Chapter 16: Two Months In
Two months had passed since the nikahs long enough for novelty to fade into habit, for strangeness to become ordinary, for the body to forget it was ever different.
In the Khan household, the morning of a family wedding began at 5:15 a.m. Sameera woke before the alarm, the soft chime of her phone redundant now. She slipped out of bed without disturbing the bolster pillow that still separated her side from Rahim’s empty half (he had moved to the study sofa permanently, a silent agreement neither questioned). The room smelled faintly of the jasmine oil she had massaged into her scalp the night before a nightly ritual Ammi-ji insisted on for “lustrous hair.”
She performed wudu in the attached bathroom, the cool water on her face and arms a familiar shock. Today’s outfit had been chosen the previous evening: a heavy Banarasi silk saree in deep emerald green with gold zari jaal work across the border and pallu. The blouse matching green velvet, short-sleeved, fitted was already laid out on the chair. She began with the underlayers: fresh white cotton panty (high-waisted, seamless over the prosthetic mound), then the padded lace bra in nude that lifted her silicone breasts into perfect, natural shape. The straps settled into the faint grooves they had worn on her shoulders over weeks. The petticoat followed starched cream cotton, tied so tightly at the waist that it smoothed every curve and created the classic hourglass silhouette she now wore without conscious thought.
Draping the saree took twelve minutes a process that had once required three attempts and multiple safety pins. Now the pleats fell in even, crisp folds with a single flick of the wrist; the pallu cascaded over her left shoulder in a perfect arc, pinned discreetly at the waist and shoulder. She adjusted the pleats at the navel so they sat just below the blouse hem, exposing a thin strip of midriff that caught the morning light. The weight of the silk pulled pleasantly on her hips; the zari threads glinted with every movement.
Jewellery next. The heavy gold bridal set had been replaced by everyday pieces, but today called for more: layered gold necklace with emerald pendant resting in the cleavage created by the bra, matching jhumkas that brushed her neck with cold metal kisses, glass bangles mixed with gold ones (twenty on each wrist, the sound a constant soft chime), thick gold bangles on upper arms, a slim gold waist chain that rested against her skin under the saree, anklets (Priya’s silver bells now joined by heavier gold ones), nose pin, maang tikka pinned into the centre parting of the long black wig, and a large red bindi centred on her forehead. She applied kohl thicker than usual, winged at the corners, mascara, rose-gold eyeshadow, blush, and deep maroon lipstick that made her lips look fuller, softer.
She looked in the full-length mirror. Sameera stared back poised, elegant, every inch the married daughter-in-law ready for a wedding. The reflection no longer shocked her. It simply was.
Aisha knocked softly. “Bhabhi, help me with my lehenga?”
Sameera smiled. “Come in, jaan.”
Aisha’s lehenga was rose-pink georgette with silver gota work. Sameera helped her hook the choli, drape the dupatta, pin the jewellery small silver jhumkas, delicate necklace, bangles. While doing so she chatted easily: “This colour suits your skin so well. Remember to keep the dupatta pinned at the shoulder it keeps slipping otherwise.” Aisha hugged her impulsively. “You’re the best bhabhi in the world.”
Downstairs, Ammi-ji waited in the living room, already in her maroon saree. “Sameera, beta, come taste the sweet. I added extra cardamom the way you like.” Sameera knelt beside her, accepted the small piece of kesari, nodded approval. Abbu-ji looked up from his newspaper: “You two look like sisters today. Beautiful.” Rahim entered, sherwani half-buttoned, and gave her a small, private smile. “Ready?”
“Always,” she replied softly.
The family left in two cars. Sameera wore a black burqa over her saree for the journey the silk rustling beneath the flowing fabric, the niqab mesh filtering the world into soft greys. The drive to the wedding hall in Anna Nagar was filled with chatter: Ammi-ji discussing the bride’s trousseau, Aisha showing Sameera photos on her phone, Rahim occasionally glancing at her in the rear-view mirror.
At the venue, the women’s side was a riot of colour and perfume. Sameera removed the burqa in the privacy of the changing room, folding it carefully. The emerald saree caught every eye as she stepped out. Relatives swarmed: cousins kissing her cheeks, aunts complimenting her glow (“Marriage suits you, beti”), older women pulling her to sit beside them. “How is married life treating you?” one asked. Sameera smiled demurely. “Alhamdulillah, aunty. Very peaceful. Rahim is kind.”
Another auntie leaned in: “Any good news yet?” Sameera blushed on cue, lowered her eyes. “InshaAllah soon.” The women laughed knowingly, patting her hand.
She gossiped with them like she belonged commenting on the bride’s lehenga (“The zardosi is exquisite”), the groom’s family (“Very cultured people”), the catering (“The biryani has just the right ghee”). She served sherbet to elders, adjusted Aisha’s dupatta when it slipped, helped a distant cousin pin her pallu. Every gesture was automatic now, every smile practiced perfection.
Humiliation still flickered faint but persistent. When an auntie praised her “soft voice and gentle manners,” when she caught her reflection in a mirror adjusting her pallu with hennaed hands, when she felt the weight of the saree and jewellery reminding her of the body beneath it stung. But the sting had dulled. She was no longer fighting the role. She was living it.
Across town, Sajid’s day unfolded differently.
Fatima’s father had surprised him that morning with a gift: a Royal Enfield Classic 350, matte black with chrome accents, parked outside the flat with a red ribbon tied to the handlebar. “For my son-in-law,” the older man said gruffly over video call. “A man needs reliable transport. And this one has character.”
Sajid ran his hand over the tank, the metal cool under his palm. “Thank you, Abbu. It’s… perfect.”
He rode it to the mosque for Zuhr, the engine’s deep thrum vibrating through his body, the wind tugging at his kurta sleeves, the phallus shifting with each gear change. At the mosque he led the prayer standing at the front, voice deep and steady, the congregation following without hesitation. The imam clapped him on the shoulder afterward: “Sajid bhai, you should lead more often. You have presence.”
Fatima was busy laptop open, sketching site plans, attending online meetings. She barely looked up when he returned. “I’ll be late tonight,” she said absently. He nodded, made himself tea, sat on the balcony watching the city lights come on.
That night, the call came at 10:45 p.m.
Sameera appeared on screen in a simple cream cotton nightgown, hair loose, mangalsutra resting between her breasts. Her face was calm, almost content.
Sajid sat on the sofa, kurta unbuttoned at the collar, beard shadowed in the lamplight.
“Assalamu alaikum,” he said quietly.
“Wa alaikum assalam,” she replied, voice soft.
A pause.
Sameera spoke first. “Today was a wedding function. I helped Aisha get ready, served everyone, talked with all the aunties… It felt so normal. Like I’ve always been here. Ammi-ji keeps saying I’m the perfect bahu. Even Abbu-ji asked my opinion on the new inverter. Everything is… peaceful.”
Sajid nodded slowly. “Abbu gave me a Royal Enfield today. Rode it to the mosque. Led Zuhr prayer. Everyone treats me like I belong. Work is steady. Fatima is busy with her projects. The flat is quiet.”
Another pause.
Sameera looked down at her hands, bangles glinting faintly. “My life is perfect on paper. The family, the house, the duties… I fit. But sometimes, when the house is quiet at night, something feels… missing.”
Sajid exhaled. “Same here. Respect, responsibility, everything a man should want. Yet there’s this… emptiness. Like I’m waiting for something that isn’t coming.”
Their eyes met through the screens.
The egos had cracked just a hairline fracture, but visible.
Then Sajid spoke, voice low, almost hesitant.
“Sameera… why don’t we have a date?”
She blinked.
“A date?”
“Just us. No families, no pretence. Like before. One evening. Coffee. Or a walk. Whatever. No expectations.”
Sameera stared at him for a long moment.
Her lips curved small, genuine.
“I’d like that.”
Neither smiled fully. Neither surrendered.
But the crack had widened.
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.
