Anjali Aunty 3

It was a cool, early morning as we stood on the platform. The train chugged in slowly through the mist, its whistle echoing against the metal roof. A light breeze fluttered the edge of her shawl as she looked around confidently, suitcase in one hand, umbrella in the other.

I stood beside her—slightly sleepy, my backpack slung awkwardly, trying to match her energy.

But I was no match.

She looked down at me with that usual amused affection.

“Beta, how are you going to climb into this tall train with those little legs?” she teased, nudging me gently with her hip.

I tried not to pout. “I’ve done this before, you know...”

She raised an eyebrow. “And yet you look like you need to be picked up.”

The train came to a stop, the doorway a little high above the platform. As passengers began boarding around us, she glanced sideways, then looked down at me again with a smile.

“Oh, forget it,” she muttered.
Before I could respond, she leaned down, wrapped one arm behind my knees, the other around my back, and in one swift, confident motion—lifted me up into her arms.

“Aunty! People are watching!” I whispered furiously, blushing.

“Let them watch,” she chuckled, “They’ll just think I’m carrying my little niece. Or my lazy little boy.”

I buried my face in her shoulder as she carried me up the steps into the train like a mother lifting her child onto a school bus. Her grip was so secure, so natural, I didn’t even wiggle.

Inside, she found our reserved seats—a side berth facing the window. She gently sat down, still holding me.

And then, without asking, she repositioned me sideways onto her lap, my back resting against her chest, legs draped over hers.

“This is more comfortable,” she said, adjusting my weight casually like I was a soft pillow. “You can rest here until the train starts.”

I shifted a little, embarrassed. “Aunty, this isn’t a good idea… everyone’s going to think—”
She silenced me with a finger to my lips.

“Beta, you’re 28 and still fit perfectly in my lap. That’s not something we should hide. That’s something we should celebrate.”

As the train picked up speed, the rhythmic clanking of the tracks filled the compartment. People all around us settled into conversations, tea-sipping, and window-gazing.

I tried to move off her lap once. I really did.

But the moment I shifted my weight, she slid her arms around my waist and pulled me right back into her lap, one hand tucked firmly under my thighs.

“Nope. You stay here.”

“But aunty, I’m too big—”

“Too big?” she repeated, eyes sparkling. “You're smaller than my 14 year old niece. I’m a woman of 53, you're an adult man of 28 , and yet you’re small and light enough to rock like a schoolgirl.”

And she began rocking me gently, back and forth, her lap bouncing lightly. I shrank into her arms, my cheeks on fire.

Across the aisle, an old woman chuckled, nudging her husband.

“Dekho na, how sweet. Such a big boy, still sitting in his Maasi’s lap.”

“Not Maasi,” my aunty corrected proudly. “He’s mine. He just likes being pampered. And I love lifting him.”

She adjusted me again—one arm behind my back, one under my knees—and lifted me straight up into a cradle carry, letting my head rest near her shoulder.

“Just like this,” she said, giving me a small bounce. “This is our traveling style.”

After breakfast came from the vendor, she cleaned my fingers with a napkin like I was a little boy.

“Now rest. I don’t want you sleepy during the climb later.”

I tried to resist, but she held me tighter, sliding me down into her lap again, guiding my head gently against her chest.

Her soft cotton shawl smelled of sandalwood. Her fingers resumed their familiar slow strokes over my hair and back.

“You love this, don’t you?” she whispered. “Being in my lap, even on a train full of people. My 28-year-old baby.”

I mumbled drowsily, but she hushed me.

“Shhh. Go to sleep. We’ll reach the hills soon. And then… you’ll see how many ways I can carry you uphill.”
Her large palm cupped the back of my head. Her fingers slowly combed through my hair. My eyes grew heavier with every sway of the train, every bounce of her thigh beneath me.

“Sleep, meri chhotu jaan,” she whispered again.

And I did.
Curled in her lap, rocked by the rhythm of the train and her arms, I drifted off… again completely enveloped by her strength, her size, her warmth—and her unconditional love.

The gentle clatter of the train over the rails was the first thing I heard as I stirred awake.

Still drowsy, I shifted slightly—and realized I hadn’t moved at all through the night. I was still in the same place—her lap. Her warm shawl was wrapped around me like a cocoon, and her strong arms were loosely around my middle, keeping me cradled firmly against her chest.

I tilted my head up. She was already awake, gazing out of the window, her large palm slowly stroking my back.

“Good morning, meri chhotu jaan,” she whispered softly, looking down at me with the same glowing smile that made me feel like the only person in the world. “Still on my lap after ten hours. You didn’t move once.”

I blinked. My body was sore from being curled up, but somehow, her lap felt like the safest bed I’d ever known.

She chuckled. “You’re going to grow roots here at this rate. Twenty-eight years old and still needs aunty’s lap to sleep.”

I blushed, but didn’t move.

She gently adjusted me—sliding one arm behind my back and lifting me just a bit higher, pulling my head to rest right against her chest, near her heart. Her shawl brushed against my cheek, and her soft warmth enveloped me.

“It’s cold this morning,” she murmured, wrapping the shawl tighter around both of us. “You’re small enough for me to wrap you up like a baby bird.”

I nestled deeper into her chest, and she smiled, cradling me.

A few minutes later, the tea vendor came down the aisle, calling out in his sleepy tone. She bought a flask of hot chai and two small paper cups.

Then came breakfast—steaming idlis with chutney, served in foil packets. She looked at me, still resting in her lap, and raised her eyebrows.

“You’re not getting up from here, are you?”
I shook my head sheepishly.

“Just as well,” she smirked. “Sit tight. Aunty will feed you.”

She balanced the breakfast on the fold-down tray beside us. Then, with an easy grace, she shifted me sideways across her lap, one strong arm holding my back, the other hand feeding me gently—piece by piece, dipping the soft idli into warm chutney, then placing it in my mouth.

“Open wide,” she cooed teasingly. “I swear, you’re smaller than my niece. You should come with a diaper bag.”

I couldn’t meet her eyes. My cheeks burned, but my heart felt full.
She didn’t rush. Every bite was slow and gentle, and between bites she would rock me a little, or press a napkin to my chin like I was five.

“Look at this,” she muttered with playful disbelief, brushing crumbs from my lips. “I’m 53. You’re 28. And yet I’m feeding you on my lap in a moving train. What will people think?”

Then she leaned down and whispered against my ear:
“Let them think whatever they want. To me, you’re my soft little doll. Mine to lift, to feed, to cradle.”


The sun was rising outside the train now. The air grew cooler, thinner, as the train began climbing toward the hills. Morning mist hugged the landscape, and the windows fogged lightly with breath.
She noticed me shiver and pulled me closer.

She raised me slightly in her arms, then let me slowly slide down again—this time curling my entire body against her torso, my head resting right on her chest, over the gentle rhythm of her breath.

She wrapped the shawl tighter around both of us and rocked gently.

“Feel that?” she whispered, patting my head. “That’s aunty’s heartbeat. You sleep better when it’s under your ear, don’t you?”
I nodded faintly.

“My lap... my chest... my arms… are all made to carry you,” she whispered, her fingers now stroking my neck. “Not just today. Always.”
I breathed her in—her warmth, her scent, her softness.

 I felt smaller than ever. And safer than ever.

And she—53, tall, strong, cradling me like a child—just smiled.

“You think being 25 years older makes me weak?” she teased gently. “No, beta. That just means I’ve had 25 more years to learn how to carry someone I love.”

The train slowed into the small hill station platform. Morning mist floated around us. I was still resting in her lap, warm under her shawl, when the porter announced our stop.

She stretched slightly beneath me, then shifted me.

“Time to get up, baby,” she whispered.

I groaned softly and moved to rise—but instead, she slipped one arm under my knees and the other around my back and stood up in a single smooth motion, lifting me into her arms.

“Aunty, wait—!” I whispered urgently. “I can walk now!”

“Of course you can walk,” she grinned, adjusting my weight easily, “but why should you? I like carrying you. You’re lighter than my grocery bags.”

She stepped down from the train slowly, my body tucked securely in her arms like a large baby. Porters looked up. Co-passengers whispered. A teenage girl on the platform giggled and nudged her friend.

A middle-aged woman with a large bag walked over and said warmly, “Arrey wah! You’re carrying your son?”

“Not my son,” aunty replied proudly,
 “My little companion.”

The woman blinked. “He looks grown-up though… no offense, beta.”

I managed a small smile and muttered, “I am grown-up… I’m 28.”
The woman turned to aunty, eyes wide. “He’s 28? And you just lifted him like a 5 year old !”

Aunty chuckled. “So? I’m 53. I’m 5’11”. He’s just 5’3” and barely 63 kilos. He fits in my arms like a doll. I could carry him all day.”

She bounced me lightly in her arms to prove it. I turned crimson.
“Aunty!” I whispered, tugging gently at her saree. “You don’t have to say it out loud!”

She smiled down at me with soft defiance.

“But it’s the truth, meri jaan.”
As we walked along the path from the station toward our lodge, the terrain sloped upward. A few other guests were pulling suitcases or huffing with backpacks. I tried to get down, squirming slightly.
“At least now let me walk…”

But she just gripped me tighter and shifted me to her hip—my legs dangling on one side, my arms around her neck. “No. I told you—I’ll carry you up the hill. You’ll tire those little legs.”

I muttered something under my breath.

“Hmm?” she said. “Speak louder, baby.”

“…You like making me look helpless,” I mumbled.

She grinned wide. “That’s because you are helpless when I do this.”

She gave me a small bounce on her hip, then turned as a group of girls passed us from the other direction.
They slowed down to stare.

One of them, a girl around 20 with big glasses and a high ponytail, stopped and smiled. “Ma’am, sorry for asking—who is he?”

“This is my little one,” aunty said, gently rocking me. “He’s my life. My lap-sized man.”

The girl giggled. “He’s older than me, I think!”

“But I’m smaller than you,” I muttered under my breath.

She heard it and burst into laughter. “Aww! He even admits it!

By noon, we stopped at a small roadside café with wooden benches facing the valley. Other travelers rested and sipped tea. Aunty ordered us snacks and settled onto a bench.

Then she patted her lap.
“Come. Sit here.”

“Nooo… Aunty, not here,” I whispered, looking around nervously.

She reached out and gently pulled me by the waist, guiding me across her lap. I ended up lying sideways, fully stretched across her thighs, my head resting on her chest, legs curled slightly over the bench.

She leaned back, stroking my arm. “This is how you relax in the hills.”

A family at the next table whispered, pointing. One woman approached.

“I’m sorry to disturb,” she said kindly. “I’ve been watching… is he unwell? Or just very attached to you?”

“Oh, he’s perfectly healthy,” aunty said with a serene smile. “Just very attached. And I’m very strong. I like having him in my lap. At home, I even rock him to sleep.”

The woman blinked, clearly unsure if it was a joke.

“He looks so peaceful,” she said softly. Then to me: “Lucky boy.”
I flushed and replied, “I guess I’ve stopped fighting it.”

Aunty beamed. “See? He’s learning. Slowly.”