Anjali Aunty 4

As we left the café, the path narrowed again. Without warning, she crouched down.
“Hop on.”

“What?”

“Piggyback time. I want to carry my baby boy up the last slope like a sack of sugar.”

I reluctantly clung onto her back. She stood up effortlessly, my legs dangling, arms looped around her shoulders.

“You’re lighter than my niece’s schoolbag,” she teased as she walked, “At least that doesn’t wiggle and whimper on my back.”

Halfway up the path, a small group of women were walking down. One of them stared and said, “Arrey, is he riding you?”

“Yes,” aunty replied brightly. “My man likes to ride tall women.”
The women laughed.
“You’re spoiling him!”

“That’s the idea,” she said, bouncing me once for emphasis.

The wooden lodge was tucked into a quiet bend of the hillside, with pine trees brushing against the balcony railings and golden sunlight flooding the wide windows.
Inside, it smelled of cedar, soap, and something distinctly maternal—her presence, her perfume, her softness.

She closed the door behind us and smiled at me. “You look dusty and tired. Time for your evening bath.”
“Aunty, I’m not a baby…”

“But you are my baby,” she interrupted, moving close.
And without waiting, she scooped me up again—one arm beneath my knees, one behind my shoulders—and lifted me from the floor. I gave a soft gasp, instinctively clinging to her neck again.

“See? You always grab me like a little monkey when I lift you.”
She carried me into the bathroom, where a large bucket of warm water waited beside a wooden stool. She sat, still holding me in her lap like a sleepy child, and rolled up her sleeves.

“Now put your arms up”, she said. I had to obey. She took off my woolen pullover. Then she removed all my clothes and without any warning pulled down my pants.

“Auntyyy…”, I protested. No effect on her– as if she didn't hear. I stood in front of her fully devoid of any stitch of clothing on my body.

“Now stay still,” she whispered, “Let aunty clean you up.”

She dipped a towel into the warm water and slowly began wiping me down—arms first, then back, then chest—her fingers gentle and deliberate. The towel glided across my skin in slow circles, as her other arm held me snug against her.
“I used to bathe my little niece like this,” she murmured. “But even she did not squirm as much as you.”

“That’s because she wasn’t 28,” I muttered, eyes shut.

She grinned. “True. But you weigh less than she did at 12.”

When she was done, she grabbed a large fluffy towel, spread it across her lap, and lifted me onto it with ease. She wrapped me snugly, cocooning my arms inside, then carried me back into the bedroom in her arms.

“Look at you,” she said, softly kissing my temple. “All warm and clean. Ready to be tucked in."

She laid back on the bed, keeping me in her arms, my towel-wrapped form curled against her chest. She patted my back slowly.

“You belong here,” she whispered. “In my arms. My grown-up baby boy.”

The next evening, we were sitting out on the lodge's terrace—I stretched sideways across her lap, head resting against her chest as she fed me biscuits with sips of chai. A few guests had noticed us the day before, but today, they were bolder.

A family sat across from us—two women in their 40s, and a younger girl, around 18. All three stared, fascinated.

Finally, one lady leaned over.
“Excuse me,” she said politely, “We couldn’t help but notice… is he… okay?”

Aunty beamed. “Oh, very okay. This is my darling boy.”

The younger girl blurted, “But ma’am, he looks like a grown man. And he’s just… lying across your lap?”

Aunty patted my hip and said with a soft laugh, “He may be 28, but he fits here so well, why waste a chair?
The second woman looked amazed. “You’re holding him like he weighs nothing.”

“He doesn’t,” aunty replied, “He’s 5'3", 63 kilos. I’m 5'11", 85. He’s my soft toy.”

The girl looked at me, grinning. “Is she always like this?”

I cleared my throat awkwardly and said, “She’s 53 and I'm 28.… She's stronger than she looks. And she doesn’t let me say no.”

“Smart woman,” the girl said, giggling.

One of the aunties leaned closer. “Would you mind terribly if I tried to lift him? Just once? For fun?”
Before I could answer, aunty protectively pulled me tighter into her lap.

“Oh no no,” she said firmly, “He’s my baby. Only I carry him. No borrowing.”

She stroked my back gently as the women laughed.
“Aunty’s jealous,” the girl was laughing, half-teasing.

“Of course,” she said, pressing a kiss into my hair. “You’re mine. Let them watch. You stay in my lap.”

Later that night, the sky was velvet black, sprinkled with stars. She spread a shawl over a bench on the balcony and sat, pulling me gently onto her lap again.

I curled sideways across her thighs, one arm around her waist, my head resting just beneath her shoulder.
She looked down at me and whispered, “Comfortable, baby?”
I nodded. “Too comfortable, maybe.”

She ran her fingers through my hair.
“You always say that… then snuggle deeper into me.”

I looked up at her, quietly.
“Aunty… I don’t know when it happened, but… I think I feel something more than just comfort when I’m with you.”

Her hand paused in my hair.
“Oh?”

I nodded. “It’s not just about being carried or pampered anymore. I think… I think I’m falling for you.”

There was a pause.

Then, slowly, she leaned down and kissed my forehead.

“And what do you think I’ve been feeling, every time I cradle you in my arms?”

 “You’re not just my lap baby… you’re my heart.”

She wrapped both arms tightly around me. “Stay here. Forever.”

And I whispered, “I will.”

The room was dark, except for the soft golden lamp on the nightstand. The bedsheet smelled faintly of sandalwood and warm cotton—just like her.

She was already in bed, propped up by pillows, her long arms spread invitingly.

“Come here, baby,” she whispered.
I hesitated at first, standing beside the bed in my night clothes, rubbing the back of my neck.
“Aunty…”
She held out both arms.
“Climb in. My lap isn’t going to wait forever.”

And I did.
I crawled onto the bed, and she immediately scooped me into her lap—settling me across her crossed legs, my upper body gently reclined against her chest, her arms like warm, strong walls around me.
She rocked slightly. Her right hand stroked my hair. Her left hand circled my waist, fingers curled in a protective embrace.

The air was quiet. Her shawl was wrapped around both of us again.
“You’ve been quiet,” she said softly.
I nodded. My voice came low, from the heart.

“Aunty… this isn’t just fantasy anymore."

She tilted her head, listening.
“All my life,” I said, “I’ve felt small. Not just in height. But… inside. I don’t know why. But when you pick me up like this... when you hold me...”

She pressed my head more firmly against her chest.

“I feel like I’m enough,” I whispered.

 “More than enough. For you.”

There was silence again.
Then I felt her arms tighten.
“You are,” she whispered. “You are enough, and more. You are… my soft little moon.”

I looked up.
Her eyes were glistening.
“You think you’re the only one who feels safe?” she said, her voice a little shaky. “Beta… when I hold you like this—when your head is here, on my chest—I feel young again. I feel beautiful.”

“Aunty…”

She smiled gently, wiping her eye.
She continued. “I’ve never had anyone look at me the way you do. Not even when I was your age.” 
She slid her hands beneath my knees and behind my back, and gently lifted me into a full cradle, resting me sideways against her chest. I felt her breath, warm on my forehead.

“You fit here like you were meant to,” she whispered. “You may be 28. I may be 53. But in this moment… you’re my baby. And I… I’m yours.”

She kissed the top of my head.
“Let me rock you. Until you sleep.”
And she did.

She held me in her arms, lying back against the pillows, rocking me slowly. Her fingers traced the side of my face. Her lips brushed my temple. Her breath whispered words I could barely hear—soft, affectionate phrases, calling me her baby, her doll, her sweet little prince.

I murmured something back.
“Aunty…” I said softly, eyes already closing.

 “I think I want to fall asleep here forever.”

She smiled.
“Then do it. I’ll never let go.”

We set out early the next morning—through a dusty, winding path that passed through a local village nestled along the lower hills.
I insisted I would walk this time.

She didn’t answer.
She just waited till we were ten steps in, then calmly turned, bent slightly, and lifted me straight into a cradle carry—my body pressed against her chest again.

“Nope,” she said. “This is my hill vacation. I’m doing things my way.”
I sighed, but melted into her embrace as usual.

As we walked, a group of village women—broad-shouldered, sturdy, laughing loudly in cotton sarees—were sitting beside a hand pump, chatting. One of them noticed us and gasped.

“Oye! Look at that lady! Carrying a full man like a toddler!”

The others turned and stared.
One walked right up to us and asked, “Yeh aapka beta hai?”

“No,” aunty replied, smiling proudly."

 “He’s mine. Not by birth. But mine in every way that matters.”

Another woman laughed. “Arrey baap re! But he’s so small !”

I tried to speak up.
“I’m not that small… she’s just tall.”
“How old are you, beta?”

“I’m 28,” I replied, a bit..umch defensively.The women erupted in laughter.

“28 ?! And still being carried like this by a woman?”

Aunty smiled calmly. “Yes. Because he deserves to be.”

One woman—tall, hefty—stepped closer and grinned.

“Bhabhi, can I try? Just for a moment? I haven’t lifted someone like this since my brother was 10 !”

Aunty held me tighter.

“No sharing,” she said playfully. “He’s exclusive. One-lady carrier only.”

Another woman winked. “You’re lucky, young man. Most men lift their wives. But you found a queen who lifts you.”

I looked up at aunty.
“They’re not wrong,” I whispered.
She kissed my forehead and said softly, “You’re mine. I’ll carry you through every village, every city, every storm.”

The village path opened into a large grassy meadow by the river—crystal clear waters flowing gently, birdsong fluttering in the trees. A few travelers had stopped here for rest, and a few village women were washing clothes nearby.

Aunty was still carrying me—cradle-style, my body tucked effortlessly in her arms, my head resting against her collarbone. She had barely broken a sweat.

She settled onto a low boulder by the riverbank, still holding me like a treasure.
“You want to lie on the grass, baby?” she asked. 

I shook my head. “No. Just don’t put me down yet.”

She smiled and rocked me a little, like I was a child coming down from a sugar high. Then she whispered teasingly:

“You’ve become addicted, haven’t you?

 My arms… my lap… my chest... You don’t want to leave any of it.”
I blushed and mumbled, “You make it impossible to leave.”

Just then, one of the village women—tall, dusky, and in a faded green saree—walked over, smiling ear to ear.

“Didi!” she called out to aunty. “You’re still carrying him?”

Aunty grinned. “Of course. Look at his face—like a sleeping kitten."

The woman turned to a friend and shouted in the local dialect, “Come see! She’s cradling a grown man like a baby still!”

Soon, five or six village women gathered around.

Aunty proudly adjusted me across her lap, as if displaying a prized doll.

One of the women said, “Can we take a photo? Just for memory. This is the sweetest thing I’ve seen in years.”

Aunty looked down at me.
I hesitated, whispering, “Are you sure, aunty?”

She nodded softly. “Let them see. Let the world see what love looks like in strong arms.”

She shifted me slightly, raising her knee and letting me recline more fully across her thighs. One of the women adjusted her dupatta so it draped elegantly across both of us.
Another clicked a photo on her phone.

A young tourist couple from Mumbai walked by, stunned. The woman asked gently, “Can we take a picture too? You two look… magical.”

Aunty said yes with a warm smile, while holding me tighter.
“He’s my little man,” she explained, “and I’ll carry him until I can’t anymore. And even then, I’ll find a way.”

The tourist laughed. “You better marry her, bhaiya. No one’s ever going to carry you like that again.”
Later, as the sun dipped low, turning the river golden, she walked with me to a quiet grove of trees. Birds chirped overhead. Dappled sunlight flickered through the leaves.
She sat down on a tree stump, gently placed me on her lap sideways again, and wrapped her arms around my waist.
For a long while, we just sat there—her hand stroking mine, her cheek resting against my hair.

Then she spoke, softly, but clearly.
“I have something to ask you.”

I looked up, heart suddenly pounding.
She held my face in both palms, cradling it gently.
“I’ve lived a long life,” she said. “I’ve been loved, I’ve been admired, I’ve been left alone. But never… never have I been needed like this.”
She paused.

“When you curl up in my lap, I feel full. Like the universe gave me one last gift—and wrapped him up small enough to hold close every night.”
Tears stung my eyes.

She took a breath and smiled.
“So now, meri jaan, I’m asking you something not many women ask.
 Will you be mine?

 Not just in name.

 Will you let me carry you through life—through joys and storms, in arms and in heart?”

I nodded before I could even speak.
“Yes,” I whispered. “Yes, aunty. I already am.”

She pulled me into a tight embrace—my face buried into her chest, her chin resting over my head.

“Then let’s make it real. Not with rings. Not yet. But from today, I promise—my arms are your home. My lap is your bed. My love is your shield.”

And there, under the golden trees, she cradled me like her future, as the world slowed down.

( To be continued…)