Anjali Aunty 5

Just a statistical Recap -

Anjali (53 years) 5'11" and 85 kilos.
 Me (28 years) 5'3" and 64 kilos


A month had passed since that magical proposal beneath the trees. Life had shifted slowly into a shared rhythm—every evening spent in her lap, every morning beginning with her arms around me, her strength, my pillow, my safe place.

But now came the next step.
Meeting my parents.

We had taken the train back to my hometown. The moment we entered the quiet lane of my childhood house, I could feel my heartbeat racing—not with excitement, but dread.

She held my hand tightly.
“Don’t be scared,” she said gently. 
“Let them see us together. Let them see how I carry you.”

But I thought, ‘it's not as simple as you think, Aunty’... Didn't tell her anything though.

Aunty walked with her long and thick arm around my shoulders, pulling me towards her body. I was looking and feeling so small beside her. 
With my 5’3” height walking beside her 5’11” frame, my head was literally tucked under her armpit. 
And my 64 kilos of weight was totally engulfed by her 85 kilos of solid mass. 

Add to that, this tall and big mature lady of 53 years, hugging a short and small young guy of 28, tucked inside her arms; we looked more like a mother and son pair, rather than a wife and husband couple.

Why am I thinking all this? Possibly because I'm taking her to meet my parents. And for the first time perhaps, I'm looking at ourselves from my mother's perspective. I shrugged off such thoughts. It's too late for all this now. And I love Aunty much beyond all these hurdles which might come up now.

I was thinking of all this, when we reached our house. I slowly disentangled myself from Aunty’s arm which was around my shoulders, just to create a physical distance. But Aunty came and stood right behind me, just like a human wall…dwarfing me. She was head and shoulders above me, with the top of my head even below her chin.

My mother opened the door herself.
She was in her early fifties—still graceful, traditional, and deeply rooted in her values. She wore a crisp saree and a faint frown the moment she saw us.

My mother stood back letting us enter the drawing room. Then she faced us again.

Her eyes first scanned Aunty—tall, commanding, elegant even in her simple kurta. Standing just behind me, looking at my mother over my head.

Then they fell on me.
Still slightly nestled in front of Aunty.

And my mother’s eyes narrowed.
“This is…?”

“Ma,” I said nervously, “this is… her name is Anjali.”

“Namaste,” aunty said, folding her hands politely.

My mother returned the greeting half-heartedly.
“And what is she to you?”

I hesitated.

Aunty stepped forward slightly, 
placing a protective arm behind my back.

“I’m the woman your son loves. And who loves him deeply in return.”

My mother’s face changed instantly—shock, confusion, then sharp disapproval.

“What?” she whispered. “You… love her?”

“Yes, Ma,” I said quietly. “We’re together.”

“But she’s…how tall is she ? You are only five feet three” my mother’s voice broke off. She looked again at aunty—the silver in her hair, the calm maturity in her eyes, the sheer physical difference between us, she was a head taller than me. 

I simply said, “She is five - eleven; 8 inches taller than me..”

Then she looked at me. Horrified.
“Do you even realize she’s older than me?”

A heavy silence fell.
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

It was aunty who spoke.

“Yes,” she said calmly. “I’m 53. I know you’re 52. I also know you gave birth to him at 24.”

My mother stepped back slightly, eyes wide.
“Then how—how can you…?”

Aunty stepped closer. “Because love isn’t measured by the years we’ve lived, but by the space we hold for each other.”

My mother sat down heavily on the sofa, still dazed.

“My son… my only son. You want to marry a woman older than me? Who can lift you like a child? What kind of relationship is this?”

Aunty slowly knelt beside her—not submissively, but humbly.

“Exactly that,” she said softly. “One where I lift him. In body, in spirit, in heart.”

She looked into my mother’s eyes.
“You raised him with care. With love. You protected him, fed him, made him gentle and kind. 
I am simply continuing that… as a partner. As a woman who holds him every night, rocks him when he’s tired, listens when he’s silent.”

My mother’s voice trembled. “But people will laugh. They’ll say I lost my son to… to some woman who treats him like a baby.”

Aunty placed one hand over hers.
“Let them laugh. They don’t know the joy of having someone so small and soft curl up in your arms after a long day. They don’t know what it feels like to be needed, held, and trusted.”

She glanced back at me, still standing awkwardly near the doorway.

“He’s 28. But in my arms, he rests like he’s five. And I love that. I don’t want a man who’s afraid to be tender. I want him—just as he is.”

There was silence.

Then Aunty turned toward me.
“Come here, baby.”

In front of my mother, I slowly stepped forward. Without hesitation, aunty slipped one arm under my knees, the other behind my back, and lifted me smoothly into her cradle.

My mother gasped softly.

I looked away in embarrassment. “Ma, I know it looks strange. But this is who I am with her. This is when I feel… safe.”

Aunty held me close, resting my head on her chest, right in front of my stunned mother.

“See this?” she whispered to my mother. “This is not weakness. This is trust. This is intimacy. This is a love deeper than words.”

She rocked me gently, right there in the drawing room.

My mother didn’t speak for a while. Her eyes shimmered with complex emotions—shock, shame, sorrow, confusion.

But also… something soft.
Something like realization.

She finally whispered:
“You’re sure? You want to marry her?”

I nodded, still in aunty’s arms. “Yes. I don’t care what the world thinks. She’s home.”


Later that evening, my mother sat alone with aunty over tea.

I stayed outside on the verandah, listening quietly from a distance.

I heard my mother say:
“I still don’t understand it fully. But I can see… he looks happiest when you hold him.”

Aunty smiled.
“Then let me keep doing it.”



We went to a quiet Resort for the wedding.

It was a quiet hilltop mandap. No grand venue. No lavish crowd. Just sunlight, the fragrance of flowers, and a small circle of well-wishers. Two of Aunty’s close friends, and one of my office colleagues who had been supportive from the start.

My parents weren't there, not even my relatives, nor my childhood friends.

I stood nervously in my cream kurta, shifting from foot to foot.

Aunty came out from the dressing hut beside the mandap, dressed in a simple red-and-gold silk saree. She looked radiant—her tall frame dignified and graceful, silver-streaked hair pinned up neatly, her bindi bold and proud. Around her neck was a single string of jasmine, and her bangles chimed like soft bells.

She walked toward me and stopped.
I looked up at her. Still stunned.

“You’re really going to marry me?” I whispered. “Even though I look like a boy beside you?”

She smiled.
“You don’t look like a boy. You look like mine.”

Then she bent down, slid one arm behind my knees, the other around my back, and lifted me into her arms.

In front of everyone.

There were soft gasps, amused laughter from her friends.
“Oh my God, she’s carrying him to the mandap!”

And she was.
She walked with me in her arms, like I weighed nothing, my head tucked against her shoulder, my heart pounding against her neck.

At the mandap, she gently sat cross-legged with me still cradled in her lap, as the priest began the ceremony.

I protested once, whispering, “Shouldn’t I sit next to you?”

“No,” she said firmly. “You’re my dulha, but I’ll carry you through the whole thing. I’ve waited my whole life for this.”

When the time came for sindoor, I fumbled for the box.

She held me tighter. “Do it from here. Stay in my lap.”

And I did. With my hand shaking slightly, I applied sindoor to the parting of her hair while nestled against her chest.

She kissed my forehead.

And the priest declared, “You are now husband and wife.”

Her friend whispered, “He never touched the ground. The bride carried her groom into her heart.”



The cottage room was softly lit with warm yellow lights. The bed was wide, dressed in white linen, covered with petals and surrounded by incense.

Aunty changed into a flowing nightgown, deep maroon, hugging her curves but flowing at the edges like silk water. Her bare arms gleamed in the low light. She turned to me.

I stood there awkwardly, barefoot, in a cream cotton pajama set.

She stepped close.
“You’re nervous,” she murmured.

I nodded, eyes cast down.

She cupped my face.
“Do you remember what I promised?”

I whispered, “That your arms are my home?”

She nodded. Then, gently, scooped me up again, carrying me to the bed, one leg folded under her as she sat with me sideways in her lap.

“Tonight, I’m not your older woman,” she whispered. “I’m your bride. And you’re my little husband.”

I looked up. Her eyes shimmered.
“Do you want to lie on my chest again?” she asked, stroking my back.

I nodded slowly.
She shifted my body up, resting my head squarely on her bosom, wrapping both arms around me, her palm sliding protectively over my back.

“You know,” she whispered, “I used to dream of this. Carrying someone—not for duty, but for love. Holding someone so tender he could fall asleep in my arms.”

“And now?” I murmured.

“Now I’m holding my future,” she said softly. “And I will keep lifting you—every night. Even when your hair turns silver and your joints complain, you’ll always be the boy I rock to sleep.”

She cradled me gently, moving slowly side to side.

I looked up at her and whispered, “Aunty… will you always call me your baby?”

She kissed my forehead.
“Yes. Because that’s what you are. My husband. My man.
But also, always, my soft little baby.”

That night, I fell asleep on her chest once more—not in fantasy, not in secret, but as her chosen partner, in her lap, in her arms, in her life.

The morning after my wedding night, soft sunlight poured through the open window of the cottage, dappling the white sheets with golden warmth. I was lying across her body, my head resting in the hollow of her chest, my arm lazily draped around her waist.
She stroked my back in slow, lazy circles. I was still half-asleep, nuzzling gently against her softness.
“Mmm… Aunty…” I murmured without thinking.

She gave a gentle sigh through her nose.

“No, baby. Not anymore.”

I looked up sleepily. “What?”

She smiled down at me, brushing my hair away from my eyes.

“You don’t call your wife Aunty,” she said gently. “Not now. Not ever again.”

I blinked. “But I’ve always…”

“Exactly,” she whispered. “That part of our story is over. Now, we’re husband and wife. It’s time for you to say my name. Say it, love.”

I hesitated, my cheeks already warming.

She pulled me up slightly, resting my chest fully over hers. Her arms slid around my back, her hands holding me firmly in place.

“Say it,” she whispered, voice low, teasing. “Say my name, little husband.”

I swallowed softly.
“Anjali…”

She smiled, eyes glistening. “Again.”

“Anjali.”

Her grip on me tightened lovingly, her legs shifting under me, thighs bracing my body as if wrapping me fully into her.

“That’s better,” she said softly. “Now, one more thing, my love.”

I was still resting fully on top of her, the full length of my smaller frame laid across her tall, full figure. Her hand cupped the back of my head.

“Last night,” she murmured, “you curled into me and fell asleep. It was beautiful. Innocent. Sweet.”

I nodded silently.

“But now,” she continued, “we’re no longer shy strangers playing at fantasy. We’re husband and wife. We belong to each other. Fully.”

I looked into her eyes. She held my gaze gently but firmly.

“Are you ready?” she asked. “To take that step—with me? Not just being carried. But being claimed?”

My voice trembled a little.
“I don’t know if I’ll be good enough.”

She smiled and whispered, “You don’t have to be anything. Just be mine. Let me guide you.”

She gently rolled over, keeping my body still wrapped in her arms, and now she was on top, holding me beneath her—strong, warm, protective.

“Let your tall, strong wife love you,” she whispered.

Then she leaned down and kissed me.

Everything slowed.

She kissed me again.
And again.

And my small body, once only curled in her lap like a child, now melted into hers in a new way—still soft, still protected, but finally joined, finally whole.

She made love to me that morning—not fast, not wild, but deep, warm, tender. She moved with care, her hands guiding, her whispers calming, her breath and body my rhythm.

And when I was fully one with her, she kissed my ear and whispered:
“No more ‘Aunty’. You’re my man now. Say it again.”

And with my face pressed into her shoulder, I gasped softly,
“Anjali…”

She smiled, rocking me deeper into her warmth.

“Yes, my love. Say it forever.”


The End