Ganja Mumtaz Begum

Mumtaz Begum was twenty-five but felt like she had never lived her own life. In Riyadh of Saudi Arabhia , her days were always the same—wake up, cook, clean, and stay inside the walls of the house. When she stepped out, it was only in a full black burqa, her face hidden, her voice quiet. Her mother often reminded her that a zawja (wife) must be obedient, soft, and silent. Books, TV, even mobile use was moniterized by her parents. If she smiled too much, her father Qureshi would frown, saying women must be serious and decent. Mumtaz kept her thoughts to herself, carrying questions in her heart that she could never ask out loud. The one thing everyone praised was her Shaer (Hair), 

Her Shaer was long thick burgundy color that touched her knees. People called it her beauty, her pride, but to Mumtaz it felt like a burden tied to her head. Washing it was hard, drying it even worse, and combing every night was torture. Her mother, Fatima, forced her to oil it, braid it tightly, and never think of cutting it. If Mumtaz left it loose, her mother would slap her or pull her hair hard while shouting. Sometimes Fatima called her Eahira (Whore)when she complained, saying only shameless women wanted their hair to be cut and this is haram in Islam. Qureshi also mocked her, saying her hair was Allah’s gift and she was ungrateful for it. Her marriage was arranged quickly, without asking her what she wanted.

Abdul was different from other men she had seen—he was quiet decent, polite, and not cruel and oppressive. He was an orphan with no family, so he stayed in Qureshi’s house after the wedding. The marriage felt simple, almost too plain, but Mumtaz noticed he never scolded her or forced her. Unlike other husbands who were strict and dominant, Abdul spoke softly and respected her silence. Still, living with her parents meant nothing really changed. To her father, she was still under his roof... to her mother, still a girl to be controlled. Abdul seemed like the only person who saw how tired she was, even when she never said a word. After marriage, Mumtaz thought her life might change.

But it was not like what She expected instead it only became harder. Her mother Fatima became more stricter now, reminding her every day that a zawja must keep the house clean, cover herself, and obey in silence. Even a small mistake brought scolding. Abdul often saw her sitting alone, her face sad, but he was helpless in front of her parents. Still, he tried to comfort her in small ways—bringing her sweets from the market, whispering kind words when no one was around, holding her hand at night when she cried quietly. Sometimes he told her softly, “One day, you will smile without fear, i will be there with you always.” Those small gestures gave Mumtaz a little hope.

Her shaer was now her biggest trouble. Washing it took hours, drying it was painful, and every night her mother forced her to braid it tight. One evening, Abdul saw her struggling with the comb. “Does it hurt so much?” he asked. Mumtaz sighed, “It feels like carrying a stone on my head.” He touched her hair gently, “It looks beautiful, but if it troubles you, why don’t you tell them and get a hair cut.. something more manageable?” She shook her head, “Ammi will call me eahira if I even say such things, i dont have such freedom.” That night, after finishing all the housework, Mumtaz lay awake. She thought about Islam, about customs, about how she was always covered, always silent, never free.

Her heart raced with questions she had buried for years. At midnight, she turned to Abdul and whispered, “I cannot live like this anymore.” He looked at her carefully. “Tell me, Mumtaz… what is inside your heart?” Her voice trembled but steady, “I feel trapped. These customs, these rules, this life… it is not mine. Why must a woman suffer like this? Why is freedom haram for us?” Abdul held her hand tighter. “What do you want me to do?” She took a deep breath, “Take me far from here. Let us leave all this behind. I don’t want this life, I just want peace.” Abdul was quiet, then nodded. “Then we will go. Tonight.” They quickly packed a small bag with money and clothes, booked a ticket online.

Before dawn, they slipped out of the house quietly. By sunrise, they were already on a flight to Dubai, leaving everything behind. Dubai felt like another world for Mumtaz. They had carried good savings, and Abdul divided it carefully—half in the bank for monthly interest, the other half for their dream life. Soon, they bought a penthouse flat on the top floor, complete with a private rooftop pool that overlooked the bright city skyline. Abdul found work as a hotel manager in the luxury hotel next door, his salary adding more comfort. For the first time, Mumtaz walked freely, no burqa hiding her body, no mother’s voice following her. She bought dresses, jeans, skirts...

Those clothes she had never dared to even imagine wearing. She laughed more now, her chubby curves moving without fear, and Abdul often stared at her like he had discovered a new woman every day. One evening, as they sat together on the couch, Mumtaz sighed and touched her knee-length shaer. “Abdul… I can’t live with this anymore. It’s too much, too heavy. Will you cut it?” Abdul looked into her eyes, smiled, and kissed her forehead. “If that’s what you want, zawja, I’ll do it my love.” He brought scissors, stood behind her, and slowly lifted the thick braid. With each snip, strands fell around her shoulders, until finally he chopped it to her neck, shaping it into a straight bob. 

Mumtaz gasped, running her fingers through her lighter, shorter hair. Abdul wrapped his arms around her from behind, pressing kisses to her neck, whispering, “Now you are mine, my free woman.” They cuddled close, her soft chubby body melting into his chest, his hands roaming as he teased, “Your shaer is gone… now I can touch you without fighting it.” On the rooftop, Abdul piled up all of Mumtaz’s chopped shaer and lit it. The flames rose, and Mumtaz clapped her hands like a child, laughing, “Good riddance!” Abdul smirked, pulling her waist close. “Now nothing comes between me and you.” He kissed her on her neck, biting softly until she moaned. 

They sat by the bonfire, teasing each other, her cheeks red as he whispered filthy jokes in her ear. She hit him lightly, calling him shameless, but her eyes betrayed excitement. When he slid his hand under her dress, cupping her soft curves, she gasped but didn’t stop him. “Abdul…” she whispered, breath heavy. He grinned, lifted her into his arms, and carried her inside. On the bed, he spread her down, kissing every inch of her chubby body, making her laugh and squirm. She pulled his shirt off, her new bob brushing over his bare chest as she kissed him back. Their first time was hungry, raw, and full of giggles—her moans mixing with laughter as his hands explored every curve. 

For the first time, Mumtaz felt completely alive, free, and wanted. Mumtaz’s world slowly opened up. With Abdul by her side, she visited malls, movie halls, and tourist places. For the first time, she wore what she liked without her mother’s voice chasing her. Abdul always held her hand, sometimes carrying her bag, sometimes just teasing her to walk slowly as she was always excited to explore. People in the city looked at them like any other couple, and Mumtaz loved that she wasn’t treated as “the caged woman” anymore. Abdul was always caring, opening doors for her, buying her favorite sweets, making sure she never felt out of place.

At home, Abdul had gifted her a phone, and Mumtaz spent hours scrolling. Slowly, she found herself hooked to haircut transformation videos—women chopping long hair, smiling at the mirror, feeling lighter. Every night she watched them, her fingers absentmindedly running through her own bob. One evening, Abdul surprised her with a gift: a sleeveless white top and blue jeans. She giggled nervously at first, but when she wore it, she couldn’t stop admiring herself in the mirror. For the first time, she saw a free, modern Mumtaz. Abdul’s eyes sparkled when he saw her. “My zawja looks like a queen,” he said proudly, pulling her into his arms.

That night, they went out together, her bare arms brushing against his in the cool night air as they headed to the hotel where Abdul worked. The hotel staff treated them like royalty because Abdul was their manager. They had a candlelight dinner, soft music playing in the background. Mumtaz felt the warmth of Abdul’s hand resting on hers as they ate. Between bites, he teased her about how bold she had become—her bobcut, her sleeveless dress, her laughter that now came so easily. She confessed, blushing, how much she loved this new freedom, how the bobcut made her feel alive, and how she never wanted to go back to the cage she had lived in.

Abdul made her laugh and She smiled with eyes shining, as the night turned into another memory of love, laughter, and gentle promises. One evening, Mumtaz sat on the couch, phone in hand, watching transformation videos as she always did. Slowly, her fascination grew—haircuts turned into full head shaves, and her heart raced with a strange mix of fear and excitement. Abdul noticed her absorbed gaze and asked softly, “Zawja, what are you watching?” She blushed, showing him the videos. “I want… I want to go bald like full Ganja,” she whispered, her fingers trembling slightly as she scrolled through clips of women smiling after shaving.

She even looked at him, shyly suggesting he remove his beard too. Abdul smiled and nodded, “Many in my hotel keep clean-shaved faces. You want me to join you?” Mumtaz grinned, a shiver of anticipation running through her. They went to bed that night holding hands, their minds restless with what tomorrow would bring. The next afternoon, the trimmer kit arrived, neatly packed and gleaming. After a spicy biryani lunch, Abdul asked one last time, “Are you really sure, my love?” Mumtaz nodded eagerly, her heart pounding. She sat on the chair in the sunlight filtering through the windows, fingers brushing her bobcut. Abdul handed her the trimmer, and a thrill ran through her. 

Slowly, she pressed it to her thick hair, feeling strands fall softly around her shoulders. Each pass made her giggle and shiver; her hands shook slightly, but a wide smile spread across her face. The first weight of her hair falling was magical—a literal shedding of her past restrictions. Abdul wrapped his arms around her gently, whispering encouragements as she continued, “That’s it, my strong woman…” Once the bulk of her hair was gone, Mumtaz held the trimmer to her scalp again, feeling the tiny stubbles prick her fingers. She laughed, exhilarated, as her fingers glided over the new texture. Abdul wetted her scalp carefully, and she leaned back, closing her eyes, savoring every sensation. 

He picked up the safety razor, making the first careful pass. The blade skimmed her wet scalp, sending shivers down her spine, and she moaned softly, overwhelmed with freedom. The strange, thrilling feeling of smooth skin beneath her fingers was intoxicating. For the first time in her life, she felt completely light, completely unburdened, completely herself. She tilted her head toward Abdul, smiling, her eyes sparkling—this was happiness she had never imagined possible. Abdul smiled, running the wet razor slowly over Mumtaz’s scalp, making it shine under the sunlight. Each pass left her smooth and glowing, the little stubble disappearing completely.

He hugged her from behind, feeling the warmth of her bald head against his chest. Mumtaz closed her eyes, letting out a soft moan. “Abdul… it feels… unbelievable,” she whispered, voice trembling. “It’s like every weight I carried is gone… I feel so free, so light.” He kissed the crown of her smoothly shaved ganja head gently, murmuring, “My strong zawja… you look amazing.” Her fingers slid over her scalp, marveling at the smoothness, at the new sensation of liberty she had never imagined. Mumtaz giggled, crawling onto his lap as he sat in the chair, teasing, “Now it’s your turn.” Abdul laughed, leaning back, watching her mischievous eyes. 

She grabbed the trimmer first, letting it glide over his thick beard, laughing as he shivered. “Careful, zawja… I don’t want to bleed!” he joked. She ignored him playfully, then picked up the razor, stroking his jaw, smoothing every corner until his face gleamed like hers. Foam covered his skin, and she made careful passes with precision, her hands lingering as she admired the sharp lines and clean shine. “Now you look as handsome as you deserve… smooth and perfect,” she whispered, leaning close, her lips brushing his ear as she teased him. Mumtaz stepped back slightly, her eyes scanning his now clean-shaven, handsome face. A mischievous smile spread across her lips.

Without a word, she pressed a tight, lingering kiss onto his lips, deeper than ever before. Abdul groaned softly, hands moving to cup her smooth bald head, fingers tracing every curve. Mumtaz moaned, pressing herself closer, whispering, “Your hands… feel so good on me…” He teased, moving his fingers slowly, feeling the softness of her scalp, while she ran her hands over his chest, playful and hungry. Their breaths mingled, moans soft but rising, laughter and erotic tension dancing together. They lingered in that intimate space, exploring, teasing, discovering new pleasures in each other’s bodies, the room alive with bold passion and freedom.

After the head shave, Mumtaz lay on the bed, pressing against Abdul hugging him with lovee, her smooth bald scalp brushing his chest. He moved his hand slowly over her head, tracing every curve and stubble, making her shiver with pleasure. She giggled softly, shy but smiling. “Abdul… do you think I can… swim like this?” she whispered, fingers clutching his shirt. He laughed, kissing her forehead, “Of course, my zawja. I’ll teach you, don’t worry.” She nodded, feeling a rush of bold excitement mixed with comfort. They talked softly about the pool, her freedom, and her new look, laughing at how strange but wonderful everything felt.

Abdul made the pool ready, cleaning it while Mumtaz watched, heart racing with anticipation and curiosity. Mumtaz slipped out of her t-shirt and shorts, leaving her bra and panties behind. She reached for the small package in the cupboard—a two-piece swimming bikini she had ordered. She put it on slowly, hugging her curvy, chubby body, feeling bold and beautiful for the first time in years. Her smooth bald head shone in the evening light, and she caught Abdul’s gaze. He paused, eyes wide, mesmerized. “Zawja… you look… incredible,” he whispered, voice husky. Mumtaz smiled, running a hand over her shiny scalp, whispering back,

“I feel free… completely me.” With a small nod, she stepped toward the pool, confidence radiating in every movement, ready to embrace the water and the new bold version of herself. With a small jump, Mumtaz hit the water, splashing lightly, her curves gliding in the pool. She surfaced, wet hairless head glistening, and wiggled playfully toward Abdul. “Come on… don’t just stare!” she teased, her laughter echoing across the rooftop. He grinned, diving in after her, pulling her close, water swirling around them. She splashed him, making him laugh and chase her, teasing, “Abdul! Watch out, bald queen incoming!” He caught her, holding her under the water briefly, whispering,

 “You’re mine… bold and free, just like I imagined.” They floated, splashed, teased, and played, the evening sun turning golden on their skin, their hearts racing with joy and lust, celebrating Mumtaz’s full liberation and their wild, playful intimacy.