Stuck in a Pallu

Chapter 1: Stuck in a Pallu

(Sequel to Pride in a Pallu)

A week had passed since the wedding that never should have happened.

The house in Mylapore had returned to its quiet rhythm, but the air felt heavier now, like fabric soaked in rain. Sameera moved through it with the same practiced grace, saree draped, pallu pinned, anklets tinkling, but every step carried the weight of what had been revealed.

That morning she stood in the small storeroom off the kitchen, staring at the unopened packet of sanitary pads on the shelf. The plastic crinkled faintly under her fingers as she lifted one. Behind her, Ammi-ji appeared in the doorway, maroon saree rustling.

“Beta,” she said softly, stepping close. “You’re late this month?”

Sameera turned, packet in hand, face calm. “Ji, Ammi-ji. Just a few days.”

Ammi-ji’s eyes softened. She reached out, placed both hands gently on Sameera’s waist, right over the saree’s pleats, thumbs resting against the hidden waist chain. “Don’t worry, beti. This house will be filled with children soon. Allah is listening. I pray every namaz for you and Rahim.”

Sameera felt the warmth of Ammi-ji’s palms through the silk. She managed a small, tremulous smile, the perfect bahu’s smile, and nodded. “InshaAllah, Ammi-ji.”

Ammi-ji kissed her forehead, then let her go.

Sameera walked to the bathroom, door clicking shut behind her. She sat on the closed toilet lid, packet in lap. Inside her small vanity pouch was the special liquid, a clear, slightly viscous fluid in a tiny unmarked bottle. She uncapped it, soaked a pad with just enough to create the illusion of flow, then placed it carefully. The smell was faint, clinical, but convincing. She adjusted the panty, smoothed the saree, washed her hands, and stepped out, face composed, as though nothing had happened.

In the bedroom, Rahim sat on the edge of the bed, head in hands. He had barely spoken since the wedding. Priya’s breakup message still glowed in his phone: I can’t do this anymore. Not with a baby coming. I’m sorry.

Sameera knelt in front of him, took his hands gently in hers. “Rahim… look at me.”

He lifted red-rimmed eyes.

She spoke softly. “Today we have to go. The family meeting. You need to be strong. For Ammi-ji. For Abbu-ji. For Aisha.”

He nodded numbly.

She stood, helped him up. “Come. Let me get you ready.”

She chose his sherwani, cream with subtle gold zari, buttoned it with careful fingers, adjusted the collar, smoothed the fabric over his shoulders. She dabbed rose attar on his wrists, combed his beard with her fingers. When she finished, she stepped back.

“You look like the man they all respect,” she said quietly.

He managed a ghost of a smile. “And you look… like you always do. Perfect.”

She didn’t reply.

She changed into a deep navy georgette saree with silver gota-patti borders, lightweight but elegant. Matching navy lace bra and panty beneath, petticoat tied snug. Jewellery minimal: mangalsutra, small diamond studs, nose pin, glass bangles, Priya’s silver anklets. Makeup soft: kohl, faint blush, nude-pink lips. She draped the saree with quiet precision, pallu falling in soft folds.

They left together in the car, Rahim driving, Sameera beside him, burqa over the saree for the journey.

The meeting was in a private room at a small restaurant near the Cooum river, same place as before, but now the curtains felt tighter, the air thicker.

Rahim, Sameera, Fatima, Sajid.

No Priya.

They sat around the small round table. Tea arrived untouched.

Fatima spoke first, voice low and steady.

“I’m keeping the baby,” she said. “I didn’t expect it… but I found out two days after the wedding. My secret boyfriend, he’s the father. He’s from college. Muslim, good family. We’ve been together for two years. He wants to marry me properly. I’m going to tell my parents next week. They’ll be angry, but… they’ll accept it eventually.”

She looked at Sajid. “I’m sorry. You were never supposed to be stuck like this.”

Sajid nodded once. His face was calm, but his fingers gripped the table edge.

Rahim spoke next, voice cracked.

“Priya… she got scared. The pregnancy news hit her hard. She said she couldn’t be the ‘other woman,’ couldn’t wait in shadows while I stayed married. Her parents are already looking for a groom for her. She left yesterday. Blocked me.”

He looked at Sameera. “I’m sorry. I dragged you into this mess.”

Sameera reached across the table, touched his hand briefly. “We all chose this.”

Silence fell.

Sameera and Sajid looked at each other, long, wordless.

They could still run. Disappear. Leave Fatima and Rahim to clean up their own lives.

But the thought twisted like a knife.

Fatima with a baby on the way, family in shock.

Rahim broken, parents expecting a grandchild that would never come.

Sameera’s voice was quiet when she spoke.

“How long can we keep pretending?”

Sajid exhaled. “Until we find a way out. A real one.”

Fatima nodded. “I’ll marry my boyfriend as soon as my parents agree. Then… talaq. You’ll be free.”

Rahim looked at Sameera. “I’ll tell my family it didn’t work out. Divorce. No blame on you.”

Sameera’s eyes stayed on Sajid.

“We stay,” she said softly. “Until then. As it is.”

Sajid nodded slowly.

“As it is.”

The four of them sat in silence a moment longer.

Then Sameera and Sajid excused themselves, stepped out into the corridor.

The door closed.

They stood facing each other.

No pride left. Only sadness.

Sameera’s voice cracked first.

“I thought we’d be free today.”

Sajid reached out, took both her hands in his. His thumbs brushed the faded henna on her fingers.

“I thought we’d wake up tomorrow as us again.”

She stepped closer, rested her forehead against his chest.

“I don’t know how to be Saad anymore,” she whispered. “I don’t even know if I want to.”

He wrapped his arms around her, gentle, careful.

“I don’t know how to be Safiya anymore,” he said against her hair. “But I miss her. I miss you.”

They stood like that, bodies pressed close, saree against sherwani, breasts soft against his chest, his solid warmth against her curves.

No kiss. No heat.

Just quiet grief.

“We stay,” Sameera said again.

“We stay,” Sajid echoed.

They pulled apart slowly.

Adjusted clothes.

Wiped eyes.

Walked back inside.

Rahim and Fatima looked up, hopeful, guilty, tired.

Sameera sat beside Rahim. Sajid beside Fatima.

No one spoke of running anymore.

They spoke of tomorrow.

And the day after.

And the months ahead.

Back home that night, Sameera stood in the bathroom, nightgown loose, looking at the sanitary pad packet still on the shelf.

She touched her stomach, flat, smooth, empty.

Then she walked to the bedroom, slipped under the covers.

Rahim came in later, sat on the edge of the bed like always.

This time he didn’t leave for the sofa.

He lay down beside her, on top of the bolster.

She didn’t push it away.

They slept like that, close, but separated by a thin wall of cotton.

Miles away, Sajid lay on the sofa in the flat, Fatima asleep in the bedroom.

He stared at the ceiling.

Tomorrow he would go to the godown.

Tomorrow he would be the perfect son-in-law.

Tomorrow he would wait.

Both of them closed their eyes.

The clock kept ticking.

But now it ticked differently.

Not toward escape.

Toward endurance.

Stuck in a pallu.

And neither knew how to step out.

Chapter 2: The Scent of What Was

Sameera moved through the household that morning with the same quiet efficiency that had become her signature. The lavender cotton saree she wore was soft and light for the heat, pleats crisp, pallu pinned neatly over her left shoulder. Beneath it, the nude lace bra lifted her breasts into gentle prominence, the straps settled into their familiar grooves on her shoulders; the high-waisted panty smoothed the prosthetic mound seamlessly. Anklets tinkled with every step across the marble floor, bangles clinked softly as she poured chai into steel tumblers.

Ammi-ji watched from the doorway, smiling. “Beti, you’re up before the birds again.”

Sameera turned, offered a small smile. “Someone has to make the tea the way Abbu-ji likes it, Ammi-ji.”

She served breakfast idlis steamed soft, coconut chutney ground fresh, aloo sabzi spiced just right placing each plate with lowered eyes and murmured “Ji.” Abbu-ji nodded once in thanks. Aisha yawned, stole a piece of idli from Sameera’s own plate, and grinned. Rahim ate in silence, eyes distant.

After the table was cleared and dishes washed, Rahim appeared in the kitchen doorway.

“I need to go to the office near Priya’s workplace,” he said quietly. “She’s still not answering my messages. I… I just want to see if she’s okay.”

Sameera dried her hands on the edge of her saree. “I’ll come with you.”

He looked surprised. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” she said simply. “Let me try talking to her. Woman to woman.”

Rahim hesitated, then nodded.

She changed quickly into something modest for the outing: a soft cream georgette salwar-kameez with silver zari embroidery, long dupatta draped over her head and shoulders. Matching cream lace bra and panty beneath, the bra lightly padded for shape. Flat kolhapuri chappals, Priya’s silver anklets tinkling faintly. A light black burqa for the ride mesh over the eyes, flowing hem.

Rahim drove the bike. Sameera sat sideways behind him, arms lightly around his waist, burqa billowing in the wind. The ride to the small graphic design studio in Nungambakkam took thirty minutes traffic thick, air heavy with dust and exhaust. She felt the engine’s thrum through her thighs, the prosthetic shifting slightly with each gear change, the breasts pressing softly against Rahim’s back.

They parked a street away. Rahim waited outside. Sameera removed the burqa in the alley, folded it carefully, and walked into the studio alone.

Priya was at a corner desk, headphones on, sketching on a tablet. She looked up when Sameera approached eyes widening, then narrowing.

“Sameera?” Priya pulled off the headphones. “What are you doing here?”

Sameera kept her voice low. “Can we talk? Just for a minute.”

Priya glanced around no one was paying attention. She sighed, stood, and led Sameera to the small restroom at the back.

They locked the door.

Priya crossed her arms. “If this is about Rahim..”

“It’s about you,” Sameera said gently. “He’s broken. He hasn’t slept properly in days. He just wants to know you’re okay.”

Priya’s eyes flashed. “I’m not okay. I thought I could wait. I thought six months was nothing. But then Fatima got pregnant and everything became real. I can’t be the secret forever. My parents are already talking to families. They want me married properly. Not waiting for someone else’s fake marriage to end.”

Sameera stepped closer. “Priya… he loves you. He’s ready to leave everything. We had a plan. It’s still possible. You could still...”

“No.” Priya’s voice cracked. “I’m done waiting. I’m done being the other woman. And honestly?” She looked at Sameera really looked. “You should stop waiting too.”

Sameera blinked.

Priya continued, softer. “Look at you. You’re… good at this. Being the wife. The bahu. The sister. Everyone in that house loves you. My parents would kill for a daughter-in-law like you. Why go back to being… whatever you were before? You fit here. You belong here.”

Sameera’s throat tightened. “It’s not real.”

Priya gave a small, sad smile. “It looks pretty real from where I’m standing.”

Silence stretched.

Then Priya’s eyes dropped to Sameera’s chest. One of the bra straps had snapped under the salwar thin lace broken, the cup sagging slightly on the left side.

“Your bra,” Priya said.

Sameera flushed, hands moving to cover. “It’s nothing...”

Priya was already unbuttoning her own kurti. “Here.”

She slipped off her own bra simple beige, lightly padded and held it out. “Take it. This kurti doesn’t need one anyway.”

Sameera hesitated.

Priya pressed it into her hands. “Go on. I insist.”

Sameera turned her back, slipped off the salwar kameez top, unhooked the broken bra. Priya’s bra fit almost perfectly same size, same gentle lift. She hooked it, adjusted the straps, felt the immediate support. Priya helped smooth the kameez back down.

Then Priya reached into her bag, pulled out a small perfume bottle floral with a hint of musk and spritzed it lightly on Sameera’s wrists and neck.

“Something to remind you you’re still beautiful,” Priya said quietly. She pressed the bottle into Sameera’s palm. “Keep it.”

Sameera looked at her eyes stinging.

Priya touched her arm. “Go home, Sameera. Be happy there. You deserve it.”

Sameera left the restroom, burqa back on, perfume rising with every breath.

Rahim was waiting outside. He noticed the new scent immediately sweet, floral, unfamiliar.

In the bike on the way back, he inhaled deeply. “You smell… different.”

Sameera kept her eyes on the road. “Priya gave me her perfume.”

Rahim said nothing more.

Back home, after dinner and prayers, Sameera went to bathe. She left the navy salwar-kameez and Priya’s bra on the hook behind the door.

Rahim entered the bathroom later unaware she had finished drawn by the lingering perfume. He picked up the bra beige lace still warm from her body brought it to his face, inhaled. The scent was intoxicating floral musk mixed with Sameera’s rose attar. His body reacted instantly; he hardened, breath quickening.

He pressed the lace to his cheek, eyes closing.

Across town, in the rented flat, Sajid sat alone on the sofa.

Fatima was asleep in the bedroom.

He opened the bottom drawer of the old cupboard Saad’s drawer and pulled out a folded shirt. One of his old favourites plain white cotton, faintly scented with the laundry detergent Safiya used to buy.

He brought it to his face. Inhaled.

The smell was faint clean cotton, a ghost of rose attar, a trace of the life he used to live.

His fingers tightened on the fabric.

Tears pricked his eyes.

He held the shirt against his chest, over the broad, masculine frame he now wore, and sat in the dark.

Neither of them slept well that night.

The perfume lingered on Sameera’s skin.

The shirt lay folded on Sajid’s lap.

And the clock kept ticking toward nothing certain anymore.

Chapter 3: A Week Later

A week had crawled by since the wedding hall collapsed around them.

Rahim had changed, not dramatically, not in ways anyone outside the house would notice, but Sameera felt it in the small silences, the slight shifts in how he moved through rooms, how he looked at her.

On the surface, he had “moved on.”

He went to the office earlier, came back later. He laughed at Aisha’s jokes a little louder than before. He helped Abbu-ji with the newspaper crossword in the evenings, offered to drive Ammi-ji to the ustadbi on Fridays. To the family he seemed steadier, more present, the perfect son who had accepted his lot and was making the best of it.

But Sameera saw the cracks.

The way his smile never reached his eyes when he spoke of the future. The way he gripped the steering too tightly on drives. The way he sometimes stared at his phone for long seconds before putting it face-down, as though Priya’s name might still appear even after the block.

Deep inside, he was still bleeding.

What looked like acceptance was coping, mechanical, deliberate, a shield thrown up so the family wouldn’t worry. He was performing “moving on” the same way Sameera performed “perfect bahu.” Neither of them believed it fully.

The chauvinism crept in quietly.

It started small.

One evening after dinner, when Sameera rose to clear the plates, Rahim placed a hand on her wrist, gentle, but firm enough to stop her.

“Let me,” he said, voice low. “You’ve been on your feet all day.”

Ammi-ji beamed. “See? My son knows how to take care of his wife.”

Sameera sat back down, cheeks warm. Rahim cleared the table, but when he returned he didn’t sit beside her, he sat at the head, like Abbu-ji, legs spread comfortably, one arm along the back of her chair. Not possessive in a loud way. Just… certain.

Later that night, when the house was quiet, he knocked on the bedroom door as usual.

Sameera let him in.

He sat on the edge of the bed, closer than before. No bolster between them tonight; it had been pushed to the foot of the bed days ago.

He looked at her in the dim lamplight. She was in a simple cream cotton nightgown, hair loose, chain resting between her breasts.

“You’ve been quiet,” he said.

“So have you,” she replied.

He reached out, brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered on the shell of her ear light, almost absent. Then he traced the line of her jaw, thumb grazing her lower lip.

“You’re beautiful, Sameera,” he murmured. “Always have been.”

She didn’t move away.

He leaned closer, pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, lingering, warm. Then another on her temple. Then the corner of her mouth, not quite a kiss, but close enough that she felt the heat of his breath.

His hand slid down her arm, fingers interlacing with hers. He lifted her hand, kissed the inside of her wrist, right over the faint blue veins, where her pulse jumped.

“Goodnight, wife,” he whispered.

He stood, left for the sofa in the study.

Sameera touched her wrist where his lips had been.

She didn’t know whether to feel comforted or trapped.

Later, much later, when the house was completely silent, Rahim lay on the study sofa, eyes open in the dark.

He rose quietly, walked to the laundry basket in the corner.

Sameera’s clothes from the day were folded on top: the navy georgette saree she had worn to the meeting, the matching blouse, the cream lace bra and panty she had changed out of before her bath.

He lifted the bra first, soft lace still faintly warm, carrying her rose attar and the natural scent of her skin.

He brought it to his face. Inhaled deeply.

His body responded instantly.

He sat on the sofa edge, bra pressed to his nose, other hand slipping beneath his pajama waistband. He stroked slowly at first, thinking of scenarios that were never supposed to happen: Sameera in the saree, pallu slipping as she bent to serve him tea; Sameera in the bathroom, water cascading over her curves; Sameera in his arms, soft breasts pressed against his chest, whispering his name not as a role but as desire.

He quickened, breath ragged, the lace muffling his low groan as he came, hot, guilty, spilling over his fingers.

When it was over, the room felt colder.

He stared at the bra in his lap.

Then the tears came.

Quiet at first, shoulders shaking, then harder. He curled forward, face buried in the lace that still smelled like her, and sobbed for Priya.

For the girl who left.

For the future he had almost had.

For the man he no longer was.

He cried until his throat ached, until exhaustion pulled him under.

In the other bedroom, Sameera slept fitfully, dreaming of a man with a beard who kissed her wrist and called her wife, and a man without one who once laughed at her sharp tongue.

Neither of them knew the other was crying for someone else.

But both woke the next morning and continued.

Because that was what they did now.

They continued.

Chapter 4: No Way Out

The pregnancy announcement had turned the rented flat into a small celebration ground.

Fatima’s family had come over that evening, her parents, Imran, a few close relatives, bringing sweets, fruits, and quiet joy. The living room was lit with fairy lights Fatima had strung up “for the baby’s room someday.” Ammi (Fatima’s mother) kept touching her daughter’s stomach, murmuring duas. Abbu (her father) sat beside Sajid on the sofa, hand on his shoulder, saying things like “You’ll be a good father, beta. Steady. Responsible.”

Sajid smiled, polite, practiced, perfect.

Inside he felt nothing.

Fatima sat beside him, hand in his, but her fingers were cold. Every time someone congratulated her, she smiled brightly, then glanced at Sajid with guilty eyes. When the guests left, she whispered to him in the kitchen while washing plates:

“I didn’t want this. Not like this.”

He dried a glass. “I know.”

“I’m sorry,” she said again, for the hundredth time that week.

He only nodded.

The joy in the house felt borrowed. Everyone celebrated except the two people at the centre of it.

Two days later, the four of them met again.

Same room in the same restaurant near the Cooum. Same heavy curtains. Same untouched tea.

This time, though, the air was different, thicker, sadder.

Rahim arrived first with Sameera.

She was dressed head to toe in the new burqa he had given her that morning.

It was heavier than her old one, thick black crepe, floor-length, double-layered opaque mesh covering even the eyes so completely that from outside she was a featureless shadow. Inside, her vision was reduced to narrow slits; the world appeared dim, fragmented, like looking through a heavy veil of net. The fabric didn’t flow, it draped, weighed down by extra lining for modesty. No shape of her body showed. No glimpse of face, hands, or feet. Only the faint outline of a woman beneath layers of black.

Rahim had presented it to her at breakfast like a gift.

“For you,” he said. “It’s more modest. Safer. You’ll feel protected.”

Sameera had looked at the garment,long, heavy, suffocating,and felt the cage tighten another notch.

She wore it anyway.

In the car, Rahim held her hand the entire drive, fingers laced tightly through the burqa’s loose sleeve. When they reached the restaurant, he didn’t let go.

“Don’t remove it,” he told her quietly outside the private room. “For your safety. Please.”

Sameera nodded once.

They entered.

Sajid and Fatima were already there.

Fatima looked pale, tired, one hand resting on her still-flat stomach.

Sajid sat straight-backed, kurta crisp, beard oiled, but his eyes were hollow.

Rahim guided Sameera to the seat beside him. He never released her hand.

The silence stretched until Fatima spoke.

“My parents… they can’t know about the boyfriend. If they find out, they’ll… they might hurt him. Or me. Honour and all that.” Her voice cracked. “I have to keep the baby and stay married to you, Sajid. At least until it’s safe.”

Rahim exhaled slowly.

Sajid looked at him.

“And you?” he asked quietly.

Rahim shrugged, small, defeated. “Priya’s gone. Her parents are already talking to other families. She’s not coming back.”

He squeezed Sameera’s hand tighter beneath the table.

“So… we wait,” he said. “Fatima stays married to you until the baby is born and things calm down. I stay married to Sameera. We… live like this. For now.”

Sajid’s voice was flat. “For now.”

Sameera tried to speak.

Rahim’s thumb rubbed the back of her hand, gentle, but it silenced her.

Sajid looked at her or tried to. The opaque mesh hid her eyes completely. He couldn’t even see if she was looking back.

No one spoke for a long minute.

Then Rahim said softly, almost to himself:

“Maybe… this is better. No running. No lies to the families. No hurting more people. We just… continue. As we are.”

Fatima nodded slowly.

Sajid said nothing.

Sameera said nothing.

The meeting ended without resolution.

No plan. No escape.

Just continuation.

Rahim held Sameera’s hand the entire walk back to the bike.

He helped her sit sideways, adjusted the burqa’s hem so it covered her ankles properly.

The ride home was quiet.

The heavy black fabric trapped the Chennai heat against her skin. Sweat collected under her arms, between her breasts, along the crease where the prosthetic met real flesh. The mesh limited her vision to narrow bands of road and Rahim’s back; the world felt small, muffled, distant. The engine’s vibration travelled up her thighs, through the cage, a constant, intimate reminder. The anklets were silent beneath the layers. The saree beneath the burqa clung damply to her legs.

She thought about choices.

About how she used to argue with Safiya over who paid the electricity bill.

About how she now folded his laundry without being asked.

About how the burqa, meant to protect, felt more like a cage than ever.

Back home, Rahim parked the bike.

He helped her down, hand lingering on her elbow.

Inside, after she removed the burqa in the bedroom, he stood in the doorway watching her fold it.

“You looked… safe today,” he said quietly.

Sameera didn’t reply.

That night, after everyone slept, Sameera sat on the bed, planning to call Sajid.

She reached for her phone.

It wasn’t on the side table.

She searched, under the pillow, in her purse, on the dresser.

Gone.

Rahim appeared in the doorway, holding it.

“It fell and the screen cracked,” he said. “I’ve sent it for repair. It’ll take a few days.”

Sameera stared at him.

He looked back, calm, almost gentle.

“I’ll get you a new one soon,” he added.

She nodded slowly.

He left.

Across the city, in the rented flat, Sajid sat on the sofa, phone in hand.

He had called Sameera three times.

No answer.

He stared at the screen, thumb hovering over her name.

Fatima slept in the bedroom.

The flat was quiet.

He dialled again.

Straight to voicemail.

He closed his eyes.

The clock kept ticking.

But now it ticked toward nothing.

Just more days.

More nights.

More pretending.

And somewhere in the dark, two people, one hidden behind opaque mesh, the other holding a broken phone, felt the same thing.

They were no longer planning escape.

They were learning to live inside the trap.

Chapter 5: The Week of Spice

Ten days without a phone felt like ten years.

Sameera had stopped asking about the repair. Rahim always answered the same way: “They’re still waiting for the screen, Ma. Soon.” His smile was gentle, almost tender. She stopped pressing.

The house moved around her as though nothing had changed.

She woke at 4:40 a.m., prayed Fajr on the jaanamaz in the corner, breasts shifting forward in sujood with quiet familiarity. She dressed in a soft mustard cotton saree with thin maroon border, light for the heat, elegant enough for Ammi-ji’s approving nod. White lace bra and high-waisted panty beneath, petticoat tied snug, saree draped in nine crisp pleats, pallu pinned over left shoulder. Anklets (Priya’s silver bells and the heavier gold ones) tinkled with every step. Bangle chime, chain cool against her collarbone, small nose stud catching light.

She served breakfast before anyone stirred: tea with extra ginger for Abbu-ji, idlis steamed soft for Ammi-ji, aloo paratha for Aisha, plain dosa for Rahim. She placed each plate with lowered eyes and murmured “Ji.” Ammi-ji patted her hand every time. “You spoil us, beti.”

After breakfast came the suggestions.

Ammi-ji sat Sameera down on the balcony with a small steel bowl of kesari.

“Beta,” she began, voice soft but deliberate, “you’ve been married four months now. No good news yet?”

Sameera looked down at her hands, henna faded but still visible. “InshaAllah soon, Ammi-ji.”

Ammi-ji leaned closer. “You must eat more almonds. And dates, soaked overnight. And drink warm milk with saffron before sleeping. It helps. And…” She lowered her voice. “…ask Rahim to be gentle but regular. The first few months are important. Allah will bless you.”

Sameera nodded, cheeks warm. “Ji, Ammi-ji.”

Later, when folding laundry together, Ammi-ji added: “And don’t lift heavy things. No bending too much. Keep your body ready. You’re young, strong, but still, take care.”

Sameera folded a kurta with careful hands. “I will.”

The suggestions came daily now, small, caring, relentless.

Rahim’s advances were subtler.

He no longer slept on the sofa.

Three nights ago he had simply lain down beside her, on his side of the bolster, and stayed. No words. Just his breathing in the dark. The next night he moved the bolster to the floor. The night after that, he slept closer, arm resting across her waist, not possessive, just… there.

In the mornings he woke before her sometimes, brought her tea in bed, sat on the edge while she sipped. His fingers would brush her wrist, trace the bangle line, linger on the pulse point. “You look beautiful when you sleep,” he murmured once. She didn’t reply.

In the evenings he sat beside her on the sofa while Aisha chattered, his thigh pressed lightly against hers, hand resting on the cushion behind her back, close enough that she felt his warmth, far enough that no one noticed.

He never pushed. Never demanded.

But the touches grew: a hand on her lower back when guiding her through doorways, fingers brushing her elbow when passing her a glass, a soft kiss on her temple when saying goodnight.

Sameera felt them all.

And said nothing.

Across town, Sajid called the Khan house landline every evening.

Rahim always answered.

“Sajid bhai,” he said, voice calm, almost friendly. “Sameera is busy with Ammi-ji right now. Can I take a message?”

Sajid tried twice more. Same result.

“She’s helping Aisha with college work. I’ll tell her you called.”

After the third time, Sajid stopped calling.

Rahim took Sameera out twice that week.

First to the local market, “Fresh air will be good for you,” he said. He held her hand the entire time, fingers laced through the burqa sleeve, grip firm but not painful. He bought her fresh flowers, pinned it into her hair himself under the burqa’s hood. “For my wife,” he murmured.

She felt the possessiveness in every glance he gave other men who looked too long.

The second outing was to a small park near the river. He chose a quiet bench, sat close, arm along the backrest behind her. He didn’t speak much, just watched the water, thumb occasionally brushing her shoulder through the burqa.

Then they saw Priya.

She was walking with a friend, simple blue kurti, hair loose, laughing at something.

Rahim froze.

Then he moved.

He pulled Sameera closer, arm sliding around her waist, hand splaying over her midriff through the burqa. He turned her slightly so Priya would see them full-on: husband and wife, intimate, together.

He leaned down, pressed a slow kiss to Sameera’s temple, visible even through the mesh. Then another on her cheek. His voice was low, for her alone.

“She needs to see I’ve moved on.”

Sameera felt the lie in every touch.

But she didn’t pull away.

Priya glanced over, saw them, eyes widening. Then she looked away quickly, face pale, and walked faster.

Rahim exhaled. His hand stayed on Sameera’s waist the entire walk back to the bike.

That evening, after dinner, Rahim brought her a small velvet box.

Inside: a pair of permanent anklets solid gold, no clasp, designed to be welded shut.

“They’re traditional,” he said quietly. “Once on, they stay. Like a promise.”

Sameera looked at them, beautiful, heavy, unbreakable.

Rahim took her foot gently, slipped one on, then the other. Then he called the family jeweller to come the next day to weld them permanently.

Sameera said nothing.

That night Rahim didn’t go to the sofa.

He lay beside her, bolster gone completely now.

His arm came around her waist. She didn’t move away.

They slept like that, bodies close, breathing in sync, no words.

Across town, Sajid sat alone in the flat.

Fatima was asleep.

He opened the drawer, took out the old shirt, Saad’s shirt.

He held it to his face.

The scent was almost gone.

But he inhaled anyway.

And cried, quietly, shoulders shaking, for the man he used to be.

For the woman he used to love.

For the life slipping further away every day.

The clock kept ticking.

No escape.

Just more days.

And more nights.

And more pretending.

Until even pretending began to feel like truth.