Chennai’s humidity like a greenhouse. Sweat collected under her arms, between her breasts, along the crease where the prosthetic vagina met her real skin. The anklets tinkled faintly beneath the hem, the bangles clinked inside the sleeves. Crowds pressed close; strangers’ shoulders brushed her, the heat made the adhesive on her prosthetics feel sticky and precarious. Ammi bargained fiercely for blouses, petticoats, jewellery “For my beti’s wedding!” - while Sameera stood silent, demure, dying inside.

One afternoon they bought a bridal lehenga heavy red velvet with intricate zardosi work, the dupatta embroidered with gold gota patti. Sameera had to try it on in the cramped changing room of the boutique, the lehenga’s weight pulling at her shoulders, the choli squeezing her breasts until she could barely breathe. The mirror showed a bride. She hated how convincingly she looked the part.

Evenings brought more bonding: henna nights with Aisha and Ammi’s friends, sitting cross-legged on the floor while cool mehendi paste was applied in ever-more elaborate patterns up her arms and feet. The scent of henna filled the room; her hands and feet itched as it dried, immobilising her for hours. “Dark colour means your husband will love you deeply,” the aunties teased. Sameera forced smiles, the glass bangles clinking with every tiny movement.

And every night, the phone call.

Sajid’s days were a different kind of forge.

He woke at the same early hour, the alarm cutting through the silence of the rented flat. Fajr at the local mosque had become routine the cold marble under his knees, the phallus shifting uncomfortably during ruku and sujood, the deep voice of “Allahu Akbar” rumbling from his chest like a stranger’s. The elders greeted him warmly now: “Sajid bhai, you’re becoming one of us.” He hated the approval.

Work consumed the mornings: client meetings, GST audits, endless spreadsheets. The beard itched constantly; he’d taken to scratching it raw in the office bathroom, staring at the mirror at the rough, masculine face that wasn’t his. The prosthetic hung heavy in his trousers, swaying with every step down the corridor, a constant, humiliating pendulum. One day a client meeting ran long; he had to sit cross-legged on the floor for a group discussion, the scrotum pressing painfully against his thigh. He smiled through gritted teeth.

Afternoons often meant community duties: helping organise a small iftar gathering for the mosque youth, carrying heavy trays of dates and water, the kurta sticking to his back with sweat, the topi slipping on his damp forehead. Evenings: more prayers Maghrib, Isha leading sometimes when the imam was late. The responsibility felt like a crown of thorns.

Shopping was different for him brisk, functional. He bought sherwanis for the nikah, plain lungis for home, a new steel watch “to look responsible.” The salesman called him “sir” with respect. Each “sir” landed like mockery.

But the phone calls were the battlefield.

Every night, around 10 p.m., the video call connected.

Sameera, fresh from her evening bath, hair damp under a loose dupatta, face glowing from Ammi’s nightly rosewater ritual, would smile sweetly into the camera.

“Assalamu alaikum, Sajid jaan. How was your big strong man day?”

Sajid, lounging on the sofa in vest and lungi, beard freshly oiled (though it still itched), voice deep and smug: “Wa alaikum assalam, Sameera begum. Oh, you know closed two big accounts, led Isha prayer, the boys at the mosque think I’m the next imam. This is living.”

Sameera laughed softly, adjusting her dupatta so it framed her face perfectly. “Mashallah. I’m so proud. Me? Spent the whole day shopping with Ammi bought the most beautiful bridal lehenga. Tried it on. Felt like a real queen. And the mehendi yesterday? So dark. They say it means you’ll adore me.”

Sajid snorted. “Adore? Of course. I’m thriving out here. No drama, no fuss. Just pure masculine energy.”

“Same here,” she purred. “Learning to be the perfect wife. Cooking, draping sarees, praying so peacefully in my corner. It’s… liberating.”

They lied beautifully, voices dripping with false joy, eyes flashing with challenge. Neither admitted the sweat, the ache, the constant sensory assault of their new bodies.

Until the day they met by accident.

It was a Saturday afternoon, peak shopping hour in T. Nagar. Sameera was out with Ammi again full burqa, niqab down, shopping for wedding favour boxes. The heat was brutal; sweat poured down her back, soaking the inner abaya, making the silicone breasts feel slippery and precarious. Her ankles ached from the weight of the saree she wore underneath, the anklets silent under the black folds. She walked slowly, breathing shallow through the mesh, every step a reminder of the sealed cage and the prosthetic folds that rubbed with damp friction.

She turned a corner near the jewellery section and froze.

Sajid stood there in crisp white kurta-pajama, beard oiled, topi on, carrying two large bags of wedding sherwanis. He was alone, haggling with a shopkeeper.

Their eyes met through her mesh screen.

For a second, neither moved.

Then Sameera inclined her head slightly, voice soft, muffled: “Assalamu alaikum… bhai.”

Sajid’s jaw tightened. He returned the salaam, voice low: “Wa alaikum assalam… behen.”

Ammi, ahead, didn’t notice the tension. She called back: “Sameera beti, come see these bangles!”

Sameera stepped closer to Sajid, just enough for privacy in the crowd.

“Enjoying the shopping, Sajid bhai?” she whispered, the niqab hiding her smirk.

“Immensely, Sameera,” he replied, eyes hard. “You look… comfortable in all that black.”

“Very. Keeps me modest. You look… busy being the provider.”

They stood inches apart she cocooned in fabric and sweat, he solid and outwardly confident both burning with the same unspoken fury.

Ammi called again.

Sameera turned, pallu slipping slightly, then walked away, anklets tinkling faintly under the burqa.

Sajid watched her go, bags heavy in his hands.

The thirty days were only beginning.

Chapter 8: The Thirty Days of Preparation – Part 2

The thirty days stretched on, each one a meticulously woven thread in the tapestry of pretense. For Sameera, the days blurred into a symphony of submission soft fabrics, soft voices, soft expectations that chafed against the iron of her ego. But she wore it all like a crown, or so she told herself. This was one such day, mid-way through the month, when the wedding loomed close enough to taste like cardamom in the air.

It began at 4:45 a.m., the azan drifting in like a gentle summons from the nearby mosque, its melodic call weaving through the thin curtains of her pink-walled room. Sameera stirred under the lightweight cotton sheet, her body heavy with the residue of sleep. The satin nightgown, pale blue, knee-length, with delicate lace trim at the neckline, clung to her skin, damp in places from the night's humidity. She sat up slowly, the silicone breasts shifting with a natural heft that pulled at the adhesive edges, sending a faint, tingling ache across her chest. The chastity cage beneath the nightgown's folds pressed flat and unyielding against her pelvis, the prosthetic vagina's pubic mound a seamless, warm illusion that made her hyper-aware of the night's stillness. No morning relief, no familiar stir ,just the sealed smoothness, a constant, intimate humiliation that she pushed down with a deep breath.

She swung her legs over the bed's edge, bare feet touching the cool mosaic floor. The room smelled faintly of rose ittar from last night's application, mingling with the distant aroma of Ammi's early chai brewing. Sameera padded to the bathroom, the nightgown whispering against her waxed thighs, every step reminding her of the smooth, hairless expanse that felt both foreign and inescapably hers now. The door clicked shut, and she faced the small mirror above the sink her reflection a soft-featured woman with tousled black waves from the wig, kohl slightly smudged from sleep, lips parted in quiet resignation.

Bathing came next, a ritual Ammi had insisted upon: "A good wife starts her day pure, beti." Sameera turned on the geyser-spotted tap, letting lukewarm water fill the blue plastic bucket. She stripped methodically, nightgown pooling at her feet, then the white lace bra unhooked with fingers that still fumbled at the clasp, the straps releasing a sigh of relief as the breasts settled, their weight tugging gently downward. The matching high-waisted panty followed, peeled away to reveal the flat chastity cage and the glued-on vaginal prosthetic, its dark pubic hair matted slightly from the night. She avoided looking too long; the sight twisted something deep in her gut, Saad's pride recoiling at the engineered femininity.

The water was soothing at first, poured over her head in slow cascades, rivulets tracing paths down her neck, between her breasts, over the hypersensitive skin of her stomach and thighs. Soap Ammi's homemade ubtan of turmeric and besan,frothed under her palms, applied in circular motions that made her skin glow but also sting faintly where the waxing had left it raw. She washed the prosthetic carefully, fingers parting the silicone lips to clean without disturbing the adhesive, the cool water sending unwelcome shivers through the cage's confines. It felt invasive, intimate, like tending to a part of herself that wasn't real yet demanded all the care of one. By the time she rinsed, her skin was flushed pink, scented with the earthy spice, and she toweled dry with quick pats, the terrycloth rasping against her smoothness.

Dressing was the morning's quiet battle. Back in her room, she selected from the wardrobe Ammi had stocked: a simple cotton saree in soft mint green, lightweight for the day's heat, with a thin silver border that caught the dawn light filtering through the window. First, the underlayers, fresh white cotton panty, high-cut for modesty, hugging the prosthetic mound snugly, the elastic band a gentle but insistent pressure around her hips. Then the bra, hooked and adjusted, cups cradling the breasts with a supportive lift that made them feel even more prominent, nipples brushing the lining with every breath.

The petticoat came next, starched cotton, tied at the waist with a firm knot, falling straight to her ankles. She pleated the saree on the bed, nine even folds that she gathered with practiced care (thanks to Ammi's endless tutorials), tucking the end into the petticoat at her navel. The fabric draped smoothly over her hips, the pallu thrown over her left shoulder in a loose Nivi style, pinned lightly to avoid slipping. It felt light, airy a far cry from the heavy Kanjeevarams , but still confining, the cotton absorbing the morning's humidity and clinging slightly to her curves. Accessories were minimal for a "house day": a thin silver mangalsutra chain around her neck, resting cool against her collarbone; glass bangles in green and white, four on each wrist, clinking softly as she moved; small silver jhumkas that swayed with her head; and a simple red bindi dotted on her forehead. No anklets today, Ammi said they were for evenings, but she slipped on flat chappals, the leather straps crossing her instep.

Makeup was quick: a touch of kajal to line her eyes, making them almond-shaped and expressive; a swipe of pink lip balm that tasted faintly of rose; and a spritz of ittar at her wrists and neck. She looked in the mirror one last time, Sameera, the dutiful daughter-in-law, ready for the day. Humiliation flickered: the reflection was too convincing, the sway of the saree too natural. But she straightened her pallu, smiled at herself, and stepped out.

The kitchen awaited, Ammi already at the stove, stirring upma with mustard seeds popping in ghee. "Good morning, beti. Help with the chutney?" Sameera nodded, voice lilting: "Ji, Ammi." She ground coconut and green chilies on the sil batta, the stone cool under her palms, the rhythmic motion pulling at her shoulders and making the breasts bounce subtly beneath the blouse. Breakfast was a family affair: Abbu at the head of the small dining table, newspaper folded, praising her "light hand with spices." Asif wolfed down his dosas, grinning: "Bhabhi, you make it better than Ammi!" The words landed like barbs, praise for domesticity that Saad would have scoffed at, but she laughed softly, serving seconds, the bangles tinkling against the steel plate.

Morning duties flowed seamlessly. After breakfast, Sameera swept the front veranda with a short broom, the saree hitched up slightly at her ankles to avoid dust, the cotton brushing her calves with each sweep. Sweat beaded on her forehead by 7:30 a.m., trickling down her temple and into the collar of her blouse, making the bra's lace itch against her skin. The sun climbed, turning the air thick; she wiped her brow with the pallu's edge, the fabric now damp and clinging to her back.

By 9 a.m., it was laundry time, hand-washing the family's kurtas in a large plastic tub on the balcony. Kneeling on the concrete, saree tucked into her petticoat to keep it dry, she soaped and scrubbed, the water sloshing over her wrists, suds foaming up to her elbows. The repetitive motion ached her arms, the breasts pressing forward against her thighs as she leaned in, a warm, heavy pressure that made her pause and adjust discreetly. Asif joined her halfway, hanging the clothes on the line, teasing: "Bhabhi, you're a pro. Rahim bhai is lucky."

Socializing ramped up after that. Ammi's weekly ladies' circle arrived at 10:30, three aunties in colorful salwars, bearing platters of sheer khurma. They settled on the living room floor cushions, Sameera serving chai in delicate glasses, kneeling gracefully to pour (Ammi had drilled the posture: back straight, pallu adjusted). The conversation swirled around her, gossip about neighborhood weddings, recipes for sheer malai, advice on "keeping a husband happy post-nikah." "Massage his feet after a long day, beti," one auntie said, winking. "And never argue in front of in-laws." Sameera nodded demurely, refilling cups, the saree's pleats pooling around her knees, the scent of attar and sweets thick in the air. Inside, humiliation boiled ,Saad, the arguer extraordinaire, now nodding to tips on foot rubs, but she chimed in sweetly: "Ji, aunty. I'll remember."

Lunch was her domain: biryani layered with saffron rice and mutton, cooked on the gas stove while the aunties napped. The heat from the flames made her forehead glisten, sweat soaking the blouse's armpits, the cotton saree sticking to her midriff like a second skin. She ate last, as per Ammi's rule, a small portion on a steel thali, the family praising her "tender meat." Afternoon prayers followed, Dhuhr on the jaanamaz, dupatta over her head like a veil, the mat's weave pressing into her knees as she prostrated. The prosthetic shifted during sujood, a slick, enclosed sensation that made her breath hitch, but she held the pose, whispering surahs in her softened voice.

The real test came at 4 p.m.: badminton with Asif. "Come on, didi! Fresh air," he insisted, dragging her to the narrow courtyard behind the building. She protested mildly "In this saree?" , but he laughed it off: "It's cotton! Light as a feather." She hitched the saree higher, pleats tucked into her petticoat at the waist, exposing calves but keeping modesty. The racket felt awkward in her bangle-laden hand, the first serve a weak lob that Asif smashed back. They played for twenty minutes rallies of laughter and shouts, her running side to side, the saree flapping against her legs, pallu slipping repeatedly until she pinned it with one hand. Sweat poured: down her back, between her breasts (the bra now a sodden cage), along her thighs where the panty chafed the prosthetic's edges. Her chappals slapped the concrete, breaths coming in gasps, the jhumkas swinging wildly. Humiliation peaked with each dive for the shuttlecock ,breasts bouncing painfully, the cage a jarring pressure but she laughed along, feigning delight: "This is fun, bhai! I could play all day."

By evening, exhaustion settled like dusk. She helped Ammi with dinner chapatis rolled thin, sabzi stirred then Maghrib prayer, the call to prayer a relief. Family time wound down with Abbu reciting Quran, Sameera seated cross-legged at his feet, eyes downcast, the day's sweat now a faint salty film on her skin. Dinner was simple: rice and rasam, eaten with hands, fingers sticky, bangles clinking against the bowl.

Bath again at 8 p.m. quicker this time, the water a balm on her overheated body, washing away the grime of badminton and kitchen heat. She changed into a fresh nightgown, this one floral-printed, the fabric cool against her cleansed skin. Bed by 9:30, after Isha prayer on the mat, body sinking into the mattress, breasts settling to the sides, the chastity a dull throb fading into sleep's edge.

But first, the call. At 9:45, phone in hand, she dialed Sajid, propping herself against pillows, nightgown's neckline modest.

"Assalamu alaikum, Sajid jaan," she purred, voice honeyed, ignoring the ache in her arms.

"Wa alaikum assalam, *Sameera begum*," he rumbled back, video flickering on.

"Oh, you won't believe my day," she gushed, twirling a strand of wig hair. "Up at dawn for prayers so serene. Cooked biryani that had everyone raving. Then badminton with Asif in my saree sweating like a real sportswoman, but I won two points! And the ladies' circle? They adore me. Tips on being the perfect wife. Rahim sends his love already. I'm blooming here, darling. Wish you could see how much I'm enjoying this feminine life. Makes me want to extend it sarees every day, mehendi weekly. Jealous yet?"

She lied through her smile, the day's humiliations fueling the brag, eyes daring him to crack.

Chapter 9: The Thirty Days of Preparation – Part 3

Sajid’s day unfolded like a slow march through territory he once claimed as easy ground, now every step reminded him how treacherous it truly was. This was a typical Tuesday in the third week of the thirty-day countdown, the rented flat still smelling faintly of new paint and the lingering attar he applied every morning to mask the growing itch of his beard.

The alarm pierced the darkness at 4:30 a.m. sharp. Sajid groaned, rolling over in the double bed that felt too large for one person. The cotton lungi twisted around his thighs during the night; he sat up, the prosthetic phallus and scrotum shifting heavily downward with gravity, a dull, pendulous tug that made him wince before he even opened his eyes. The beard, thick, dark, and now fully grown, scratched against the pillowcase like coarse wire. He scratched his jaw reflexively, nails rasping over the stubble, leaving red trails that burned.

Wudu first. In the bathroom, he splashed cold water on his face, the droplets clinging to the beard like dew on thorns. The mirror showed a stranger: broad shoulders from the slight hormone-induced muscle shift, jaw shadowed, eyes tired but determined. He wrapped a fresh white cotton topi over his head, the fabric pressing against his scalp like a subtle crown of duty.

Fajr at the mosque. The walk was short but brisk in the pre-dawn chill. Leather sandals slapped the pavement; each stride made the phallus sway, brushing the inside of his thigh through the thin lungi and briefs, an intimate pendulum he could never ignore. Inside the mosque, the air was thick with musk attar and the low murmur of men. He joined the back row, tall, bearded, anonymous, knees pressing into the prayer mat, the hard weave digging into his shins. During sujood, the scrotum rested against the mat, a warm, weighted pressure that made his breath catch. The imam’s voice rolled through the surahs; Sajid’s own deep timbre joined the chorus, the sound vibrating in his chest like borrowed thunder. Humiliation simmered beneath the surface: Safiya, who once mocked men for “performing piety like a show,” now performing it flawlessly among strangers who nodded at him with respect.

Back home by 5:45 a.m. He changed into a plain white kurta-pajama for the day, crisp cotton that felt loose and liberating compared to the tight salwars he knew Sameera endured. Breakfast was quick: two parathas reheated from yesterday, eaten standing at the kitchen counter, the phallus resting comfortably against his thigh when he leaned forward. No one to serve him. No one to praise him. Just silence and the faint clink of the steel plate.

Work began at 8 a.m. The small office in Triplicane Saad’s old space, welcomed him with stacks of files and the hum of the ancient AC. Clients arrived in waves: a textile merchant haggling over input tax credit, a shop owner confused by e-invoicing. Sajid sat behind the desk, legs spread in the swivel chair, the chair’s cushion pressing the prosthetic upward, a constant, subtle pressure. He explained GST slabs in his new gravelly voice, fingers flying over the keyboard, the beard itching under the fluorescent light. One client, an older man, slapped him on the back after a successful filing: “Good man, Sajid bhai. Strong head for business.” The praise landed like salt in a wound, masculine approval he once gave, now received, and it felt hollow.

Lunch was simple: a dabba of rice, dal, and vegetable curry delivered from a nearby mess. He ate alone at the desk, the spoon clinking, the phallus shifting every time he adjusted his position. Afternoon brought more meetings, a bank visit for a client’s loan papers, standing in queues, the heat making sweat trickle down his back and pool at the base of his spine, soaking the kurta. The topi grew damp, clinging to his forehead.

Asr prayer at the office masjid, a small room on the third floor. He rolled out his mat, joined the handful of men, the deep “Allahu Akbar” rumbling from his throat again. Leading the prayer today because the regular imam was late. He stood at the front, voice steady, guiding the congregation through the rakaats. The responsibility weighed on him like the topi, he felt exposed, fraudulent, yet the men followed without question. Humiliation twisted deeper: the man who once teased women for “emotional prayers” now leading them with perfect composure.

Evening brought community duties. The mosque youth group had organized a small charity collection drive; Sajid was roped in to carry heavy sacks of rice to the distribution point. The burlap scratched his forearms, the weight pulled at his shoulders, sweat soaking through the kurta until it clung to his back like wet paper. The phallus bounced uncomfortably with each step, scrotum swinging, a private torment amid the public goodwill. Boys called him “bhai” with admiration, offering him water, thanking him profusely. Each “thank you, bhai” was a small dagger.

Maghrib and Isha at the mosque again, two more sets of prostrations, knees aching by the end. He walked home under the streetlights, the night air cooling the sweat on his skin, the beard now stiff with dried salt.

Dinner was solitary: leftover biryani warmed in the microwave, eaten on the sofa with legs spread wide, the lungi loose. He watched a cricket match on the small TV, the commentary voices filling the empty flat. The phallus rested heavily against his thigh, a constant companion he could never escape.

At 10:15 p.m., the video call connected.

Sameera’s face appeared, fresh from her own bath, hair damp under a loose dupatta, nightgown modest, eyes bright with mischief.

“Assalamu alaikum, Sajid jaan,” she cooed.

“Wa alaikum assalam, *Sameera begum*,” he replied, voice low and smug, leaning back so the camera caught his broad shoulders and trimmed beard.

They launched into the nightly ritual.

“Another perfect day,” Sajid began, stretching his arms behind his head, letting the kurta pull across his chest. “Led Asr and Isha at the mosque, the boys practically worship me now. Closed three big accounts, carried rice sacks for charity like it was nothing. This masculine life? It’s effortless. Strong, respected, in control. I could do this forever. No fuss, no drama, just pure strength. You should try it sometime, oh wait, you never will.”

Sameera laughed softly, tilting her head so the light caught her kohl-lined eyes.

“Oh darling, I’m so happy for you. But honestly? I’m thriving more. Up at dawn for prayers, so peaceful in my corner. Cooked three meals today, Ammi says my biryani is better than hers. Played badminton in a saree, sweating and laughing the whole time. Ladies’ circle thinks I’m the ideal bahu. All this softness, this care, this beauty… it’s addictive. The way the saree drapes, the bangles sing, the way everyone looks after me. I feel so complete, so feminine. I might never want to go back. Jealous, *Sajid bhai*?”

He snorted. “Jealous? Never. Being a man is superior. Power, respect, freedom.”

She smiled sweetly. “And being a woman is divine. Grace, beauty, devotion. I choose this.”

They stared at each other through the screens, egos blazing behind the lies, each advocating their current gender with fierce, humiliating conviction, neither willing to admit how deeply the roles had begun to burn.

The call ended.

The flat fell silent.

Thirty days were ticking down.

Chapter 10: The Eve of Two Nikahs

The day before the wedding arrived like a held breath finally released heavy, humid, electric. Chennai simmered under a late-afternoon sun that turned the air into warm syrup. In the Iqbal Ahmed flat, the scent of henna and jasmine already hung thick, as if the house itself knew tomorrow would change everything.

Sameera’s Day – The Parlour

Sameera woke at 5:00 a.m., earlier than usual, the azan still echoing when she opened her eyes. The satin nightgown was damp against her back from night sweats; the silicone breasts felt heavier than ever, their weight a constant downward pull that made her shoulders ache before she even sat up. The chastity cage pressed flat beneath the prosthetic, the sealed smoothness now as familiar as breathing and just as suffocating.

Today was the final preparation: full bridal parlour treatment, booked by Ammi at a high-end salon in Nungambakkam known for “modest Muslim brides.” After Fajr and a hurried breakfast of idli and chutney (her hands trembling slightly as she served), Ammi, Aisha, and two aunties bundled her into an auto. Sameera wore a simple black burqa over a cotton salwar, niqab down, the mesh screen filtering the world into soft greys. Sweat began almost immediately the black fabric trapping the morning heat, beads forming along her hairline under the wig, trickling down her temples to soak the collar.

The parlour was air-conditioned heaven cool, scented with sandalwood and rose attar, soft ghazals playing low. They ushered her into a private bridal suite. The burqa came off first; the rush of cool air against her skin felt like a caress, goosebumps rising on her waxed arms and legs.

They started with the bath a large marble tub filled with warm water infused with milk, turmeric, rose petals, and sandalwood paste. Sameera stepped in naked except for the prosthetics, the water enveloping her like silk. The milk soothed the faint redness from weeks of waxing; the turmeric gave her skin a golden glow that made the silicone blend even more seamlessly. She lay back, eyes closed, while two attendants gently scrubbed her back, arms, legs, their hands gliding over every inch, the sensation both intimate and clinical. When they washed between her thighs, careful around the glued prosthetic, she felt the water lap against the silicone folds, a cool tickle that made her thighs clench involuntarily. Humiliation burned low in her belly: this body, prepared like a gift, wasn’t hers, yet it responded as if it were.

Next, threading. Eyebrows shaped into perfect arches, upper lip, chin,each pluck a sharp sting followed by cooling aloe. Tears welled from the pain; the attendants dabbed them away, cooing, “Beautiful bride must suffer a little for perfection.” Then full-body threading for stray hairs, the cotton thread snapping against skin already hypersensitive, leaving her raw and glowing.

Facial came after: a fruit pack of papaya and honey smeared thick, left to dry while they massaged her scalp with warm coconut oil scented with jasmine. The oil dripped down her neck, pooling at the base of her throat, the scent intoxicating. When the mask cracked and peeled off, her skin felt newborn, smooth, luminous, almost translucent.

Manicure and pedicure: nails shaped oval, painted deep maroon to match the wedding lehenga, topped with tiny gold foil accents. Toenails the same, feet soaked in rosewater until they felt soft as butter. Henna followed, the most elaborate yet. The artist worked for three hours, covering both hands and feet in intricate paisley, peacocks, and floral vines that climbed halfway up her forearms and calves. The cold paste tingled, then warmed, then began to itch as it dried. She sat motionless, arms outstretched on cushioned rests, feet propped, the scent of mehendi filling the room like earth after rain. Darkening meant love, they said. She stared at the patterns, the irony twisting like a knife.

Makeup trial: foundation blended to porcelain perfection, kohl thick and winged, false lashes applied one by one (each glue dot a tiny prick), cheeks dusted with rose-gold shimmer, lips stained deep berry that made them look fuller, softer. A small red bindi was dotted, then a maang tikka pinned into the wig, parting the waves like a crown.

By late afternoon, she was exhausted, skin glowing, hands and feet patterned, body scented and smoothed. Ammi paid, tears in her eyes: “My Sameera, tomorrow you become a begum.”

They stepped out into the humid evening.

The Unexpected Meeting

Outside the parlour, waiting near the auto stand, stood Priya.

Rahim’s real love, tall, fair, in a simple blue kurti and jeans, dupatta loosely draped, eyes nervous but kind. Rahim had arranged it secretly: “She wants to meet you once. To thank you.”

Priya approached, voice low. “Sameera? I’m… Priya. Thank you. For everything.”

Sameera’s heart thudded. The burqa was back on, niqab up, but she lifted it just enough to speak softly.

“Hello...”

Priya handed her a small cloth bag. “Gifts. For you. I know what you’re doing. It’s… brave.”

Inside: a delicate silver anklet with tiny bells, a pair of pearl studs, and a handwritten note: “May Allah make your path easy after this. You’re saving my life. I’ll never forget.”

Sameera’s throat tightened. The anklet felt cool in her hennaed palm. She nodded, voice muffled. “Take care of him.”

Priya’s eyes glistened. “I will. And you… take care of yourself.”

They parted quickly, the auto ride home silent except for the clink of Sameera’s new anklets against the floorboard.

Sajid’s Day – The Quiet Counterpoint

Across town, Sajid spent the day in deliberate solitude ,the calm before the storm he pretended to relish.

He woke at the same early hour, performed Fajr at the mosque, then returned to the flat. No parlour, no fuss. He trimmed his beard carefully with clippers, the buzz vibrating against his jaw, the mirror showing a man who looked ready l strong jaw, deep-set eyes, broad shoulders under the white kurta.

He spent the morning at the office, closing final files, handing over pending work to a junior with quiet instructions. Afternoon: a long walk along Marina Beach, kurta sleeves rolled up, the sea breeze cooling the sweat on his neck, the phallus swaying with each step, a familiar ache he’d learned to endure. He bought a new sherwani from a small shop in Parry’s Corner, cream silk with gold zari, simple but elegant. The tailor adjusted the shoulders, calling him “sir” with deference.

Evening: mosque again for Maghrib and Isha, leading one rakaat, the congregation’s murmured “Ameen” following his voice. He walked home, bought fresh dates and milk, ate alone on the balcony, watching the city lights flicker on.

No gifts. No meetings. Just the steady weight of what he’d become.

The Morning of the Nikah

Dawn broke soft and golden.

Sameera rose at 4:00 a.m., the flat already alive with women’s chatter. She bathed again quick, rose-scented then the lehenga arrived: heavy red velvet with gold zardosi, choli fitted like a second skin, dupatta sheer with gota work. The bra and panty underneath were new red lace, supportive, the fabric cool against her skin. The lehenga’s weight pulled at her hips as the women helped drape it; the choli squeezed her breasts until she could only take shallow breaths, nipples brushing the lining with every inhale. Jewellery cascaded: heavy jhumkas, layered necklaces, maang tikka, bangles up both arms, anklets (including Priya’s gift), nose ring, finger rings. Makeup reapplied ,bolder, bridal: kohl thick, lips scarlet, cheeks shimmering.

She looked in the mirror. A bride. The reflection stared back, eyes wide behind the makeup.

A decorated car waited white Maruti with marigold garlands. Sameera stepped out, burqa over the lehenga for modesty, niqab down. Ammi, Aisha, and aunties flanked her. The auto ride to Triplicane hall was short, the engine’s hum vibrating through the seat, the lehenga’s weight pressing her thighs together, sweat already forming under the layers.

Across town, Sajid dressed in the cream sherwani, beard oiled, topi pinned. A simple auto took him to Mylapore hall, the sherwani rustling, the phallus shifting with every bump.

Two halls. Two nikahs. Two egos marching toward collision.

The day had begun.