My First L&C Experience 2

( Dear Reader, the 1st part of this story has been written about 11 months back. Please read the first part also to better understand the continuity of the story so far...)

My First L&C Experience 2

Days turned into weeks after that fateful afternoon when I found myself nestled in Mala’s arms, completely undone by the strength and tenderness of a girl four years younger. Something deep inside me had changed. My sense of manhood—based on being bigger, older, in charge—had been quietly and gently unseated by a girl in a frock who could lift and carry me like her toy.

After that first admission of surrender, I began to accept my helplessness before Mala’s power. But she wasn’t done yet. In fact, that was only the beginning.

One Sunday afternoon, my parents had gone to a wedding. The entire first floor was empty. I was half-asleep, lying on my bed, enjoying the soft breeze through the window, when the door creaked open.

Mala tiptoed in, barefoot, hair tied into a bun, her cheeks glowing from having just bathed. She leaned against the wall, arms folded under her chest and said, “Bhaiya, you're looking very lazy today. Kya hua? Studying too hard?”

I grinned sleepily. “Just resting.”

Without another word, she walked over, stood beside my bed, bent down, slid one hand behind my back and the other under my knees, and with one firm motion, scooped me up like I weighed nothing.

“Uff, Mala!” I protested, wrapping my arms instinctively around her neck. “I just got comfortable!”

She smiled and began rocking me side to side. “Exactly! That’s when I should pick you up. When you’re least expecting it.”

I looked at her playfully. “Is this how you treat all your Bhaiyas?”

She tightened her hold and whispered, “No. Only you. My personal softy.” And she winked.

She walked around the room slowly, her arms strong and steady. She didn’t even look tired. I looked up at her face from the crook of her neck and asked, “How long can you hold me like this?”

She giggled. “Do you really want to know?” Without waiting, she walked to the chair and sat down with me still in her lap, cradled like a child.

I sighed. “Mala, I’m supposed to be the adult here.”

She wrapped both arms tightly around me and began patting my back. “So? You're my baby adult. My weak baby adult.”

Another day, I was doing push-ups in my room. I wanted to test if I was finally catching up with her strength. I had managed a full set of twenty-five. Feeling smug, I stood and announced, “Mala, come here. Let me try lifting you again.”

She walked in, hands on her hips. “Oh? You’ve been training to carry me?”

I nodded proudly. “Yes. Let’s try again.”

This time I managed to lift her for a full six seconds. My arms trembled, my back ached, but I did it. I shouted triumphantly, “Ha! Six seconds!”

She smiled. “Okay. My turn.”

Before I could even catch my breath, she pounced, grabbed me, and with a smooth spin, tossed me onto her shoulders in a fireman’s carry.

“Uff, Mala!” I yelped, half-laughing, half-panicking.

She walked in circles around the room with me hanging over her shoulders like a sack. “One... two... three... four...” she counted loudly, “...twenty-four...twenty-five… see Bhaiya, I’m doing laps with you!”

I wiggled, slapped her back gently, but she tightened her grip.

“Try escaping, Mr. Strongman.”

“I’m slipping!”

“You’re not going anywhere,” she declared and bounced me up once. “I’ve got you.”

When she finally let me down, I collapsed into her lap, panting. She pulled my head into her chest and stroked my hair like she always did. “You’re improving, Bhaiya. Maybe in ten years, you’ll be able to carry me from the kitchen to the bathroom.”

I looked up, grinning. “And you’ll still be carrying me around like a baby by then.”

“Of course,” she said without hesitation. “I won’t let you walk if I can help it.”

One monsoon evening, it began raining heavily. My room on the terrace had a small awning outside. Mala came up with a towel, dripping wet, her frock clinging to her thick body. She looked breathtaking—strong, earthy, and glowing.

“Your books will get wet. Let’s take them inside,” she said.

“I’ll do it,” I replied.

“No, no,” she said with a grin, stepping forward. Before I could stop her, she grabbed me and hoisted me onto her hip like a toddler.

“Malaaa—!”

“Shhh,” she whispered. “The thunder will scare you. I’ll protect my baby Bhaiya.”

I buried my head in her shoulder, half-laughing and half-melting. She carried me down two flights of stairs while cradling me like a protective mother.

When we reached the living room, she didn’t put me down. She sat on the sofa, stretched her legs, and shifted me onto her lap like a prize. “Comfortable?”

“Yes,” I murmured, resting against her chest.

She held me tighter and whispered in my ear, “See Bhaiya, no matter how much you grow… how educated, how important… I’ll always carry you back to safety. You’ll always be my soft little prince.”

One evening when I returned after a football match with bruises on my knee, she scolded me like a mother, lifted me in a cradle hold, and walked me to the washroom herself. She sat me on her lap while cleaning the wound, dabbing it gently.

And every night when the house went to sleep, I waited for her.

She would tiptoe to the terrace, lift me in her arms—sometimes from behind, sometimes from the front—and cradle me like a treasure in the moonlight. She would sing softly while rocking me, her body warm, arms unrelenting, and her embrace tighter than any blanket.

Then one night, while she held me against her chest and we looked out at the stars, I whispered, “Mala… you’re not just stronger than me…”

She smiled. “I know. I’m also braver and tougher?”

I shook my head. “You’re my home.”

She looked at me with a softness that stunned me. She gently kissed my forehead and whispered, “Then this home will carry you, Bhaiya… wherever you want to go.”

And from that night on, I stopped calling her “Mala.”

I started calling her “Mummy.”

And she loved it. Every time I curled up in her lap or clung to her back or cried softly into her shoulder, she would whisper, “Mummy is here, baby. Mummy will never let you fall.”



Cut to 2 years later.
I had gone for higher studies - MBA to Pune. 
I returned home. I got a good job from campus placement. But my posting was in Chennai. The problem was that I did not know how to cook. My parents were worried that if I had outside food everyday, I would fall sick. I definitely needed home cooked food. They decided that since Mala was efficient in all household work and also a good cook, she can accompany me to take care of me. Mala had become an almost family member in all these years working with us. 


Mala was 16 years when I left 2 years back and I was 20.
I came back and found that she had hit a late growth spurt and developed into a big young lady at 18 and grown significantly in height and weight. 

Mala, now 18, was no longer the stocky girl I had left behind. She had blossomed—taller now at 5'7", fuller, stronger. Her body had filled out into bold, curving maturity. She moved confidently, commanding space without arrogance, always in control, yet gentle. When she passed by me in the hallway with a tray of tea, I could feel the quiet tremor in my heart.

She now towered over me by four inches. My 5’3” frame, now a wiry 60 kg, looked positively fragile next to her 75 kg of compact strength and quiet power.

And I knew something had changed in her gaze too. It wasn't the wide-eyed admiration of a younger girl anymore. It was deeper, knowing—almost mischievous.

I did not get any alone time with Mala during the short 5 days I came home. The whirlwind of MBA life had carried me far from the quiet terrace room where a 16-year-old girl once rocked me in the dark.

Now I am returning as a 22-year old MBA graduate with a good job offer in hand. I had to meet my friends, cousins, relatives because I was going away to Chennai. The house had been bustling during my five-day visit. Family members, cousins, neighbors, old school friends, everyone wanted a piece of my time. 

In the chaos, Mala and I had only exchanged a few casual words and warm glances. She had remained busy helping my mother manage the guests, packing my clothes, and preparing snacks for the road. But even in that short span, I noticed the transformation.

Our first real moment alone came at the airport.

I was wheeling my light blue trolley bag. Mala walked beside me, carrying her large red suitcase effortlessly in one hand, and a backpack slung over her shoulder. I was surprised to notice that my mother had packed quite a lot for her too. Sarees, toiletries, steel containers, spices—almost as if Mala was shifting permanently.

There was a strange feeling seeing her tower over me standing right behind me in the queue.

“This is your first flight, right?” I asked as we stood in line for baggage drop. 

Mala’s face lit up like a child’s. “Haan Bhaiya! Mujhe toh sapne jaisa lag raha hai! First time plane mein baithungi!” (Yes, Bhaiya! Feels like a dream! First time sitting on a plane!)

Her cheeks dimpled as she smiled. She was wearing a simple kurti and jeans—clothes she hadn’t worn earlier. But now they hugged her tall, heavy frame with confident ease. The kurti was stretched tightly over her thick chest and wide shoulders. Even in the crowded airport, she stood out—a big, strong village girl-turned-woman, now walking through metal detectors and boarding gates like a queen.

The flight was uneventful—except for the part where she held my wrist tightly during takeoff, visibly scared.

“Bhaiya, mujhe darr lag raha hai,” she whispered dramatically. Then suddenly smiled and added, “But if it crashes, don’t worry—I’ll carry you on my back and fly us to safety!”

I chuckled, but even then, a part of me felt a thrill at that image—being clutched to her back, her big legs striding across clouds.

The cab dropped us at the apartment complex by evening. A small but neat 1BHK flat on the third floor. Our company had furnished it with basics—one double bed, a wooden dining table, a gas stove, a fridge, a single sofa, and a mirrored wardrobe.

As we stood at the door, I fumbled with the keys while Mala stood beside me, peeking in curiously.

“Yeh toh kitna chhota sa ghar hai Bhaiya,” she said. “But don’t worry. Hum dono ke liye kaafi hai.” (Such a small house, Bhaiya. But it’s enough for the two of us.)

There was something very intimate about the way she said hum dono.

As soon as we entered, she did a quick survey and immediately began taking control—opened the fridge, tested the gas stove, checked the cupboard space.

“Your towels I’ll keep in this cabinet. And your office shirts will go here. But Bhaiya, these trousers need ironing! What is this?” she chided, shaking her head like a strict elder sister.

“Let me settle in first!” I laughed.

She turned and looked at me. “No need. Come here.”

Before I knew what she was doing, she walked up and wrapped her arms tightly around my back and thighs in one practiced swoop—and lifted me up in a cradle carry.

I gasped, my bag falling to the floor. “Mala! What are you doing!”

She rocked me in her arms slowly, eyes glittering. “Two years I have waited to lift you again. You thought you would escape?”

I struggled weakly, my head knocking gently against her chest. But she didn’t let go. In fact, she bounced me slightly, her arms snug beneath my back and knees.

“You’ve become lighter, Bhaiya,” she teased. “I thought MBA boys eat well. But you’re still like a soft toy.”

“Mala, I’m 22 now. You can’t just—”

“Shhh…” She gently pressed my head to her chest. “You’re still my little Bhaiya. Look at you—so small in my arms.” She walked to the full-length mirror in the wardrobe and turned sideways.

I couldn’t look. But she made me.

“Dekho Bhaiya… who is carrying whom now? Four years older than me… yet still lying like a baby in my arms.”

Her words felt like soft pinpricks on my pride—but also strangely comforting.

She sat on the edge of the bed with me still on her lap. She held me tight, letting me rest, my head now nestled on her shoulder.

“You’ll go to the office and come home tired. I’ll cook, clean, feed you, carry you, scold you, pamper you. I’ll do everything. You just listen to me now.”

I looked up weakly. “So I’m your…?”

“You’re mine,” she whispered. “My Bhaiya. My baby. My responsibility. My… everything.”


( To be continued….)