Pride in a Pallu

Chapter 21: The Perfect Son-in-Law

Four months after the transformations, three since the nikahs, Sajid had stopped counting the days in terms of escape. He counted them now in terms of belonging.

The rented flat no longer felt temporary. The sofa had a permanent dent from his evening weight; the small balcony held a single plastic chair where he sat every night with tea, watching the city lights. Fatima was still there, physically present more often now, visa paperwork spread across the dining table like a map of her future, but emotionally distant, her mind already halfway to Germany. They shared meals, polite conversation, separate beds. No pretense of intimacy. Just two people waiting out the clock.

But the real home for Sajid had become Fatima’s family house in Tirunelveli.

He went there every other weekend now. The textile godown had slowly become his second office. Fatima’s father, Abbu, as he now called him, had started inviting him into the inner workings: ledger books, supplier negotiations, inventory checks. At first it was casual,“beta, look at this consignment sheet”,but soon it became expectation. “Sajid, you handle the GST filing for the new stock. You know the slabs better than me.”

Abbu trusted him with the keys to the godown safe. One Sunday, over filter coffee in the small office room behind the bales of cotton, Abbu handed him the duplicate key ring without ceremony.

“Keep this,” he said gruffly. “You come and go as you need. The business is yours to learn. When I retire… it will be yours to run.”

Sajid took the keys. His fingers, thicker now, calloused from gym bars and bike grips, closed around the metal. He felt the weight of generations in that small ring.

“Thank you, Abbu,” he said quietly. “I won’t let you down.”

Abbu looked at him for a long moment. “I know you won’t. You’re steady. Responsible. A man who keeps his word.”

The words landed like stones in still water. Steady. Responsible. A man.

Sajid rode back to Chennai that evening on the Royal Enfield, the keys jingling in his pocket, the engine’s deep thrum matching the pulse in his throat. He had become the son-in-law they prayed for, strong, dependable, respected. The mosque elders now greeted him by name; the youth group asked him to lead discussions on “being a good husband and provider.” He spoke with authority, voice deep and measured, and they listened.

Fatima’s mother, his Ammi, had begun treating him like her own son. She packed extra sweets for him every visit, slipped him homemade pickles in plastic containers, asked after his health with the same worry she showed Imran. “Beta, eat properly. Don’t skip meals because of work.” When he helped carry heavy sacks of rice to the godown storage, she stood at the doorway watching, then quietly said, “Allah has given us a good son-in-law.”

Imran, Fatima’s older brother, had gone from protective grilling to easy camaraderie. They played carrom on Sunday afternoons; Imran no longer let him win. “You’re strong now, bhaiya,” he teased, flicking the striker hard. “No more mercy.”

Sajid laughed, deep, genuine,and flicked back harder.

From Abbu’s point of view, Sajid was everything he had hoped for in a daughter’s husband.

He had watched the boy arrive nervous, shoulders stiff, beard new and awkward. Now he saw a man: broad, calm, reliable. The way Sajid sat with the account books, pen moving steadily, never needing to be told twice. The way he lifted heavy bales without complaint, sweat darkening his kurta but posture never slumping. The way he listened to Ammi’s small complaints about the house help and quietly arranged for a replacement. The way he led Maghrib prayer when Abbu was tired, voice steady, the whole family following behind him.

Abbu sat on the veranda one evening, watching Sajid help Imran unload a new consignment from the truck. The boy, no, the man, lifted two sacks at once, muscles flexing under the kurta, placed them neatly in the godown, wiped his forehead with his sleeve, then came to sit beside Abbu with two glasses of nimbu pani.

“Everything okay, Abbu?” Sajid asked.

Abbu looked at him, really looked. The beard full and groomed, the eyes calm, the shoulders carrying weight without bending.

“More than okay,” Abbu said quietly. “You are the son I never had.”

Sajid looked down at his glass, throat working.

Abbu placed a hand on his shoulder. “When i grow senile… you will stay. This house, this business, it needs you. And we need you.”

Sajid nodded once, unable to speak.

Abbu prayed that night in the small masjid attached to the house: Ya Allah, keep this son-in-law in our lives. Let him never leave. Let him give us grandchildren. Let this family remain strong.

The perfect daughter-in-law, Abbu thought, is not always female.

The perfect son-in-law is not always male.

Across the city, Sameera went shopping alone that afternoon.

Rahim was at work; Ammi-ji had given her the day off with a knowing smile and a small envelope of cash, “Buy something pretty for yourself, beti.”

Sameera took an auto to T. Nagar. She wore a simple sky-blue cotton saree, burqa over it for the ride. In the changing room of a modest lingerie boutique, she removed the burqa and saree carefully.

She stood in her white cotton bra and panty, looking at herself in the three-way mirror.

The body was hers now, curves soft and settled, breasts full and high, waist nipped, hips rounded. She reached behind, unhooked the bra. The breasts settled with their natural weight, nipples dark and responsive to the cool air. She cupped them, felt the realistic give, the faint tug of adhesive no longer noticeable. A small shiver ran through her.

She tried on a new set: blush-pink lace bra and matching high-waisted panty. The bra lifted and shaped perfectly; the panty smoothed the prosthetic mound seamlessly, the lace soft against her inner thighs. She turned sideways in the mirror,hourglass silhouette, gentle swell of breasts, flat front, smooth lines. Feminine. Beautiful.

She bought three sets. Then moved to the saree section next door. She chose a soft chiffon in rose-gold with silver sequins, another in deep teal georgette, a third in pearl-white cotton-silk blend. She held them against herself, imagining how they would drape, how the pallu would fall, how the zari would catch light when she moved.

She paid with the cash Ammi-ji had given her, thanked the shopkeeper demurely, and left with the bags.

Across town, Sajid was at the local gym.

He had started lifting heavier weights in the last month, deadlifts, squats, bench presses. Today he loaded the bar with 140 kg for deadlifts. The gym was quiet; only the clank of metal and the low hum of fans.

He gripped the bar,calloused palms, thick fingers, took a deep breath, braced his core. The prosthetic phallus shifted slightly in his compression shorts as he pulled. The bar came off the floor smoothly; his back stayed flat, legs drove, shoulders shrugged at the top. He held for a second, then lowered with control.

The trainer nodded approvingly. “Good form, bhai. You’re getting stronger every week.”

Sajid racked the bar, breathing hard, sweat running down his neck into the collar of his kurta. He looked at himself in the gym mirror: broad shoulders, thick arms, solid chest, beard dark and full, jaw set. Masculine. Powerful.

He wiped his face with the towel, felt the weight of the bar still in his grip.

The perfect daughter-in-law is not always female.

The perfect son-in-law is not always male.

That night, both of them, miles apart, sat alone in their rooms.

Sameera opened her wardrobe, hung the new sarees carefully, folded the lingerie sets in the drawer beside the bras and panties she now owned in every shade.

Sajid stood before his mirror, shirt off, looking at the body he had built: muscles defined from lifting, chest broad, arms thick. He flexed once, watched the biceps rise.

Neither spoke.

But in the silence, the same thought echoed.

This body is mine now.

And yet…

Neither of them could forget the old photographs hidden in their drawers, the ones of Saad and Safiya, arms around each other, laughing without masks.

The clock kept ticking.

Three months remained.

Chapter 22: Month 4 – The Threads Tighten

Four months into the marriages, the plan had moved from whispered possibility to quiet execution.

Fatima’s visa was confirmed: interview cleared, departure ticket booked for the last day of month six. She would vanish after a staged “family emergency in Bangalore,” leaving a short note for her parents. Sajid would issue talaq the next week, quiet, private, no drama. Rahim and Priya had already scouted a small flat in Gos; Rahim was quietly transferring funds, updating his resume for tourist firms there, telling his family he was “exploring new opportunities.” They would elope the same week Fatima left, civil marriage in Goa, then settle south as a “newly-wed couple who met through family friends.”

Everything aligned for month six end.

Until the unexpected wedding.

Ammi-ji’s younger sister’s daughter, Farida, was getting engaged to Fatima’s uncle’s son, Zubair. The families had never formally met; the match had come through a distant relative. Now both sides were insisting on a joint engagement ceremony in Chennai “to bring the two families closer.”

The venue: a private banquet hall in Anna Nagar. Neutral, elegant, large enough for both sides to mingle without suspicion.

Sameera arrived with the Khan family. She wore a deep maroon georgette saree with heavy silver zardozi work on the borders and pallu, the fabric flowing yet structured, accentuating every curve she had learned to carry with grace. Beneath: matching maroon lace bra and high-waisted panty set (lightly padded bra lifting her breasts into soft prominence, the lace cool against waxed skin), cream silk petticoat tied snug. The saree draped flawlessly, pleats sharp, pallu cascading over left shoulder, thin midriff sliver exposed. Jewellery: full bridal set today (layered gold necklace with ruby pendant nestling in cleavage, heavy jhumkas brushing neck, glass + gold bangles twenty each wrist, thick upper-arm gold bangles, slim gold waist chain under saree, Priya’s silver anklets + heavier gold pair, nose pin, maang tikka in wig parting). Makeup: thick winged kohl, rose-gold shimmer, deep berry lips. She arrived in black crepe burqa, removed it only inside the women’s section.

Rahim stayed close, hand occasionally brushing her lower back, possessive even now.

Sajid arrived with Fatima and her family. He wore cream sherwani with subtle gold zari, beard oiled and neat, shoulders broad under the fabric. Fatima in lavender anarkali, hijab pinned, looking distracted but polite. Priya came separately, simple peach salwar-kameez, dupatta loose.

The moment the two parties entered the main hall, eyes met.

Sameera froze mid-step beside Ammi-ji. Sajid paused beside Fatima’s uncle.

Ammi-ji beamed at Fatima’s mother. “Mashallah, what a beautiful family! Your daughter-in-law-to-be is glowing.”

Fatima’s mother smiled back. “And your bahu, Subhanallah, so graceful. She carries herself like she was born for this house.”

The bragging began almost immediately.

Ammi-ji pulled Sameera forward. “This is our Sameera. The way she runs the house… every meal perfect, never raises her voice, prays five times without fail. Abbu-ji says she has a better head for decisions than most men.”

Fatima’s mother nodded proudly toward Sajid. “And this is our Sajid. Steady as a rock. Handles the godown accounts better than my husband now. Leads prayers at the mosque, everyone respects him. A real man.”

Sameera and Sajid stood a few feet apart, eyes locked in the crowd.

Rahim’s hand rested on Sameera’s elbow, protective, possessive.

Sajid’s jaw tightened; his fingers flexed at his side.

They were introduced formally.

“Assalamu alaikum,” Sameera said, voice soft and measured, eyes lowered demurely.

“Wa alaikum assalam,” Sajid replied, voice deep, formal, gaze steady.

Ammi-ji laughed. “Look how shy they are! Like they’ve never met.”

Fatima’s mother chuckled. “Our Sajid is always serious. But once you know him, he’s a gem.”

Rahim smiled tightly. “Sameera is the heart of our home. We’re lucky.”

The teasing started in whispers when the elders moved away.

Sameera stepped closer to the dessert table; Sajid followed under the pretext of taking a plate.

She murmured, low enough for only him: “Looking very respectable, Sajid bhai. That sherwani really brings out your… seriousness.”

He leaned in, pretending to reach for gulab jamun. “And you, Sameera begum, are positively radiant. That saree makes you look like you were born to be someone’s perfect wife.”

She fluttered her lashes once, mocking. “Jealous?”

His voice dropped. “Of the pallu? Or the way every aunty here wants to adopt you?”

She smiled sweetly. “Both, maybe. You should try wearing one sometime. The swish is addictive.”

He snorted softly. “I prefer trousers. Less drama.”

They parted before anyone noticed.

Later, during the ring exchange ceremony, the crowd pressed close. Sameera and Sajid ended up shoulder to shoulder behind the main family.

Her dupatta brushed his arm.

He leaned down, breath warm against her ear. “Still hate the beard?”

She tilted her head slightly, lips curving. “Still hate these?” ,her voice barely audible, eyes flicking down to her own chest.

A low, reluctant chuckle escaped him.

The ceremony ended. People began to mill about for photos.

Sameera excused herself,“Need to fix my pallu”,and slipped toward the corridor leading to the restrooms.

Sajid waited thirty seconds, then followed.

The corridor was empty.

She entered the women’s restroom; he waited outside, then slipped in after her when no one was looking.

The door clicked shut.

He moved fast, pinned her wrists above her head against the tiled wall with one large hand. His body pressed close, chest to her breasts, hips to hips, the solid line of his prosthetic against her lower belly.

She gasped softly, back arching slightly, breasts pressing harder against him through the blouse.

He leaned in, beard brushing her cheek, voice low and rough.

“If I was still a woman… I’d know exactly what you’re feeling right now. Every ache, every flutter, every time the lace rubs just right and you can’t do anything about it.”

Sameera’s breath hitched. Her lips parted, berry lipstick glossy under the fluorescent light.

She tilted her chin up, defiant, witty.

“And if I was still a man… I’d know exactly how hard you’re trying not to react to a married woman pressed against you like this.”

The perfumes collided, her jasmine-rose attar sweet and heady, his musk-attar deep and warm, intoxicating in the small space.

His free hand slid to the top hook of her blouse, flicking it open slowly. The maroon velvet parted just enough to reveal the edge of the lace bra, the swell of her breasts rising with each quick breath.

“Nice bra,” he murmured, thumb brushing the lace edge. “Very… feminine.”

She arched a brow, voice breathy but sharp.

“I’m a married woman, Sajid bhai. Shouldn’t you be ashamed?”

He smiled,slow, dangerous.

“Shouldn’t you?”

Then he kissed her.

French,deep, open-mouthed, tongues meeting in slow, hungry strokes. Her wrists still pinned, body arched against the wall, breasts crushed to his chest. His free hand cupped her jaw, tilting her head, deepening the kiss until they both tasted salt and rose and musk.

When they broke apart, gasping, foreheads pressed together, both were flushed.

Her kohl slightly smudged.

His beard damp at the edges.

They stared at each other,eyes wide, breathing ragged.

No words.

Just the shared heat, the shared secret, the shared knowledge that the clock was still ticking.

They straightened clothes quickly, blouse re-hooked, pallu adjusted, burqa slipped back on outside the door.

Back in the hall, no one had noticed.

Sameera rejoined Rahim, who placed a possessive hand on her waist.

Sajid rejoined Fatima, who slipped her arm through his.

Both couples smiled politely through the rest of the evening.

But when they left, two bikes pulling out of the parking lot, Sameera’s cheeks burned beneath the niqab.

Sajid’s ears felt hot beneath the helmet.

And everyone who saw them drive away noticed the same thing:

Both of them were blushing.

Chapter 23: The Final Countdown

The last two months before the end date passed like a slow, deliberate unravelling, every day a thread pulled taut, every night a reminder that the knot would soon come undone.

Sameera embraced the role completely in those final weeks. Not because she had stopped fighting, but because she told herself: it will be over soon. The humiliations no longer felt like attacks; they were simply the texture of the days. She leaned into them, determined to be the best daughter-in-law, the best wife, the most perfect version of Sameera Khan anyone could imagine.

Mornings began at 4:40 a.m. She rose before the azan, performed wudu with rose-scented water, prayed Fajr on the jaanamaz in the corner, breasts shifting forward in sujood with quiet acceptance. Then the kitchen: today a soft peach chiffon saree with silver sequins, draped so flawlessly the pleats never slipped even when she bent to light the gas. White lace bra and high-waisted panty beneath, smoothing every curve, the bra lifting her breasts into gentle prominence. She made tea the way Abbu-ji liked it,extra ginger, no sugar,parathas rolled thin and crisp, aloo sabzi spiced just right. When Ammi-ji came in, Sameera greeted her with folded hands and a soft “Assalamu alaikum, Ammi-ji,” . Ammi-ji cupped her face, kissed her forehead. “My beti, what would this house do without you?”

Sameera smiled,demure, genuine. “I’m happy here, Ammi-ji.”

Afternoons were for bonding. She and Ammi-ji sat on the balcony shelling peas or sorting rice, talking about everything: Aisha’s college fest outfits, Abbu-ji’s blood pressure diet, neighbourhood gossip. Ammi-ji confided more freely now,“You know, beta, sometimes I worry about Rahim. He’s so quiet these days.” Sameera listened, offered gentle advice: “He carries a lot, Ammi-ji. Give him time. He’ll open up.” Ammi-ji squeezed her hand. “Allah has given me the perfect bahu.”

Aisha treated her like blood. They bathed together twice a week now,big bucket of rose ubtan, laughter echoing off tiles, Sameera massaging shampoo into Aisha’s hair, Aisha scrubbing Sameera’s back. Nakedness felt sisterly, innocent; the prosthetic body was just… Sameera. Aisha never questioned. She only said, “Bhabhi, your skin is so soft. Teach me your routine.” Sameera laughed, “It’s just oil and patience, jaan.”

Abbu-ji’s love showed in silence. He began asking her to sit with him during Quran recitation in the evenings; she listened with dupatta over head, eyes downcast. When she finished a difficult recipe, mutton biryani layered perfectly, he ate two full plates, then placed a hand on her head as he left the table. “Allah keep you, beta.” Sameera’s eyes filled; she nodded, throat tight.

Even with Rahim the role felt real. He still slept on the sofa, but their late-night whispers had become ritual: he’d knock softly, sit on the bed’s edge, talk about Priya’s latest messages, the flat in Coimbatore, the countdown. Sometimes he rested his head on her shoulder; she stroked his hair like a wife comforting her husband. The bolster pillow stayed, but the distance between them felt smaller.

She was the best daughter-in-law. The best wife. And every night, when the house slept, she told herself: just a few more weeks.

Across the city, Sajid had become indispensable.

The textile godown now ran smoother under his eye. He reorganized the ledger system, caught a supplier overcharging on cotton bales, negotiated better rates with two new mills. Abbu clapped him on the back after every success: “You’re saving us money, beta. This business will grow with you.” Fatima’s mother packed him extra biryani every visit; Imran now called him “bhaiya” without irony and asked for advice on his own small side business.

Sajid lifted heavier weights at the gym, deadlifts up to 160 kg now, squats solid, shoulders broader still. The prosthetic had become background; he adjusted it absentmindedly, no longer blushing. He led prayers at the mosque three times a week; the imam now asked him to give short talks on “responsibility in marriage.” The men listened, nodded, called him “Sajid bhai” with real respect.

Fatima was packing in earnest,suitcase half-filled, visa documents in a folder. She spoke little, but once, over late-night tea, she said quietly: “Thank you, Sajid. For all of this.” He nodded. “Go build your life. I’ll be fine.”

Every night, the video call.

Sameera in soft cream nightgown, hair loose, gold glinting.

Sajid on the sofa, kurta collar open, beard shadowed.

They no longer bragged.

They talked.

“Today Ammi-ji gave me the locker key,” Sameera said one night. “Told me to keep it safe. Like I’m really staying.”

Sajid exhaled. “Abbu gave me the godown duplicate keys. Said the business will be mine one day.”

They looked at each other through the screens,long, quiet.

“I miss you,” Sameera whispered.

“I miss you too,” Sajid replied.

No more lies. No more pretending the roles were perfect.

Just the truth, raw and aching.

The day before the end-date arrived.

Sameera sat on the bridal bed, nightgown loose, phone in hand. The call connected at 11:03 p.m.

Sajid’s face appeared,beard trimmed, eyes tired but clear.

“Tomorrow,” he said quietly.

“Tomorrow,” she echoed.

A long silence.

Sameera spoke first. “The reversal… we can do it the day after Fatima leaves. Clinic in Aminjikarai. Dr. Arif will reverse everything. We’ll be us again.”

Sajid nodded slowly.

Then he said, “But… what if we wait a few days?”

She blinked.

“A few days?”

“Just… stay like this. As a couple. No families. No pretending. Just us. In the old flat. Or somewhere new. Sleeping in the same bed. Waking up together. Being… married. For real. For a little while.”

Sameera’s breath caught.

“You mean… keep the bodies?”

“For a few days,” he said. “See what it feels like. To be Sameera and Sajid. Not Saad and Safiya. Not pretending. Just… us.”

She looked down at her hands, henna faded but still visible, bangles glinting faintly.

“I’ve become good at this,” she whispered. “Being her. Being… wife. Bahu. Sister.”

“I’ve become good at being him,” Sajid said. “Husband. Son-in-law. Provider.”

Another silence.

Sameera lifted her eyes.

“Let’s do it,” she said softly. “A few days. As us.”

Sajid smiled, small, real.

“After tomorrow,” he said, “we come home.”

The call ended.

In two separate houses, two people lay awake a little longer.

Tomorrow Fatima would leave.

Tomorrow Rahim and Priya would disappear to Goa.

Tomorrow the talaqs would be spoken.

And the day after…

Sameera and Sajid would begin again.

Not as Saad and Safiya.

But as the couple they had become.

The clock struck midnight.

Two months remained.

But the end was no longer the end.

It was the beginning.

Chapter 24: The Day of the Wedding

The sixth month arrived like a held breath finally released.

Sameera woke at 4:30 a.m., three minutes before the azan app chimed. Today was the day, the end date. Fatima’s flight was at 11:45 p.m.; Rahim and Priya would leave for Goa at noon; the talaqs would be spoken quietly by evening. By midnight, everything would unravel. She told herself: this is the last day as Sameera Khan, the perfect bahu, the devoted wife.

She wanted to make it beautiful.

She bathed slowly, rose-scented water cascading over her body, soothing the faint redness where adhesive had begun to loosen over months. In the bedroom she dressed with deliberate care, the outfit she had chosen weeks ago, saved for today.

A heavy red Banarasi silk saree with intricate gold zardozi work across the entire field and pallu, the kind brides wear for their first reception. Beneath: new red lace bra and high-waisted panty set (bra heavily padded for maximum lift and cleavage, straps digging just enough to remind her of the weight she carried), cream silk petticoat tied so tightly it sculpted her waist into an hourglass. The saree draped like liquid fire, pleats sharp as blades, pallu cascading over left shoulder in perfect folds, pinned with tiny gold safety pins shaped like hearts. A thin sliver of midriff gleamed between blouse hem and pleats.

Jewellery was full bridal: layered gold necklace with ruby pendant nestling deep in cleavage, matching heavy jhumkas brushing her neck with cold kisses, glass bangles mixed with gold (twenty-four each wrist, chime like temple bells), thick upper-arm gold bangles, slim gold waist chain resting against bare skin under saree, Priya’s silver anklets joined by heavy gold ones that tinkled with every step, nose pin. Makeup: thick winged kohl, rose-gold shimmer on lids, deep scarlet lipstick making lips plush and inviting, faint blush on cheeks.

She looked in the full-length mirror.

Sameera Khan stared back, poised, radiant, every inch the cherished daughter-in-law and wife.

She smiled at the reflection, small, sad, proud.

This is the last time.

Downstairs, Ammi-ji waited with tears already in her eyes. “My beti looks like a queen today.” She hugged Sameera tightly; breasts pressed soft against her shoulder. Abbu-ji placed a hand on her head: “Allah keep you always happy.” Aisha twirled around her: “Bhabhi, you’re the most beautiful bride ever, even if it’s not your wedding!”

Rahim stood by the door in his sherwani, eyes soft. “Ready?”

Sameera nodded. “Let’s go.”

Across town, Sajid dressed in the rented flat.

Cream sherwani with gold zari, beard oiled to perfection, shoulders broad under the fabric. He looked in the mirror,strong jaw, deep-set eyes, solid chest, the faint bulge of the prosthetic in his trousers. He adjusted the topi, exhaled.

Last day as Sajid Ahmed, the perfect son-in-law, the responsible husband.

He rode the Royal Enfield to the venue, wind cold against his kurta, heart heavy.

The wedding hall in Anna Nagar was alive, marigolds everywhere, fairy lights strung, two stages for the two couples: one for Farida and Zubair, one symbolic for the “newly-weds” Sameera-Rahim and Sajid-Fatima to receive blessings.

Both couples arrived smiling, posing for photos, accepting congratulations.

Sameera stood beside Rahim, hand lightly on his arm, demure smile for every aunty who pinched her cheeks and said “Mashallah, kitni sundar bahu hai.” Rahim’s hand rested possessively on her waist; she let it stay.

Sajid stood beside Fatima, arm around her shoulders, nodding politely as uncles slapped his back: “Real man, beta. Taking care of everything.” Fatima smiled absently, mind already on her suitcase.

Priya hovered near the edges, eyes red but composed.

At 3:00 p.m., Fatima whispered to Sajid: “We need to make a call final confirmation with the travel agent.”

Rahim nodded to Sameera: “I’ll join them. Stay here, okay?”

The three of them, Fatima, Rahim, Priya, slipped away to a small side room.

Leaving Sameera and Sajid alone near the floral backdrop.

They stood a foot apart, eyes locked.

Sameera spoke first, voice low. “Last day.”

Sajid nodded. “Last day.”

A small, teasing smile curved her lips.

“You look very handsome, Sajid bhai. That sherwani really suits the perfect son-in-law.”

He stepped closer, voice dropping. “And you, Sameera begum, are breathtaking. That saree makes every aunty here jealous of their own bahu.”

She tilted her head. “Admit it,you’re going to miss seeing me in silk every day.”

He leaned in. “Admit it,you’re going to miss serving chai with those perfect pleats.”

They laughed, soft, real, the sound swallowed by the crowd noise.

Then Fatima’s scream cut through the hall.

Everyone turned.

She had fainted near the side room, collapsed into Rahim’s arms.

Elders rushed over. Fatima’s mother cried out. Ammi-ji hurried to help.

Sameera and Sajid pushed through the crowd.

Fatima was lifted onto a sofa, face pale. Someone called for water. The family doctor (a guest) checked her pulse, then smiled widely.

“She’s fine,” he announced. “Just a little faint. Congratulations,she’s pregnant.”

The hall erupted.

Cheers, hugs, tears.

Fatima’s mother sobbed happily. Abbu-ji beamed. Ammi-ji clasped her hands: “Allah has blessed us!”

Rahim stood frozen, face white.

Then he turned and ran toward Sameera.

He collapsed against her, head on her chest, crying,real, broken sobs.

“Priya… she broke up with me,” he whispered against the saree. “She said she can’t do this anymore. Not with running away. She left. She’s gone.”

Sameera held him automatically, arms around his shoulders, one hand stroking his back, breasts soft against his cheek as he cried like a child. She murmured comfort: “Shh… it’s okay… we’ll figure it out…”

Across the room, Sajid had lifted Fatima onto his lap, protective, husbandly, fake smile fixed on his face as relatives congratulated him: “Mubarak, beta! You’re going to be a father!”

Fatima clung to him weakly, whispering: “I’m sorry… I didn’t know…”

From distant sides of the hall, Sameera and Sajid looked at each other over the crowd.

She, holding a sobbing Rahim against her chest, saree damp with his tears.

He, cradling a pale Fatima on his lap, sherwani creased under her weight.

Their eyes met, long, stunned, shattered.

The elopement plan had collapsed.

Fatima pregnant. Priya gone.

No disappearance. No talaq. No fresh start.

The clock had stopped.

They were trapped.

And in that moment, across the sea of celebrating relatives, neither looked away.

Both of them were smiling, perfect, polite, practiced smiles for the crowd.

But their eyes said everything.

We’re still here.

And now… we might be here forever.