Stuck in a Pallu

Chapter 6: The Night of Culmination

The frustration had been building in Rahim like pressure in a sealed vessel, slow, invisible, inevitable.

It showed in small things at first.

The way his gaze lingered when Sameera bent to pick up a fallen spoon, the saree pallu slipping just enough to reveal the curve of her waist. The way he inhaled sharply when she passed him in the corridor, rose attar and faint sweat mixing in the humid air. The way his hand rested on her lower back longer than necessary when guiding her through doorways, fingers spreading slightly, as though testing the give of her flesh beneath the silk.

He slept beside her every night now, no bolster, no sofa. He told himself it was comfort. He told himself it was habit.

But every morning he woke hard, achingly so, his erection pressing against the soft swell of her hip through the thin cotton of his pajamas and her nightgown. He never moved. Never pressed. Just lay there breathing shallowly, feeling the warmth of her body, the gentle rise and fall of her breasts against his arm, the faint floral scent of her hair oil mingling with the clean cotton smell of the sheets and the deeper, private musk of her skin after a long day.

He noticed everything.

The small damp patch at the small of her back after she came home from the market, sweat darkening the saree blouse in a perfect half-moon. The way strands of hair escaped her braid and clung to her neck when she cooked, damp with steam and exertion. The faint salty tang that rose when she lifted her arms to pin her pallu, armpits smooth and waxed, carrying the lightest trace of her natural scent beneath the attar. The soft clink of anklets when she shifted in her sleep, the way her thighs sometimes brushed together under the nightgown with a whisper of skin on skin.

He told himself it was admiration.

He told himself it was love for the role she played so perfectly.

But it wasn’t.

It was hunger.

That day she had dressed to go to the ustabi with Ammi-ji a soft rose-gold chiffon saree with delicate silver sequins scattered like dew across the field. The blouse was short sleeved, deep back, fitted like a second skin, the straps thin and crossing at the nape. Beneath: matching rose-gold lace bra and panty set (bra heavily padded, creating deep cleavage that rose with every breath), cream silk petticoat tied high to accentuate the curve of her hips. The saree draped low on her waist, exposing a generous band of midriff that gleamed with a faint sheen of sweat by midday. Heavy jewellery today: layered gold necklace dipping into cleavage, jhumkas long and swinging, twenty-four glass bangles each wrist, thick gold upper-arm bangles, waist chain visible when she moved, heavy gold anklets (the welded permanent ones) chiming with every step. Makeup bolder for the outing: thick kohl, shimmering rose-gold lids, deep crimson lips, fresh mogra gajra (mallipoo) woven into the braid.

She looked like temptation wrapped in tradition.

Rahim watched her all day.

When she returned, cheeks flushed from the heat, saree clinging slightly to her back and hips, he was waiting in the bedroom.

She stepped inside to change.

He closed the door behind her.

“Rahim…” she began, voice uncertain.

He stepped close too close.

His hands found her waist, thumbs pressing into the bare skin above the petticoat knot.

“You were beautiful today,” he murmured, voice rough. “Every eye was on you.”

She tried to step back. “Rahim, I need to change...”

He didn’t let her.

He pulled her in gentle but unyielding until her breasts pressed soft against his chest, her hips flush with his. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, inhaled deeply rose attar, jasmine gajra, sweat, the faint salty musk beneath.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he whispered against her skin. “Every day. Every night.”

His lips brushed her collarbone, then lower, kissing the swell of her breast above the blouse neckline. His hands moved to the blouse hooks, flicking them open one by one. The velvet parted slowly, revealing the rose-gold lace bra, the deep cleavage, the way her breasts rose with each quick breath.

She pushed lightly at his shoulders. “Rahim… please…”

He didn’t stop.

He slid the blouse off her shoulders, let it fall. His mouth found the lace-covered nipple, kissing through the fabric, then tugging the cup down. His tongue circled the dark areola, then sucked gently. Sameera gasped, hands fisting in his kurta.

He undressed her slowly, petticoat untied, saree unwound in long whispering folds, panty slid down her thighs. She stood in only the bra (one cup pulled low) and the permanent gold anklets.

He dropped to his knees.

Pressed his face to her stomach, kissed the soft skin, inhaled the scent pooled there, sweat, attar, the faint feminine musk of her arousal despite everything.

Then he stood, lifted her, carried her to the bed.

Laid her down.

He was hard, painfully so, straining against his trousers.

He moved over her, knee between her thighs, hands pinning her wrists above her head.

He kissed her, deep, open-mouthed, tongue seeking hers. She resisted at first, turning her face, then gave in, kissing back with something close to desperation.

His free hand slid down, cupped her breast, thumbed the nipple until it hardened. Then lower, between her thighs.

He felt the prosthetic mound, smooth, warm, unyielding.

He froze.

Pulled back.

Looked down.

And saw it.

A small photo, creased, half-hidden under the pillow.

Priya.

Smiling in a blue kurti, hair loose, eyes bright.

It must have fallen from his pocket days ago.

Rahim stared at it.

Then the tears came,sudden, violent.

He rolled off her, curled on his side, shoulders shaking.

Sameera sat up quickly, pulled the sheet over herself, covering her bare breasts.

“Rahim…”

He sobbed....raw, broken.

“I still want her,” he choked out. “I thought I could forget. I thought if I tried hard enough… if I loved you enough… I could move on. But I can’t. I want Priya. I want the life we planned. Not this… not this lie.”

Sameera reached out, touched his shoulder.

He flinched at first, then turned, buried his face in her lap, arms around her waist, crying against the sheet that covered her thighs.

She stroked his hair, gentle, automatic.

“I know,” she whispered. “I know.”

They stayed like that, him weeping, her holding him, until his sobs quieted into exhausted silence.

Neither spoke of what had almost happened.

Neither spoke of the future.

They just lay there, tangled in grief and guilt, waiting for morning.

And the pretending to begin again.

Chapter 7: The Next Day

The morning after felt like walking on broken glass, sharp, careful, every step deliberate.

Rahim woke before me. I felt the mattress dip as he sat up, then the soft brush of his fingers pushing a strand of hair from my face. When I opened my eyes he was already looking at me, eyes red-rimmed, face raw.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered before I could speak.

I sat up slowly, nightgown slipping off one shoulder. The permanent gold anklets chimed faintly against the sheet.

“Rahim....”

“No, let me.” He took both my hands in his. “I was wrong last night. I was… desperate. Trying to prove something to myself. To Priya. To the world. But it wasn’t fair to you. You’ve given everything to this house, to me, and I”

His voice cracked.

“I still love her,” he said quietly. “I tried to bury it. I tried to make this real. But every time I close my eyes I see her laugh, the way she used to tuck her hair behind her ear when she was nervous, the way she looked at me like I was enough. I can’t let go. Not yet. Maybe not ever.”

I listened without interrupting.

He kept going,voice low, halting, like he had rehearsed it all night.

“I don’t want to hurt you. You’ve become… important. More than I expected. The way you take care of Ammi-ji, the way you make Aisha smile, the way you sit with Abbu-ji and listen like his words matter. I see it. I feel it. But it’s not the same. It never will be. And I’m sorry for pretending it could be.”

Tears slipped down his cheeks.

I reached out, wiped them with my thumb.

“I know,” I said softly. “I’ve known for a long time.”

He bowed his head, shoulders shaking.

“I’ll stop,” he whispered. “The touches. The closeness. I’ll go back to the sofa. I won’t...”

“No,” I said. “Don’t. Not yet. We still have to live here. We still have to pretend. If you pull away suddenly, they’ll notice. They’ll ask questions. Let’s just… keep going. The way we were. Until we can’t anymore.”

He looked up at me, searching.

I gave him the smallest nod.

“Okay,” he breathed. “Okay.”

Breakfast was quiet.

I served like always,chai, idlis, paratha, sabzi. Ammi-ji patted my hand. Abbu-ji nodded thanks. Aisha stole a piece of paratha from my plate and grinned.

Then she leaned close while no one was looking.

“Bhabhi,” she whispered, eyes sparkling with mischief, “I heard sounds last night. From your room.”

My cheeks burned instantly.

She giggled. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell Ammi-ji. But… finally, huh? About time.”

I forced a smile, swatted her arm lightly.

“Eat your food, naughty girl.”

She laughed and obeyed.

The day passed in its usual rhythm,laundry, sweeping, helping Ammi-ji sort rice, listening to Aisha’s college gossip. Every task felt heavier today, every smile more practiced. I kept waiting for the moment my phone would be returned.

It came at 4:17 p.m.

Rahim walked into the kitchen holding it, screen new, shining.

“They fixed it,” he said quietly. “Sorry for the delay.”

I took it. My fingers trembled slightly.

“Thank you.”

He nodded once and left.

I slipped upstairs to the bedroom, locked the door, sat on the edge of the bed.

I dialled Sajid.

He answered on the first ring.

“Sameera?”

His voice cracked on my name.

I burst into tears.

“I’m here,” I whispered. “I’m here.”

We cried together, quiet, broken sobs over the line.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he said.

“I thought the same.”

We talked, halting at first, then faster.

He told me about Fatima’s guilt, the family celebration that felt like a funeral, the way Abbu kept clapping him on the back and saying “good father” like it was a done deal.

I told him about Rahim’s confession, the tears, the way he still loved Priya, the way he had almost crossed a line last night and then crumbled.

“I almost let it happen,” I admitted. “I almost let him… because it felt easier than fighting.”

Sajid was silent a long moment.

“I almost did too,” he said quietly. “With Fatima. Not because I wanted her. Because I was tired. Tired of waiting. Tired of being alone in this body.”

We both exhaled at the same time.

“What do we do now?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “But I know I can’t keep pretending forever.”

“Me neither.”

Another silence.

Then he said, “We wait. We watch. We look for the crack. And when it comes… we take it.”

I nodded even though he couldn’t see.

“Okay.”

We stayed on the call until the battery warning beeped, forty-seven minutes of silence and whispers and shared grief.

When we hung up, I felt lighter.

And heavier.

That night I bathed alone.

I stood under the bucket shower, rose-scented water cascading over me, washing away the day’s sweat and the faint trace of Priya’s perfume still clinging to my skin from yesterday.

I thought of last night.

Rahim’s mouth on my breast.

His hand between my thighs.

The moment he saw Priya’s photo and broke.

I thought of how close I had come to letting him inside me, not because I wanted him, but because I was tired. Tired of the emptiness. Tired of the ache that built every day with no release.

My hand slid down, almost automatically, between my thighs.

The prosthetic mound was smooth, warm, realistic.

I parted the silicone lips with two fingers.

Felt the faint give, the cool air on the inner folds.

I pressed, slow circles over where the clit would be.

Nothing.

No hardness. No pulse. Just pressure against the cage beneath.

The arousal built anyway, feminine, deep in the belly, a throbbing emptiness that had nowhere to go.

I thought of Sajid.

Of the way he used to kiss the inside of my wrist.

Of the way he used to laugh when I threw a wet cloth at his head.

Of the way his hands used to feel, rough from work, gentle on my skin.

I thought of in Ooty, his arm around my waist, foreheads touching, the taste of salt on his cheek.

My fingers moved faster futile, desperate.

I imagined him here real him, Sajid pressing me against the wall, hands pinning my wrists, mouth on my neck.

I imagined him inside me not this body, not this cage, but the way it should be.

The ache peaked sharp, hollow and then faded into nothing.

No release.

Just tears mixing with the shower water.

I sank to the floor of the bathroom, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around myself.

The permanent gold anklets chimed once soft, mocking.

I cried quietly until the water ran cold.

Then I stood, dried myself, slipped into the nightgown, and went back to bed.

Rahim was already there on his side, back to me.

I lay down.

He didn’t turn.

But his hand reached back found mine and held on.

We slept like that hands clasped, bodies apart, hearts aching for different people.

The clock kept ticking.

No escape.

Just more nights.

And more pretending.

Until even the pretending began to feel like the only truth left.

Chapter 8: The Private Meeting

Rahim insisted on the meeting.

He brought it up at breakfast quietly, almost casually while Sameera was serving chai.

“We need to talk to them again,” he said, eyes on his tumbler. “Properly. All four of us. No more waiting for things to fix themselves.”

Ammi-ji looked up from her idli. “What’s wrong, beta?”

Rahim forced a smile. “Just some spousal matters. Sameera and I will handle it.”

Sameera paused mid-pour. “I have a lot of work today...”

Rahim’s hand brushed hers under the table, gentle, but firm. “It won’t take long. I already called them. They’re coming this evening. Private room at the same restaurant.”

She met his eyes. Saw the quiet determination there.

She nodded once.

“Okay.”

She didn’t fight it.

Even though every instinct screamed to stay away.

Even though the thought of facing Sajid again, after the hallway kiss, after the promise that never came, made her chest ache.

She dressed carefully that afternoon.

Not because she wanted to impress.

But because she needed armor.

She chose the same heavy black crepe burqa Rahim had given her, the one with double opaque mesh over the eyes, the one that turned her into a shadow even in daylight. He hadn’t asked her to wear it today. He hadn’t even mentioned it.

But she put it on anyway.

The fabric was heavier than her old one, extra lining for modesty, hem brushing the floor, sleeves loose enough to hide her hands completely. Inside, her vision narrowed to thin slits; the world felt dim, distant, safe. She wore a simple cream cotton saree beneath, lightweight, modest, nothing flashy. White lace bra and panty, petticoat tied snug. No heavy jewellery today, just the chain, small diamond studs, nose pin, and the permanent gold anklets that chimed softly under the burqa’s hem.

When Rahim saw her ready, he paused.

“You didn’t have to wear it,” he said quietly.

“I wanted to,” she answered.

He didn’t argue.

He took her hand, fingers laced through the burqa sleeve, and they left.

The restaurant room was the same, dim lights, thick curtains, round table, four chairs.

Fatima and Sajid were already there.

Fatima looked exhausted, dark circles under her eyes, one hand resting protectively on her stomach. Sajid sat straight-backed, kurta crisp, beard oiled, but his jaw was tight.

Rahim guided Sameera to the seat beside him. He never let go of her hand.

The silence was thick until Fatima spoke.

“My boyfriend and I… we have a plan,” she said, voice low. “He’s applied for a student visa to Germany, same university, different program. He’s been accepted. We leave in three weeks. I’ll tell my parents it’s a sudden job offer abroad. They’ll be angry, but they won’t stop me once the tickets are booked. Once we’re there… we’ll marry properly. And then I’ll send the talaq papers.”

Sajid exhaled slowly. “And the baby?”

“I’ll raise it with him,” Fatima said. “My parents will come around eventually. Or they won’t. But I can’t stay here pretending.”

Rahim leaned forward. “And us?”

Fatima looked at him. “Priya won’t talk to you. But if she did… if she saw you were really free… maybe she’d listen.”

Rahim’s grip on Sameera’s hand tightened.

Sameera spoke voice muffled slightly by the mesh, but steady.

“I’ll talk to her. Somehow. Secretly. I’ll find a way.”

Rahim turned to her sharply. “No ”

“I’ll be careful,” she said. “I promise.”

He searched her face or tried to, through the opaque mesh. Then he nodded once reluctant.

Fatima looked between them. “Then… we wait three weeks. If Priya comes back, we all walk away clean. If not… we stay. Until the baby is born. Until it’s safe.”

No one argued.

The plan was fragile, half-formed, desperate.

But it was something.

Rahim squeezed Sameera’s hand once more possessive, protective then released it.

“Give us a minute,” Sajid said suddenly, eyes on Sameera.

Rahim stiffened.

Fatima touched his arm. “Let them.”

Rahim exhaled sharp, unhappy but stood.

He and Fatima stepped outside.

The door closed.

Sameera and Sajid were alone.

Neither moved for a long second.

Then Sajid stood, walked around the table, stopped in front of her.

She rose slowly.

He reached out careful lifted the front layer of the burqa’s mesh just enough to see her face. Her eyes were red-rimmed, kohl slightly smudged.

“Sameera…” he breathed.

She stepped into him.

He wrapped his arms around her burqa and all pulling her close. She felt the solid warmth of his chest, the faint musk attar beneath his kurta, the steady beat of his heart.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into the top of her head. “For not fighting harder. For letting it get this far.”

She shook her head against him. “We both let it.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her.

Then he kissed her soft at first, lips brushing hers through the lingering mesh. Then deeper mouth opening, tongue seeking, tasting salt and rose and desperation.

She kissed back hungry, aching hands fisting in his kurta.

When they parted, both breathing hard, he reached into his pocket.

A small velvet box.

He opened it.

A simple silver ring thin band, tiny sapphire in the centre.

“A promise ring,” he said quietly. “Not marriage. Not yet. Just… a promise. That we’ll get back. No matter what. No matter how long.”

Tears slipped down her cheeks.

She held out her hand.

He slipped the ring onto her right ring finger under the burqa sleeve, hidden from the world.

She looked at it small, shining, real.

Then she reached up, pulled off one of her own earrings a small diamond stud pressed it into his palm.

“Your promise,” she whispered.

He closed his fingers around it, then pinned it to the inside of his kurta collar hidden, close to his heart.

They kissed again slower, deeper, tongues sliding, foreheads pressed together.

“I love you,” he said against her lips.

“I love you too,” she answered.

They held each other until footsteps sounded in the corridor.

They stepped apart.

Sameera lowered the mesh back into place shadow once more.

Sajid returned to his seat.

Rahim and Fatima came back in.

No one asked what happened.

No one needed to.

The meeting ended.

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

He helped her sit sideways, adjusted the burqa hem, started the engine.

The ride home was quiet.

She felt the ring on her finger small, secret, burning.

She felt the weight of the burqa protective, suffocating.

She felt the vibration of the bike through her thighs, the press of her breasts against Rahim’s back, the permanent anklets chiming under the layers.

And she felt hope small, fragile, dangerous flicker back to life.

Back home, she removed the burqa in the bedroom.

Rahim watched from the doorway.

“You kept it on the whole time,” he said quietly.

She folded the black crepe carefully.

“I felt safer,” she answered.

He stepped closer, touched her cheek.

“I’m glad.”

She didn’t reply.

That night, when the house slept, she lay beside him his arm around her waist, her back to his chest.

She felt the ring on her finger.

She felt the ache in her chest.

And for the first time in weeks, she let herself hope.

Just a little.

Just enough.

The clock kept ticking.

But now it ticked toward something.

Not freedom yet.

But possibility.

And that was enough.

For tonight.

Chapter 9: The Reconciliation with Priya

Sameera had planned it for three days.

She had overheard Aisha mention casually, while scrolling through her phone that Priya (whom aisha thought was just a brother's friend) was spotted at the Phoenix Marketcity mall over the weekend, buying art supplies. Sameera knew the place: crowded enough to disappear in, open enough that a “chance” meeting wouldn’t look staged. She waited until Rahim came home from work, then spoke softly while folding his kurta.

“Priya was at Phoenix Marketcity today,” she said. “I think… I should try talking to her. Just once. Alone.”

Rahim froze mid-unbuttoning his collar.

“No,” he said automatically. “She blocked me. She doesn’t want..”

“She might listen to me,” Sameera cut in gently. “Not as your wife. As… someone who understands. Someone who’s been in the middle of this mess.”

Rahim stared at her long, conflicted. Then he exhaled.

“Fine. But I’m coming with you. And you’re going to help.”

She didn’t argue.

The next afternoon they left.

Sameera wore the heavy black crepe burqa double opaque mesh over the eyes, floor-length, sleeves swallowing her hands. Beneath it: a simple sky-blue cotton saree with thin silver border, white lace bra and panty, petticoat tied snug, permanent gold anklets muffled under the hem. No heavy jewellery today just chain, nose pin, small diamond studs. She felt like a shadow moving through the house.

Rahim drove the bike. She sat sideways behind him, arms lightly around his waist, burqa billowing in the wind like dark wings.

Phoenix Marketcity was packed weekend families, teenagers, couples. Sameera scanned the crowd through the narrow slits of mesh, heart thudding.

There near the stationery store on the first floor.

Priya stood alone, browsing sketchbooks, hair loose, simple peach kurti and jeans, dupatta slung over one shoulder.

Sameera touched Rahim’s arm. “There.”

He nodded once tense.

Sameera walked forward alone. Rahim stayed back, half-hidden behind a pillar.

Priya looked up when Sameera stopped a few feet away.

She recognized the burqa immediately her eyes widened.

“Sameera?” she whispered.

Sameera lifted the front mesh just enough for Priya to see her face only her face.

“Please,” Sameera said quietly. “Just five minutes. Somewhere private. No one will see us together.”

Priya hesitated glanced around then nodded.

They walked to the women’s restroom on the same floor. It was empty. They locked the main door from inside.

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

“It’s about both of you,” Sameera said. “He’s broken, Priya. He cries every night. He blames himself. He still loves you. More than anything.”

Priya’s eyes filled. “I know. But I can’t… I can’t be the secret forever. . I can’t wait in shadows while he plays house with ”

“I know,” Sameera cut in gently. “I’m not asking you to wait. I’m asking for one chance. Just talk to him. Once. Properly. No pressure. If you still want to walk away after that… I’ll help you. I’ll make sure he lets you go cleanly.”

Priya stared at her long, searching.

Then she exhaled.

“Okay. But not like this. If anyone sees us together ”

She looked at Sameera’s burqa.

Then at her own kurti.

“Give me the burqa,” Priya said suddenly.

Sameera blinked.

“I’ll wear it. You wear my clothes. No one will know it’s me talking to him. And no one will recognize you.”

Sameera hesitated then nodded.

They moved quickly.

Priya slipped off her peach kurti and jeans handed them over. Sameera removed the burqa, then awkwardly the saree, blouse, petticoat. Standing in just bra and panty, she felt suddenly exposed, vulnerable. The air-conditioning hit her waxed skin; goosebumps rose on her arms and thighs.

Priya handed her the kurti. Sameera slipped it , the fabric loose and forgiving. Then the jeans snug on her hips, strange after months of sarees. She looked in the mirror: sleeveless kurti showing smooth arms, jeans hugging her legs, hair loose under the dupatta Priya draped over her head.

She felt… wrong. Naked. Too visible.

Priya took the burqa, slipped it over her head. The opaque mesh swallowed her face completely.

She looked at Sameera one last time.

“If he asks… tell him I’m scared. But tell him I still love him.”

Sameera nodded.

Priya walked out first shadow in black.

Sameera waited two minutes, then followed.

Rahim was still near the pillar.

When he saw the burqa, he stepped forward then paused.

“Priya?” he whispered.

The burqa nodded.

Rahim’s face crumpled relief, hope, fear all at once.

He reached out hesitant took the gloved hand.

They walked away together toward the quieter end of the mall.

Sameera stood alone heart pounding, arms bare, jeans tight, feeling like a stranger in her own skin.

Then she saw them.

Three boys college age near the escalator. They noticed her immediately. One elbowed the other, smirked.

“Hey, beautiful,” the tallest one called. “Shopping alone?”

Sameera froze.

They stepped closer.

“Looking good in that kurti,” another said, grinning. “Want company?”

She backed up a step heart hammering.

Then a hand closed around her wrist firm, protective.

Sajid.

He appeared from nowhere cream kurta, beard oiled, eyes blazing.

“She’s with me,” he said voice low, dangerous.

The boys faltered.

Sajid pulled her closer arm sliding around her waist, body half-shielding hers.

“Back off,” he said quietly.

They muttered something and walked away.

Sameera exhaled shaking.

Sajid didn’t let go.

He looked down at her really looked.

“You’re… not in a saree,” he said, almost smiling.

She laughed shaky. “Priya’s clothes. We switched so she could talk to Rahim without being seen.”

He noddedbthen tugged her gently toward a quieter corridor.

They walked his arm still around her waist, her hip brushing his.

They found an empty family restroom single stall. He locked the door.

Inside, he turned to her.

“You look…” He swallowed. “Different. Good different. But strange.”

She looked down at herselfbsleeveless kurti, jeans, arms bare, no pallu to hide behind.

“I feel naked,” she admitted.

He stepped closer.

“Even as Safiya you never wore anything this revealing,” he murmured, voice low, teasing.

She blushed.

He reached out slowly ran his fingers down the bare length of her arm. Goosebumps rose instantly.

“I like it,” he said. “But I also miss the saree. The way it moved with you.”

His hand slid to her underarm smooth, waxed, slightly damp from nerves. He leaned in, pressed his lips to the soft hollow of her armpit gentle, reverent then inhaled.

“You still smell like rose,” he whispered against her skin. “Even in her clothes.”

She shivered whole body responding.

He kissed the spot again slow, open-mouthed then moved to the other armpit, same slow worship. His beard brushed her skin; she felt the faint scrape, the warmth of his breath.

Her hands fisted in his kurta.

“Sajid…”

He pulled back just enough to look at her.

“I love you,” he said simply.

Then he kissed hervdeep, hungry, tongue sliding against hers.

She kissed back desperate, clinging.

When they parted, both breathing hard, he rested his forehead against hers.

“We’ll get through this,” he said. “We will.”

She nodded tears in her eyes.

They stayed like thatbbodies pressed close, hearts racing until voices sounded outside.

They straightened.

Sameera adjusted the dupatta.

Sajid opened the door.

They walked outvhand in hand for a few seconds before letting go.

Later, Rahim found her near the food court.

His face was flushedbhopeful, raw.

“She talked to me,” he said. “She… she’s willing to try again. Slowly. Secretly. But she wants time.”

Sameera smiledbsmall, genuine.

“I’m glad.”

They walked to the bike.

Rahim held her hand the whole ride home.

Back in the house, she removed the borrowed kurti and jeans in the bathroom felt the saree’s familiar weight settle over her again.

She looked at herself in the mirror back in her own skin, her own role.

But the ring on her finger Sajid’s promise ring burned quietly against her skin.

And somewhere deep inside, hope flickered brighter.

The clock kept ticking.

But now it ticked toward possibility.

Not just endurance.

And that was enough.

For today.

Chapter 10: The Elopement – The Day Comes

The day arrived like a long-held breath finally let out quiet, inevitable, electric.

It was, coincidentally, another wedding day.

Farida and Zubair’s reception was being held at the same Anna Nagar banquet hall complex two separate wings, two separate crowds, but the same marigold garlands, the same fairy lights, the same scent of biryani and attar drifting through the corridors.

The families were invited to both.

The families moved through the venue like parallel streams smiling, greeting, congratulating while the real plan unfolded in the shadows.

Sameera dressed with trembling hands that morning.

She chose a deep sapphire-blue chiffon saree lightweight, flowing, with intricate silver zari borders that caught light like moonlight on water. Beneath: matching sapphire lace bra and high-waisted panty set (bra lightly padded for gentle lift, lace cool against waxed skin), cream silk petticoat tied snug at the waist. The saree draped low on her hips, exposing a thin band of midriff; pleats sharp and even, pallu cascading over her left shoulder in soft, shimmering folds. Jewellery was understated but bridal: pendent resting in cleavage, long silver jhumkas brushing her neck, glass bangles in blue and silver (eighteen each wrist), slim silver waist chain under the saree, permanent gold anklets chiming softly, small diamond nose stud, maang tikka in the wig parting, large red bindi. Makeup soft but striking: thick winged kohl, rose-gold shimmer on lids, deep berry lips, fresh mogra gajra woven into the braid.

She looked like a bride ready to start over.

Rahim watched her from the doorway quiet, almost reverent.

“You look… perfect,” he said.

She met his eyes in the mirror.

“Thank you.”

He stepped closer, adjusted her pallu with careful fingers.

“Be safe today,” he whispered. “Come back to me.”

She nodded once heart pounding.

Across town, Sajid dressed in a deep navy kurta-pajama set silk blend, subtle silver zari embroidery on the collar and cuffs. Beard oiled, hair neatly combed, shoulders broad under the fabric. He looked in the mirror saw the man he had become: strong, steady, respected.

And still trapped.

Fatima was already ready lavender anarkali, hijab pinned, small suitcase hidden in the car.

Her boyfriend waited outside quiet, nervous, ready.

The plan was simple.

Rahim and Priya would slip out during the reception chaos civil marriage papers already signed online, flight to Coimbatore booked under new names.

Fatima and her boyfriend would leave separately direct flight to England, student visas in hand, marriage to follow abroad.

Sameera and Sajid would stay until the last possible moment then disappear together.

The reversal clinic appointment was set for two days later.

One last night as Sameera and Sajid.

Then back to Saad and Safiya.

Or so they hoped.

The reception was in full swing by 7 p.m.

Sameera stood with Ammi-ji and the aunts saree shimmering under the lights, anklets chiming as she moved to serve sherbet, adjust dupattas, smile demurely at compliments.

“Mashallah, kitni sundar bahu hai!”

“Rahim is lucky.”

“Any good news yet?”

She blushed on cue, lowered her eyes. “InshaAllah soon.”

Rahim stood nearby sherwani crisp, hand occasionally brushing her elbow, possessive even now.

Sajid was across the hall with Fatima’s family Abbu clapping him on the back, Ammi pressing sweets into his hand, Imran calling him “bhaiya” with easy affection.

They caught each other’s eyes once brief, burning then looked away.

At 9:15 p.m., the signal came.

Rahim leaned close to Sameera.

“It’s time.”

She nodded.

They slipped away Rahim guiding her through the side corridor, past the kitchens, out a service exit.

Priya waited in the parking lot simple black abaya, face hidden.

Rahim took her hand tight, desperate.

Sameera watched them disappear into the car.

Across the lot, Fatima and her boyfriend climbed into another vehicle.

They drove off two couples, four lives, heading toward new beginnings.

Sameera stood alone in the shadows.

Then Sajid was there.

He took her hand fingers lacing through hers.

“Come.”

They slipped back inside through a side door, up a service stair, into an empty storage room on the second floor.

The door clicked shut.

They stood facing each other breathing hard.

Sameera lifted her pallu slightly face flushed, eyes shining.

Sajid stepped close.

He cupped her face thumbs brushing her cheeks.

“We did it,” he whispered.

She laughed soft, shaky.

“We did.”

He kissed her slow at first, lips brushing, then deeper mouth opening, tongue sliding against hers. She pressed into him breasts soft against his chest, hips flush, hands fisting in his kurta.

They kissed like people starved months of waiting, pretending, aching pouring out.

His hands slid down her back fingers finding the blouse hooks, flicking them open one by one. The saree pallu fell away; blouse parted. He tugged it off her shoulders revealing the sapphire lace bra, the swell of her breasts.

She unbuttoned his kurta pushed it off, hands roaming over the broad chest she had come to know so well.

They undressed each other slowly saree unwound in whispering folds, petticoat untied, bra unhooked, panty slid down. His trousers dropped; prosthetic phallus heavy, real in its presence.

They stood naked bodies changed, yet familiar.

He lifted her set her on a stack of folded tablecloths.

She wrapped her legs around his waist.

He entered her slow, careful the prosthetic sliding into the prosthetic vagina, realistic friction, warmth, pressure.

They both gasped.

He thrust gentle at first, then deeper, steadier hips rolling, hands gripping her thighs.

She clung to him nails digging into his shoulders, breasts bouncing softly with each movement, anklets chiming against his back.

They moved together months of pent-up longing, grief, love crashing through every stroke.

When he came hot, pulsing inside the prosthetic she held him tighter, kissed his neck, felt his shudder.

He stayed inside her forehead pressed to hers breathing hard.

They stayed like that naked, tangled, hearts pounding until the world returned.

Then she slipped off him.

They dressed slowly saree re-draped, kurta buttoned.

She looked at his clothes tried to slip on his kurta sleeve. It hung loose on her smaller frame, shoulders too broad, sleeves too long.

She laughed soft, sad.

“It doesn’t fit.”

He tried her blouse too tight across his chest, buttons straining over muscle.

He looked at his arms thick, defined from months of lifting.

Then at her bra small, lace, delicate hanging from his finger.

“Cute,” he said dryly.

She smiled tears in her eyes.

“How will I go back to being Saad?” she whispered.

He pulled her close.

“We’ll figure it out. Together.”

They left the room hand in hand until the corridor.

She rejoined Ammi-ji in the women’s section saree perfect, smile demure.

He rejoined Abbu in the men’s side sherwani crisp, nod respectful.

No one noticed.

The wedding continued.

Tomorrow the families would wake to empty rooms.

Tomorrow the reactions would come shock, anger, grief.

But tonight…

Tonight they had said goodbye.

And hello.

To whatever came next.