Haldi - 2

Dear Reader,

(This is a continuation of a very old story of mine named “HALDI”. This was written 3 years back. You will find the story in my list of stories in this Storymirror platform. Please read it for a better understanding of this story.)

The Aftermath of Haldi – In Bhabhi’s Tender Captivity

The coolness of Puja Bhabhi’s flat was a sudden and sharp contrast to the humid madness of the terrace Haldi function. My whole body was sticky with the smear of turmeric, my limbs limp from the exhaustion of the physical humiliation and the emotional chaos. But I was still helplessly ensconced in Bhabhi’s firm, cradling arms as she closed the door behind her with one hand — the other never loosening its gentle yet unyielding grip on me.

She paused for a moment in the hallway, as if savoring the silence, her eyes taking in my awkward form pressed up against her, my arms still involuntarily wrapped around her neck. I didn't even realise I was doing that — it felt like muscle memory now, a passive surrender to her overwhelming presence.

“Sumit,” she whispered, walking slowly through her living room toward the bathroom, “you know, when you buried your face in my neck like a little boy… something in me just melted. It was the softest surrender I’ve ever seen. So full of trust.”

I murmured something incoherent — whether in protest or bashful agreement, even I didn’t know. My face was burning under the haldi, but even more so from embarrassment. I could still hear echoes of the women cheering her victory in my ears.

Bhabhi reached the bathroom and set me gently down on the edge of a small wooden stool by the washbasin. My knees were weak. I couldn’t stand properly. She knelt in front of me, looking straight into my eyes.

"You're not going to run, are you?" she teased, mock sternly.

I looked down, still avoiding her gaze. “No, Bhabhi.”

She smiled, satisfied, and stood up, pulling out a soft towel and a jug of warm water from a shelf. Then, without warning, she took the edge of my t-shirt and began lifting it up over my torso.

“Bhabhi!” I cried, trying to resist, but she gave me a no-nonsense glance.

“Oh come on! I’ve already carried you like a baby in front of fifty women. Do you really think a little haldi-bathed chest is going to embarrass me now?” she chuckled.

Reluctantly, I lifted my arms and let her slide off the turmeric-stained shirt. She wrung it in her hands with mock disgust and tossed it aside, then turned back to me with a soft cloth in her hand.

The first touch of the warm, damp towel on my chest made me flinch. But her hands were gentle. She slowly began to wipe the haldi from my skin, taking her time. She was humming a soft tune as she worked, something old and romantic — maybe a Lata Mangeshkar song — her movements slow, rhythmical, and oddly comforting.

At one point, she held my chin to wipe my cheeks and forehead. “Keep still,” she whispered.

I looked up into her face. Her eyes, normally filled with mischief, were soft and glowing now. There was a quiet power in them — not the loud victory of a woman who had physically bested a man, but the serene triumph of someone who knew she was in complete control and was also being tender.

“You know, Sumit,” she said softly, continuing to wipe the turmeric from my neck and shoulders, “when I lifted you, and you were just… lying there on my chest like that… all I could think of was how much I liked the feeling. I haven’t felt that kind of closeness in a long time.”

Her voice dropped into a husky register. “You’re so small… so light..so weak… so easy to hold. I felt needed again. Do you understand that?”

I didn’t know what to say. I simply nodded, quietly.

Suddenly she stood up again and, to my shock, bent down and scooped me up in her arms once more — this time in a gentler, more intimate cradle. I had just started to regain my strength, but now I was back in her embrace, my bare chest against her soft cotton kurti, still stained with haldi herself.

“Bhabhi… I can walk now,” I protested softly.

“I know,” she replied with a smile. “But I don’t want you to.”

She carried me slowly to her bedroom now. My heart thudded nervously in my chest. I could smell the faint scent of turmeric, sandalwood soap, and something warm and maternal from her skin. She lowered herself onto her bed, still holding me in her lap like a child.

Seated, she shifted me to a more comfortable position — my back resting against her left arm, my legs dangling over her right thigh. She brought her palm to my cheek, stroking it.

“You looked so proud up there, trying to resist me,” she teased. “But then you became mine. I won you in front of everyone. And I want to cherish that.”

She then reached for a fresh cotton towel and began rubbing my arms dry, then carefully cleaned the remaining haldi from my knees and feet. The attention she gave to each part of my body wasn’t hurried or casual — it was thorough, loving. Every wipe was deliberate.

"You know," she murmured, adjusting me slightly in her lap, "back when I was younger, I used to dream of pampering someone like this. Carrying them. Bathing them. Feeding them. Just someone small enough to make me feel... needed and strong."

I looked at her, still blushing, and whispered, "You got your chance today."

She looked at me warmly and bent down again, brushing her lips against my forehead — not in mockery this time, but with deep affection.

“And I don’t want this chance to end,” she said, cradling me closer. “Not today. Maybe… not ever.”

I said nothing. My arms once again found their way around her neck, more willingly this time.

She sat there rocking me softly on her lap in silence for a while, occasionally pressing her cheek against my hair.

After some time, she whispered, “Let’s wash your hair next. You have haldi in it.”

“But... I can do it,” I mumbled weakly.

She laughed gently. “No you can’t. Remember you lost to an older woman today in a fair physical fight. I won you in the battle of the sexes. Today, you belong to me.”

And with that, she slowly stood up with me in her arms once more and carried me toward the bathroom again — like I was a precious bundle she wasn’t ready to put down just yet.

Inside the warm bathroom, the exhaust fan humming faintly, Puja Bhabhi gently placed me on a cushioned stool near the sink. I was still bare-chested, yellow patches of haldi stubbornly clinging to parts of my hair and back. I sat quietly, watching her move around the bathroom with calm precision—rolling up the sleeves of her kurti, gathering a soft towel, setting out a bottle of oil, a wide-toothed comb, shampoo, and a steel mug of warm water.

“There we go,” she said sweetly, coming to stand behind me. Her voice dropped into that soft, sing-song tone she had used while rocking me earlier. “Now my little hero needs his hair washed.”

I started to protest, half-standing. “Bhabhi, please, I can do it mys—”

Before I could finish, her strong hands pressed gently but firmly on my shoulders, pushing me back down onto the stool with surprising ease. “Shhh,” she whispered into my ear from behind. “Sit down. No arguments. The man who couldn’t even wriggle out of my hug, who lay limp in my arms like a baby, isn’t suddenly going to grow muscles and independence now.”

I blushed fiercely. Her teasing tone cut through me with the precision of a needle. I looked down at my feet, unable to meet her eyes.

She poured a little oil onto her palms and gently worked it into my scalp. Her fingers were strong yet gentle, massaging deeply with care. It felt oddly soothing.

“You know Sumit,” she began again, the amusement in her voice unmistakable, “I keep thinking about how easy it was to lift you. Just one scoop, and poof! You were up in the air and tucked into my arms like a small girl’s doll.”

I let out a soft groan. “Bhabhi… please don’t…”

“Why not?” she said, grinning, working the oil in circular motions into my hair. “A young man of 32… but just 5’3”… 60 kilos soaking wet… and so helpless against a woman 10 years older. You know, I’m 5’9” and 82 kilos — there’s more than twenty kilos between us. That’s not just a little difference, Sumit. That’s four full grocery bags!”

I buried my face in my hands. “Bhabhiii…”

She leaned down beside my ear, her cheek brushing mine. “What are you so shy about? It’s not your fault, my little jaanu… You’re just… adorably small.”

She giggled, poured warm water over my hair, and began lathering it gently. Her voice dropped into a softer, more mischievous whisper.

“In fact,” she said, “you know what I was thinking while I carried you around my flat? What if we just flipped the story? Suppose you weren’t a young man of 32… but a young woman. A small, delicate girl in love… And I wasn’t a middle-aged woman, but a strong 42-year-old man. Then would it be so shocking to see me carry you like that?”

I blinked, turning to look up at her, confused.

She smiled, eyes twinkling. “Yes, imagine that. You… a sweet little girl… five foot three, sixty kilos… and me, your tall, broad-shouldered middle-aged boyfriend, sweeping you up in my arms, cradling you against my chest. Wouldn’t everyone go ‘aww’? Wouldn’t they call it romantic?”

My jaw dropped slightly. She continued, gently rubbing shampoo into my scalp.

“But instead,” she grinned, “I’m a woman. And you’re the man. A man… being lifted… bathed… carried around… helplessly hiding his face in my breasts like a baby boy…”

She leaned down again. “So tell me, baby boy, what’s worse? Being lifted by a man… or being lifted by a woman in front of fifty other women?”

I groaned aloud. “You’re embarrassing me, Bhabhi…”

She gave my hair a final rinse and then wrapped it in a towel. Her hands came around my back as she gently helped me off the stool. But instead of letting me walk, she bent swiftly and picked me up once again — effortlessly — into her arms.

“There. All clean. All soft. All fresh. And all mine,” she smiled as she carried me out of the bathroom like a mother cradling a sleeping toddler.

I should’ve protested. But I was too tired… and perhaps, somewhere deep inside, I didn’t really want to resist anymore. Her arms were warm and secure. I felt strangely at peace.

“I could carry you like this forever,” she whispered into my ear as we entered the bedroom. “Even if the whole building laughed at me. I don’t care. You’re mine.”

She sat down on her bed, still holding me in her lap, rocking me gently. “But just for fun,” she added with a wink, “maybe tomorrow I’ll get you a nice pink salwar kameez and braid your hair — and carry you again. Let’s see how that version of Sumit feels.”

My face was crimson. I buried it again in her neck. I didn’t even know who I was anymore — a man, a baby, a doll, a lover? All I knew was that Bhabhi’s arms had become my only safe place.

And then came the knock at the door.

Puja Bhabhi froze. I looked up at her, alarmed.

She smirked.

“Uh oh. Someone’s here. And you, my little prize, are still sitting in my lap like a baby. Should I carry you to the door and introduce you as my new boy toy?”

“Bhabhi!” I gasped, eyes wide.

She laughed loudly and hugged me closer. “Relax, jaanu. I’ll put you down. For now.”

But as she gently lowered me from her lap to the bed, she whispered with a naughty smile, “But remember… now that I’ve lifted and bathed and claimed you… you’re mine. And I’m not going to let my baby go too far ever again.”



(To be continued…)