Pride in a Pallu

Chapter 11: The Knots Tied

The Triplicane marriage hall smelled of fresh marigolds, rose attar, and the faint metallic tang of the gas burners under massive degs of biryani. By 8:30 a.m., the women’s section was already a riot of silk, gold, and laughter. Sameera sat in the centre of it all, a living bride doll wrapped in layers of red velvet and expectation.

The lehenga weighed at least eight kilos, the heavy zardosi embroidery pulling downward on her shoulders, the choli so tightly fitted that each breath lifted her silicone breasts against the boned cups, creating a constant, warm pressure that bordered on ache. Beneath it all, the red lace bra and high-waisted panty hugged the prosthetic vagina and chastity cage in a cocoon of silk and adhesive. Every small shift of her hips reminded her: sealed, smooth, feminine. Priya’s silver anklet tinkled faintly under the lehenga’s hem, a secret whisper against the humiliation.

Ammi and the aunties had taken over the small bridal chamber like generals. They adjusted her dupatta a hundred times, pinned fresh jasmine gajra into the long black waves of the wig, reapplied kohl when a tear threatened to smudge it. “Don’t cry yet, beti,” one auntie teased, dabbing rosewater under her eyes. “Save the tears for after the nikah, when your husband sees how beautiful his wife is.”

Sameera smile, the trained, demure curve of scarlet lips that had become second nature. Inside, humiliation coiled tight: Saad, who once mocked wedding rituals as “women’s theatre,” now the centrepiece of one. The ladies circled her like bees around a flower.

First ritual: the haldi ceremony (delayed to morning for convenience). A paste of turmeric, sandalwood, and rosewater was smeared on her face, arms, neck ,cool at first, then warming, the yellow stain seeping into her pores, making her glow unnaturally bright. Fingers rubbed it into her cheeks, across the bridge of her nose, even along the line where the choli met skin. Each touch felt possessive, intimate; the ladies cooed, “Mashallah, kitni sundar lag rahi hai!” Sameera kept her eyes down, hands folded in her lap, the heavy gold bangles clinking softly, the mehendi patterns on her palms now dark chocolate-brown, a sign of deep love.

Then the women’s introduction to Rahim’s family. Rahim’s mother, Ammi-in-law-to-be, entered first, eyes already moist. She cupped Sameera’s face, thumbs brushing the turmeric paste, and whispered, “Beta, you are our light now.” Rahim’s younger sister Aisha hugged her tightly, the embrace pressing Sameera’s breasts against the girl’s shoulder, the silicone yielding realistically, sending a jolt of shame through her. Khala, the sharp-eyed aunt, inspected the jewellery, lifting Sameera’s wrists to check the bangles, commenting on the weight: “Good gold, heavy enough to remind you of your duties.” Sameera nodded, voice soft: “Ji, khala. InshaAllah, I’ll carry it all well.” The words tasted bitter.

More relatives came cousins, second aunts, each one touching her feet for blessing, kissing her forehead, gifting small envelopes of cash or gold coins. Sameera accepted everything with lowered gaze, murmuring “Shukriya” in her lilting voice, the dupatta slipping slightly to reveal the mang tikka glinting on her forehead. The constant attention, the touching, the compliments, all directed at this feminine form ,made her skin burn beneath the makeup. Yet she smiled wider, brighter, determined to appear the happiest bride.

Across town in the Mylapore hall, Sajid stood among the men, sherwani pristine cream silk, beard oiled to perfection, topi pinned neatly. The men’s side was quieter, more restrained: uncles smoking bidis outside, cousins joking about “taming the bride,” elders advising on marital duties. Sajid listened, nodded, offered occasional comments in his deep, steady voice: “Respect comes first, bhai. Then responsibility.” The men clapped him on the back, called him “strong groom,” “true man.” Each pat, each word of approval, landed like mockery. He advised a younger cousin on “leading the family with patience and prayer,” the words coming easily now, the phallus hanging heavy beneath the sherwani, shifting with every gesture. Humiliation simmered, but he masked it with calm authority.

The nikahs happened almost simultaneously 11:00 a.m. sharp.

In Triplicane, Sameera was brought to the women’s side of the hall, seated behind a floral screen. The qazi’s voice carried through: the offer, the acceptance. Rahim, on the other side, said “Qubool hai” three times, clear and firm. Sameera’s heart pounded; she whispered her own “Qubool hai” when prompted, voice trembling just enough to sound like bridal nerves. The document was signed, her new name, Sameera binti Iqbal Ahmed, inked beside Rahim’s. Witnesses stamped. Registered. Done.

In Mylapore, Sajid stood tall as Fatima’s guardian gave her away. “Qubool hai” three times from him, deep and resounding. Fatima’s soft acceptance followed. Signatures, stamps, registration. Sajid Ahmed, accountant from Madurai, now husband.

By 1:00 p.m., both parties had finished lunch, biryani for the men, lighter pulao for the women and converged on the nearby Semmozhi Poonga , a public botanical garden often rented for post-wedding photoshoots. The two halls were only fifteen minutes apart; the coincidence had been noticed, laughed over, and now exploited for “family bonding.”

The garden was lush with palms, lotus ponds, and shaded walkways. Photographers set up in the central lawn. Sameera arrived first burqa removed, lehenga fully revealed, the red velvet catching sunlight like fire. Rahim stood beside her, awkward but smiling. Then Sajid’s party arrived Fatima in lavender lehenga, shy and pretty; Sajid in cream sherwani, beard gleaming.

The photographers suggested group shots. First separate couples, then because “why not?” both couples together.

Sameera and Rahim posed under a banyan tree: her pallu draped over his shoulder, his arm around her waist. She leaned in slightly, smiling sweetly for the camera, the heavy lehenga pulling at her hips, breasts compressed, anklets tinkling. Across from them, Sajid and Fatima: his hand on her shoulder, her head slightly bowed.

Then the combined shots.

The four of them lined up Sameera beside Sajid, Rahim beside Fatima. The photographer called: “Smile, everyone! Like family!”

Sameera turned her head toward Sajid, eyes sparkling with mischief behind the makeup. “Looking very handsome, Sajid bhai,” she murmured under her breath, loud enough only for him. “The beard really brings out your… manliness.”

Sajid’s jaw tightened, but he smiled wider, arm sliding around Fatima’s waist for the pose. “And you, Sameera begum, are positively glowing. All that silk suits you. Enjoying being the centre of attention?”

Sameera adjusted her dupatta, letting the pallu slip just enough to reveal the heavy necklace nestling between her breasts. “Immensely. The weight, the shine, the way everyone looks at me… it’s divine. You should try a lehenga sometime.”

Sajid leaned in slightly for the next shot, voice low. “I prefer the sherwani. Strong, practical. No need to parade around like a jewellery box.”

Rahim and Fatima glanced between them, confused but smiling politely.

The photographer shouted: “Closer! Like real family!”

Sameera stepped nearer to Sajid, her lehenga brushing his sherwani. She whispered, “Admit it. You’re jealous of how effortlessly feminine I am.”

He replied through gritted teeth, smile fixed: “And you’re jealous of how naturally I command respect. No fuss. Just power.”

They posed back-to-back for one shot, then side-by-side again, each pushing the performance further Sameera fluttering her lashes at the camera, Sajid standing taller, shoulders broader. The humiliation burned in both, but neither would yield.

Finally, the shoot ended. Cars waited.

Sameera was escorted to Rahim’s family car a white Innova with “Just Married” ribbons. Ammi-in-law pulled her close, kissed her forehead. “Welcome home, beti.”

Sameera climbed in, lehenga pooling around her, the weight of the day settling on her like the velvet itself. She looked out the window as the car pulled away, catching one last glimpse of Sajid standing beside Fatima, sherwani pristine, beard oiled.

He met her eyes across the parking lot.

Neither waved.

The car turned the corner.

Sameera was going home to her in-laws’ house, to the next phase of the entrapment she and her husband had built together.

Chapter 12: First Night, First Day

The Rahim Khan residence in Mylapore was a spacious two-storey bungalow with marble floors, carved wooden doors, and the faint perpetual scent of agarbatti. By 10:30 p.m., the wedding guests had left, the hall echoes faded, and the house settled into a quiet hum of exhaustion.

Sameera was escorted upstairs by Rahim’s mother and sister. The bridal chamber was prepared: rose petals scattered on the double bed, fairy lights strung along the headboard, a tray of milk and dates on the side table. The lehenga had been changed for a lighter but still bridal nightgown sheer peach georgette over a satin slip, the neckline modest but the fabric clinging to every silicone curve. The dupatta was draped loosely over her shoulders, heavy gold jewellery removed except for the mangalsutra, bangles, and anklets. Her feet still bore the dark mehendi patterns, cool and slightly itchy in the AC.

Rahim entered after the women left, closing the door softly. He wore a simple white kurta-pajama, looking as awkward as she felt.

They stood facing each other in the centre of the room.

“Assalamu alaikum,” he said quietly.

“Wa alaikum assalam,” Sameera replied, voice soft, eyes lowered as trained.

A long silence.

Rahim cleared his throat. “Listen… we both know this is temporary. Six months. No need to… you know. I’ll sleep on the sofa in the study. You take the bed.”

Sameera exhaled relief, but also a strange twist of ego. “Thank you. I… appreciate it.”

They sat on opposite ends of the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under their weight.

Rahim rubbed his neck. “You were… incredible today. Everyone kept saying how lucky I am.”

Sameera’s lips twitched. “And you played the perfect groom. Very convincing.”

He looked at her really looked at the kohl-smudged eyes, the faint lipstick still on, the way the nightgown outlined the breasts she hadn’t chosen. “This must be hell for you.”

Sameera laughed a small, bitter sound. “Hell with silk and gold. But I’m managing. Better than I thought.”

Rahim nodded. “Same here. The beard still itches, but… I’m surviving.”

They spoke in low tones for half an hour about Fatima, about Priya, about the absurdity of it all. No intimacy. No touching. Just two people trapped in the same farce, sharing the weight.

Finally, Rahim gathered a pillow and blanket. “Goodnight, Sameera.”

“Goodnight… husband,” she said, the word dripping with irony.

He left for the study.

Sameera lay alone in the vast bed, the rose petals sticking to her back, the mangalsutra cool against her collarbone. The chastity cage pressed flat beneath the nightgown, a sealed reminder that no relief was coming. The breasts settled to the sides as she turned, heavy and warm. Humiliation washed over her in waves: the bridal bed, empty of any real consummation, yet she was the bride. She stared at the ceiling until sleep took her.

Across the city, in the rented flat, Sajid returned alone. Fatima had left immediately after the photoshoot “friend emergency in Bangalore,” she’d told everyone, a convenient lie. She’d taken her small suitcase and gone to the airport for a late flight, promising to return in a week. “I need to sort visa papers,” she’d whispered. “Thank you again.”

The flat was silent.

Sajid removed the sherwani, folded it carefully, stood in vest and lungi. The phallus hung heavy, the scrotum warm from the day’s confinement. He scratched his beard raw, the skin beneath red and irritated. He ate leftover wedding sweets straight from the fridge, then opened his laptop on the dining table.

Work real work waited. GST filings, client emails, a pending audit. He worked until 2 a.m., the blue screen light reflecting off his beard, the deep voice in his head narrating every keystroke. The prosthetic shifted uncomfortably as he crossed his legs; he adjusted it absentmindedly, cheeks burning. Alone in the flat, no one to perform for, the humiliation felt sharper: the man who once shared a bed with his wife, now sleeping alone in a rented space, body altered, pretending to be a husband to a woman who wasn’t even there.

He finally shut the laptop, lay on the sofa (the bed felt too large), and slept fitfully.

The First Morning After

Sameera woke at 5:00 a.m. to the soft knock of Ammi-in-law.

“Beta, time for Fajr.”

She rose, body stiff from the unfamiliar bed, the nightgown clinging where sweat had dried. Bath first: quick, rose-scented, careful around the prosthetics. The water revived her skin but also highlighted every sensation the adhesive edges, the sealed cage, the breasts moving freely without a bra yet.

Dressing: a simple but elegant cotton saree in pastel yellow, chosen by Ammi-in-law for “first day as bahu.” White cotton panty and bra first supportive, lifting the breasts until they sat high and prominent. Petticoat tied tight, saree draped with expert pleats, pallu pinned over the shoulder. Minimal jewelleries small jhumkas, glass bangles,l.

She descended to the kitchen.

Ammi-in-law waited with tea. “Make chai for everyone, beti. First duty.”

Sameera nodded, hands trembling slightly as she boiled milk, added cardamom, sugar, tea leaves. The bangles clinked against the steel vessel. She served breakfast idlis, sambar, chutney to the family: Rahim’s father at the head, mother beside him, sister yawning, Rahim last.

When she placed the plate before Rahim, he met her eyes briefly. “Thank you,” he murmured.

She smiled demurely. “You’re welcome… husband.”

The word hung between them.

The day unfolded in domestic rituals. Sweeping the veranda in the saree, pleats hitched up, anklets singing. Washing dishes, suds up to her elbows, the pallu slipping repeatedly until she tucked it into her waistband. Helping Ammi-in-law fold laundry, the scent of sun-dried cotton filling the room. Lunch preparation: chopping vegetables, the knife steady but her mind racing. Sweat beaded on her forehead, trickling down to the blouse’s neckline, soaking the bra. The breasts ached from constant movement; the prosthetic vagina shifted with every bend, a slick, enclosed reminder.

Afternoon: serving tea to visiting relatives, kneeling to pour, pallu adjusted perfectly, voice soft and respectful. Compliments rained: “What a beautiful bahu,” “Rahim is so lucky.” Each word was a small cut.

Evening: helping with dinner, stirring curry while the heat made her blouse cling, saree sticking to her back. Prayers at home Maghrib and Isha on the jaanamaz, dupatta over head, knees pressing into the mat, breasts forward in sujood.

By night, exhaustion settled like lead.

Across Town

Sajid woke at 6:30 a.m. no azan call, no one to wake him. The flat was empty. He performed wudu, prayed alone on the living room rug, the phallus pressing uncomfortably during prostration. Beard still itchy. He dressed in kurta-pajama, ate a quick breakfast of bread and jam, then headed to work.

The office felt normal clients, files, spreadsheets. He worked steadily, voice deep and commanding, men calling him “bhai” with respect. Lunch alone. Evening mosque prayers. Home by 9 p.m. to silence.

Fatima still in Bangalore.

He opened the laptop again more work, emails, quiet hours stretching.

The Nightly Call

Around 10:45 p.m., Sameera slipped into her room now the bridal chamber, roses removed, bed made fresh. She changed into a cotton nightgown, sat on the edge, and dialed first her “Ammi” (the fake mother from the arranged family).

“Assalamu alaikum, Ammi.”

“Wa alaikum assalam, beti! How was your first day?”

Sameera smiled, voice sweet. “Alhamdulillah, Ammi. I served everyone, cooked, prayed… Rahim’s family is so loving. I feel so settled. Like this is where I belong.”

Ammi cooed. “Mashallah. Keep being the perfect bahu. We’re proud.”

The call ended.

Then, Sajid.

The video connected.

Sameera, nightgown modest, hair loose, face glowing from the day’s rosewater ritual.

“Assalamu alaikum, Sajid jaan.”

“Wa alaikum assalam, Sameera begum.”

She leaned closer to the camera, eyes sparkling.

“Oh darling, you won’t believe how perfect my day was. Woke early, made chai for the whole family, served breakfast to my husband with my own hands. Cooked lunch, dinner, folded clothes, prayed so peacefully. Everyone keeps saying what a wonderful wife I am. The saree felt so natural, the bangles sang all day… I’m living the dream. This feminine life? It’s bliss. You should be jealous.”

Sajid, on the sofa in vest and lungi, beard shadowed, laptop still open behind him, forced a grin.

“Sounds nice. But my day? Woke up, prayed, went to work, closed deals, led prayers at the mosque, came home to peace and quiet. No drama, no endless serving. Just respect, strength, control. Being a man is effortless. Superior in every way.”

They stared at each other through the screens lies sharp as knives, egos refusing to bend.

Neither mentioned the empty bed, the silence, the ache.

The call ended.

Two houses. Two first nights. Two people still fighting the same war.

Chapter 13: A Week of Becoming

A week slipped by like sand through tightly clenched fingers quiet, relentless, reshaping.

Sameera’s life in the Khan household had crystallized into a daily cadence of devotion and detail. Each morning began at 4:45 a.m. with the soft chime of the azan. She rose from the marital bed (Rahim still sleeping on the study sofa every night), performed wudu with rose-scented water, and prayed Fajr on the small jaanamaz in the corner of the bedroom, dupatta draped over her head, knees pressing into the woven mat, silicone breasts shifting forward in sujood with a familiar, humiliating weight.

By 6:00 a.m. she was in the kitchen, cotton saree (today a soft lavender with thin silver zari border) already draped, pleats crisp, pallu pinned neatly. The white cotton bra beneath lifted her breasts high, the straps digging faintly into shoulders still tender from weeks of transformation. She made tea first cardamom, ginger, milk boiled just right then idlis steaming in the cooker, coconut chutney ground by hand, the sil batta cool under her palms. The bangles clinked rhythmically; the anklets (including Priya’s silver bells) tinkled with every step across the marble floor.

Serving became ritual. She placed the steel tumbler of tea before Rahim’s father with lowered eyes and murmured “Ji, Abbu.” Then his mother “Ammi-ji” who always patted her hand and said, “Perfect temperature, beti.” Rahim last, eyes meeting hers for a brief second of shared irony before he took the cup with a quiet “Shukriya.”

Bonding deepened in small, suffocating ways. Afternoons belonged to Ammi-ji: folding fresh laundry together on the balcony, the sun-warmed cotton smelling of detergent and Chennai dust, Sameera’s saree sticking slightly to her back as sweat formed under the blouse. Ammi-ji taught her family recipes subtle adjustments to the biryani masala, the exact moment to add saffron and praised her “soft hands” and “gentle touch.” Each compliment landed like a pinprick: Saad’s ego recoiling at being celebrated for domestic gentleness.

Evenings brought Aisha, the younger sister-in-law, now her closest confidante. One night after dinner, Aisha knocked softly on the bedroom door. “Bhabhi… can we talk?” Sameera sat on the bed in her nightgown, dupatta loose. Aisha curled up beside her, voice small: “I have this… boy from college. He’s nice, but I’m scared to tell Ammi.” Sameera listened, offered gentle advice “Take your time, be sure of your heart, speak to Ammi when you’re ready” the words flowing naturally from the role she inhabited. When Aisha hugged her tightly, cheek against Sameera’s shoulder, the silicone breasts yielded realistically, the warmth of another body pressing against them in innocent trust. Humiliation flooded Sameera: she was now the feminine confidante, the emotional support pillar, the soft place for another woman’s fears.

Nights remained chaste. Rahim returned to the study sofa after a brief goodnight. Sameera slept alone in the wide bed, mangalsutra resting between her breasts, the chastity cage a constant sealed pressure, the nightgown sliding over waxed skin. She stared at the ceiling, counting the days until the six months ended, yet strangely… not hating every second.

Across the city, Sajid’s week was steady, predictable, almost peaceful. Mornings: Fajr at the mosque, deep voice joining the chorus, men nodding in quiet respect. Work filled the days client meetings, GST filings, audits his gravelly tone commanding attention, beard now groomed daily, the prosthetic phallus a familiar, if still awkward, weight beneath his trousers. He led prayers twice at the office masjid, the congregation following his rakaats without question. Evenings: gym for an hour (the phallus shifting uncomfortably during squats), then home to silence, laptop open, work until midnight. No wife waiting. No duties beyond himself. The solitude was both relief and quiet wound.

Then came the tradition: one week after the nikah, both “brides” were to visit their “parents’ house” for a few days a customary break for the new bahu to spend time with her maternal family, and for the groom to be feted at his in-laws’.

Sameera at the “Parents’ House”

The Iqbal Ahmed flat welcomed her like a long-lost daughter. Ammi (the fake mother) pulled her into a tight hug the moment she stepped inside, jasmine ittar enveloping her. “My Sameera beti! Look how radiant you are!” Sameera returned the embrace, the soft cotton saree she wore today (sky blue with silver gota) pressing against Ammi’s body, breasts yielding in the hug. Abbu patted her head. Asif grinned and ruffled her hair like a real little brother.

The evening was gentle: chai on the balcony, gossip about the wedding, compliments on her cooking skills. Night came. Sameera was given the same small room she’d occupied before the wedding, but Rahim now officially her husband was expected to stay the night “as family custom.” They lay on the narrow double bed, separated by a bolster pillow, lights off.

Rahim whispered, “This is ridiculous.”

Sameera whispered back, “Tell me about it. But we’re doing it.”

They slept back-to-back, the bolster a soft wall, Sameera’s nightgown riding up slightly, the chastity cage pressing against her thigh, breasts settling heavily to one side. Humiliation in every breath: sharing a bed with a stranger, playing husband and wife for show.

Sajid at Fatima’s “In-Laws”

Fatima’s family in Tirunelveli had insisted Sajid come for two days. He arrived to warm welcomes Fatima’s father shaking his hand firmly, mother serving him extra sweets, brother Imran calling him “bhaiya” with respect. They treated him like the prized son-in-law: best seat at the table, praise for his “responsible nature,” questions about his work met with nods of approval. “A man like you will keep our Fatima happy,” Abbu said. Sajid smiled, accepted the adulation, the phallus shifting as he crossed his legs, the beard still itching faintly.

No wife waited for him at night. He slept alone in the guest room, fan whirring overhead, the silence louder than any noise.

The Nightly Call

At 11:15 p.m., video call connected.

Sameera, in her childhood room, nightgown modest, hair loose under a dupatta, face soft from the day’s rosewater ritual.

“Assalamu alaikum, Sajid jaan.”

“Wa alaikum assalam, Sameera begum.”

She leaned closer, eyes dancing with mischief.

“Oh darling, this week has been heaven. Serving my husband every meal, folding his clothes, listening to Aisha’s heartbreaks like a real sister-in-law. Ammi-ji says my hands are so gentle, my cooking perfect. Today at my parents’ house, Ammi hugged me so tight… and sleeping beside my husband? So peaceful. I feel so complete as a wife. Soft, cared for, feminine. Honestly? I’d rather stay this way forever. Being the wife is bliss. You should try it oh wait, you never will.”

Sajid, alone in the guest room, kurta unbuttoned at the collar, beard shadowed in the lamplight.

He laughed low. “Sounds sweet. But my week? Mosque prayers, work, respect everywhere. Fatima’s family treats me like a king best seat, extra food, calling me the ideal man. No endless serving, no emotional labour. Just quiet power. Being the husband is superior. I’d never trade it. You’re the one missing out, Sameera.”

She smiled wider, voice dripping honeyed venom. “Keep telling yourself that, *jaan*. Goodnight.”

The screen went dark.

Two people, two houses, two roles each clinging to the lie, each secretly burning from the truth.

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.

Chapter 15: Ooty Interlude

The idea came from Rahim one humid evening in the third week of the second month.

He waited until after dinner, when the house had quieted. Sameera was in the kitchen rinsing the last steel plate, lavender cotton saree tucked at the waist, pallu slipping slightly to reveal the damp curve of her back from the day’s heat. Rahim leaned against the doorway.

“Sameera,” he whispered. “I need a favour. A big one.”

She turned, drying her hands on the edge of her saree, bangles clinking softly. The silver anklet (Priya’s gift) tinkled against the tile. “What is it?”

“Priya and I… we want to go to Ooty. Just two days. A proper break. But my mother… she’ll never allow me to go alone with her. Not yet.”

Sameera understood instantly. She set the plate down. “So you want me to come along. As your wife. Cover story.”

Rahim nodded, eyes earnest. “We’ll book two rooms. You and I in one, Priya in the other. We’ll barely see each other. You can have your own space. Please.”

Sameera stared at him for a long moment. Then she smiled small, dangerous. “Fine. But only because I want to see the hills. And only if you pay for everything.”

Rahim exhaled in relief. “Done.”

The next morning, at breakfast, Ammi-ji was told. Rahim framed it perfectly: “Sameera and I need some time alone. Fresh air, new memories. Maybe… InshaAllah… some good news in the future.”

Ammi-ji’s eyes lit up. She clasped Sameera’s hennaed hands, kissed her forehead. “Of course, beta. Go. Relax. Enjoy each other. And come back with good news, hm?” She winked, the universal mother-in-law code for a baby.

Sameera blushed on cue cheeks warm under the faint rose blush she still wore daily and lowered her eyes. “Ji, Ammi-ji. InshaAllah.”

The plan was set.

Unbeknownst to anyone, Fatima had received an urgent email the same week: a last-minute architectural site visit in Ooty for her university project extension. The deadline was tight; she had no choice. She turned to Sajid that evening in the flat, laptop open.

“I have to go. Two days. I need someone to come with me it looks odd if I travel alone. Can you…?”

Sajid looked at her for a long second. Then he nodded. “Of course. Husband’s duty.”

They booked tickets for the same dates.

Coincidence, or perhaps the cruel humour of fate, placed both couples in the same boutique resort on the edge of Ooty "JOY FAMILY" Valley Heritage Stay two adjoining cottages with shared garden views.

Arrival Day

Sameera stepped out of the hired Innova at 4:17 p.m., the crisp hill air hitting her like a slap after Chennai’s humidity. She wore a modest yet elegant salwar-kameez for the journey: soft cream georgette with delicate zari embroidery, long dupatta draped over her head against the wind, the fabric whispering against her waxed skin. Beneath: white lace bra and high-waisted panty, the silicone breasts shifting gently with the car’s motion, the chastity cage a familiar, sealed pressure. Her feet were in flat kolhapuri chappals, silver anklets tinkling with each step on the gravel path.

Rahim and Priya followed, laughing quietly. They disappeared toward their cottage immediately.

Sameera carried her small suitcase toward the reception then froze.

Sajid was standing at the counter, checking in, cream kurta-pajama slightly rumpled from the drive, beard neatly oiled, topi absent for once. Fatima was beside him, laptop bag slung over her shoulder, already talking to the manager about early check-out tomorrow.

Their eyes met across the small lobby.

Time stuttered.

Sajid’s gaze travelled over her the soft swell of her breasts under the kameez, the gentle curve of her hips accentuated by the salwar drawstring, the way she carried herself now: shoulders relaxed, posture modest yet graceful, long dupatta framing her face like a halo. He swallowed. She looked… settled. Beautiful in a way that felt both alien and achingly familiar.

Sameera stared back. Sajid had changed too. The shoulders broader from subtle hormone effects and gym routine, beard fuller and darker, stance solid, confident. The man who once teased her about “fancy clothes” now wore simple cotton like it belonged to him. The weight between his legs she knew it was there shifted as he turned toward her.

“Assalamu alaikum,” he said, voice low, formal.

“Wa alaikum assalam,” she replied, equally measured.

A long silence.

Fatima glanced between them, confused. “You two… know each other?”

(She didn't know of Saad's transformation)

Sameera recovered first. “Remember the other couple during photoshoot,” she said smoothly. “From Chennai.”

Sajid nodded. “Small world.”

Fatima excused herself “I have to meet the site supervisor in twenty minutes” and left quickly, laptop in hand.

Rahim and Priya had already vanished into their cottage.

Only Sameera and Sajid remained in the garden path between the two cottages.

They stood awkwardly for a moment.

Then Sameera spoke, voice soft. “This is… unexpected.”

Sajid exhaled. “Very.”

They walked slowly toward the shared garden a small lawn with rose bushes and wooden benches. The evening light was golden, air scented with eucalyptus and wet earth.

At first, conversation felt foreign two strangers wearing each other’s skins.

But then, like a dam cracking, the old things slipped out.

“Do you remember the night we fought over who makes better biryani?” Sameera asked, sitting on the bench, dupatta slipping to her shoulder.

Sajid sat beside her not too close. “You threw the wet cloth at my head. I slept on the sofa.”

She laughed a real, soft sound. “And you still ate the leftovers next morning.”

They talked for an hour. Old fights. Old jokes. The way they used to steal kisses in the kitchen when the lights were low. The way they used to argue about everything and nothing.

Neither mentioned the bodies they now inhabited.

As dusk fell, people began to notice them an elderly couple on the next bench smiled, assuming they were husband and wife. A waiter passing by asked if “sir and madam” wanted masala chai. Sajid said yes without thinking.

The chai arrived. Sameera accepted the cup, fingers brushing his as she passed the sugar sachet. The touch was electric — innocent, yet loaded.

Later, they walked to the small market nearby.

Sajid stopped at a jewellery stall. Without asking, he picked up a pair of simple silver jhumkas with tiny blue stones. “These would suit you,” he said quietly.

Sameera stared. “You don’t have to...”

“I want to.”

He paid. She let him put them on his fingers brushing her earlobes, warm, careful. The earrings dangled, cool against her neck.

She looked up at him. “Thank you.”

He only nodded.

Night

Fatima returned late exhausted, said goodnight, and shut herself in her room with her laptop.

Rahim and Priya disappeared into their cottage early, door locked, lights dimmed.

Sameera and Sajid were left with the adjoining cottage one large double room, one king bed.

They stood at the threshold.

Sameera spoke first. “We can… do what we always do. Bolster in the middle.”

Sajid looked at her really looked. The way the night-lamp caught the curve of her cheek, the softness of her lips, the gentle rise of her chest with each breath.

He shook his head slowly. “Not tonight.”

She swallowed. “Then what?”

He stepped closer. “We sleep. Just sleep. Like we used to. Before all this.”

Sameera’s heart hammered. She nodded.

They changed in silence she into a simple cotton nightgown, he into vest and lungi. No words.

They lay down, lights off.

At first, distance.

Then, slowly like gravity they drifted closer.

Her back to his chest.

His arm came around her waist tentative, careful.

She didn’t pull away.

The warmth of his body, the familiar scent beneath the beard oil, the steady rise and fall of his breathing against her back.

Her breasts pressed softly against the mattress, the nightgown riding up to expose waxed thighs.

His phallus rested heavy against her hip through the fabric not demanding, just present.

Neither spoke.

But the silence was thick with memory.

Love quiet, stubborn, buried under layers of ego and transformation flickered back to life.

And the egos?

They still burned, fierce and unyielding.

Neither would say it first.

Neither would surrender.

But in that dark Ooty room, with the scent of pine drifting through the window, two changed bodies remembered what it felt like to simply belong to each other.