Saali - 3

Just to remind you about the physical sizes :-

Mousumi 5’10” / 90 kg / 39 years
Aman 5’3” / 63 kg / 40 years


Evening came, and Mousumi Didi casually announced, “Main aaj yahin raat ko ruk jaaungi. Kal toh Saturday hai. Do din mil jayga. I'm planning to stay back here tonight. Tomorrow is Saturday, I'll get two days off.”

My wife was happy to have her sisterly company. “Of course, Didi. Stay. You sleep with me on the bed, Aman will sleep on the sofa cum bed in the living room.”

“Yess,” Mousumi said casually, giving me a teasing glance. “Aman ke liye sofa cum bed zaroori hai. Par sone se pehle main usko kahani sunake godi mein sulaaungi. 
But before going to bed, I will tell him a story and put him to sleep on my lap.”

That night, as we all finished dinner and prepared for bed, Mousumi called me once again to the sofa.

“Come,” she said firmly, patting her lap again. “Today’s bedtime story is ‘The Engineer sahab on his Saali's Lap.’”

My wife was already lying on the bed, laughing.

“Didi, isko kal se aadat lag jaayega! He will form a habit from tomorrow!””

Mousumi Didi pulled me again into her arms, lifting me and adjusting me full cradle-style—this time even cozier, like I belonged there.

“He has already got the habit, Sumi,” she told my wife. “Only difference is—I give him lap therapy. Tum bas usse kaam karwate ho! You just make him work.”

The room was filled with chuckles and warmth.

And I?

I gave up resisting.

Because somewhere in that strong, teasing embrace—between her chest and her shoulder, I was beginning to feel not just like a child… but safe, cherished, and oddly… wanted.

Saturday evening — the quiet balcony…
It has been a soft, drowsy Saturday: late breakfast, family gossip, a nap where Mousumi Didi once again “accident‑checked” that her lap still fit me perfectly. By twilight my wife had slipped inside to watch television, leaving the little balcony to the two of us. A warm breeze carries the smell of frying pakoras from a neighbour’s kitchen.

I sit sideways on a cane chair, legs pulled up. Didi stands awhile, arms folded, looking at the deepening sky. Then, almost absent‑mindedly, she lowers herself onto the chair and tugs my wrist:

“Aa jaao— just for a minute.”

Before I can protest, she eases me across her thighs, one broad arm curling behind my back, the other beneath my knees. It’s gentle, practiced—like breathing to her now. I settle, head near her shoulder, heels brushing the chair’s bamboo arm. Dusk paints everything indigo and gold.

For the first time she’s quiet.

After a long breath she says, half to the sky, half to me, “ Do you know, Aman, my students - the boys and girls in my school say, ‘Miss is built like Wonder Woman!’ 
They laugh, but they also whisper. Grown‑ups whisper more.”
She chuckles once, but it’s a brittle sound.

I turn my face up, catching her profile. “You…do you mind it?”

“Mind?” She lets the word hang. 
“When I was twenty‑five the matchmakers said, ‘Little heavy, but still workable.’ 
At thirty they said, ‘Too tall, too solid; try a divorcé or widower.’ 
By thirty‑five they stopped calling.”

Her palm rubs slow circles between my shoulders; I feel the faint tremor in her breath.

“You know what I missed most?” She looks down at me, eyes suddenly glossy. “Not the jewelleries; not the shaadi pictures. I missed the everyday touch. The feeling that my strength could be useful to someone who…who liked it.”

She shifts me higher, almost hugging me to her chest. “Nothing much— just putting oil in someone’s hair, holding tired feet, cradling a sleepy child. But no child came, no partner came. Strength became weight.”

A cricket chirps; streetlights buzz on. My voice is small against her collarbone: “You take care of so many at home… of your father, your mother; you have a full time maid for their care. Isn’t that a lot? You earn like the son in your family.”

“It’s duty,” she answers softly. “Sweet, yes. But the ache inside never listened.”

She exhales. “Kal raat jab main tumhe woh gari mein goud mey uthaya… tum bilkul melt ho gaye mere haath mein. Last night when I picked you up on my lap in the car... you absolutely melted in my hands. For the first time in years I felt… light.”

She laughs—really laughs, a shy, shaky sound I’ve never heard from her. “Imagine! Ninety‑kilo, 39 year old Mousumi felt light because a sixty‑three‑kilo 40 year old engineer decided to trust her lap.”

Her fingers glide across my forearm; goose‑bumps follow. “And when you slept? Aman, I heard your tiny snores— like a kitten. My chest loosened, as if someone had finally said, ‘Mousumi, your hug is the right size after all.’”

I swallow—throat thick, heart oddly buoyant. “I… I never thought of it that way,” I admit. “Mostly I was just… embarrassed.”

“Embarrassment is okay,” she murmurs, nudging my chin so our eyes meet. “But don’t hide from comfort. Every time you let me carry you, you lend me a piece of calm I’ve chased for years.”

Silence settles, tender as a shawl. Street sounds fade; only her steady heartbeat under my ear remains.

At last I whisper, “Didi, if my being small gives you that calm… I—I don’t mind. Your lap feels… safe. Warmer than any cozy sofa, that’s for sure.”

She smiles, tears caught in the curve of it. “Then we have a deal. Whenever life feels heavy for either of us, we share the load—quite literally.”

She flexes her arm beneath my knees, bouncing me once so I laugh despite myself. “See? Load‑sharing technology, patented by Mousumi Didi!”

The door creaks; my wife peeks out. She grins at the sight of me nestled on her cousin‑sister’s lap. “Coffee’s ready, Wonder Woman. Bringing it here?”

“Bring two cups,” Didi calls back, voice clear, content. “I’m a bit hands‑full right now.”

My wife winks and disappears.

I tilt my head. “Will your legs go numb soon?”

“You are too light, dear - they won't. But even if they do, let them,” she says, brushing stray hair from my forehead. “They’ve carried weight alone for so long—now they finally know why.”

Night deepens. In the half‑lit balcony I let my body sink, unhurried, into her strength. And for the first time the difference between carrying and being carried dissolves—we’re simply two lonely halves holding each other steady.


It was quiet that Sunday afternoon.

The ceiling fan hummed lazily, and the drawn curtains let in a golden half-light that made everything feel slower… softer. My wife had gone out for some shopping nearby. I was alone in the flat with Mousumi Didi.

She was sitting on the long divan, comfortably propped against a large pillow. As I came out of the bathroom after washing my face, she gave me that familiar smile—the kind that made me feel like a boy again. She stretched out her hand gently, wordlessly inviting me.

I walked to her. I didn’t say anything either.

The next moment, her strong arms had pulled me down and up—effortlessly. She guided me onto her lap, like always. My head rested against her upper chest, my legs curled slightly over the divan, and her arms cradled me securely. Her sari smelled faintly of talcum and something… warm. Familiar.

She started humming softly, stroking my hair like a big sister comforting a tired child.

After a long silence, I spoke, almost in a whisper.

“Mousumi Didi… can I tell you something? Something silly…something strange..?”

She gave a warm little laugh, “Yes, my little brother-in-law ! What have you kept hidden from your Saali ? Tell me…”

I hesitated. Then the words tumbled out, a little embarrassed:
“From my college days… maybe even earlier, high school perhaps… I used to have this…weird fantasy. I never told anyone. I used to walk or stand beside tall girls and women, wherever I saw them …on the streets, in the market, in College, at work places, buses…wherever…
I just loved feeling small standing beside them. I didn't talk to them or anything; didn't disturb their privacy.

Just stood there beside the tall woman, comparing our heights. 

And later, back in my leisure hours… I would daydream and fantasize about the tall girl or woman lifting me up in her arms. Not in public, not to show off. But in private, in her arms or lap… holding me tightly …making me feel small, weak, helpless in her hands. I don’t know why, but it gave me some odd sense of helpless surrender; but a feeling of safety or protection… maybe love.”

There was silence. I dared not look at her. Her hand paused for a moment on my back.

I looked up, hesitantly, half-expecting a laugh, a smirk, a teasing retort.

But Didi looked thoughtful. Her eyes were soft.

“Oh my baby… you kept that secret all these years?” she said, almost in a whisper.

I nodded. I didn’t know why I was tearing up.

She didn’t tease. She didn’t make fun. Instead, her fingers moved up to cup the back of my head gently. She guided it back to her shoulder.

"You know something?" she said, looking into the distance. “I think… I needed to carry someone too.”

I blinked.

She exhaled slowly. “And then you came.”

I looked up at her again. There was no pretence in her expression. She was smiling through her eyes—but her grip around me had become firmer, more protective. Almost… possessive.

“When I hold you like this,” she whispered, “I feel needed. I feel like there’s warmth in this room again. Not just laughter—but a body to hold, to protect.”

I buried my face in her sari-covered shoulder. I didn’t know what to say. I just let her rock me slowly, silently.

After some time, she kissed the crown of my head and chuckled lightly. “So…my little man has been dreaming of tall women lifting him, hmm?”

I blushed hard. “Didi…!”

She laughed, but it wasn’t mocking. It was affectionate, indulgent. “You dreamt of being lifted—and I dreamt of having someone to lift. See we have been drawn together. What more do we need?”

Then, without a word, Mousumi Didi slowly tightened her hold on me. Her arms cradled me closer, protectively. Her cheek gently rested on the top of my head. She cradled me tighter, and we sat there like that—for minutes, maybe more. Just two people who had found something… unexpected in each other.

I looked up at her slowly, lying cradled in her lap. Her large eyes were full of softness, not a hint of judgment.

“You know something?” she said, brushing my cheek, “When you sleep on my lap like this, or when I pull you up and hold you tight… it’s not just you getting something from me. I get something too.”

I blinked. She smiled faintly and looked away, out the window.

“I’ve been alone a long time... Even when surrounded by people, there’s a silence inside. But when you’re in my arms like this… suddenly it feels like I have someone. Someone who needs me. Someone who trusts me so much as to surrender his ego, his pride on my lap.”

She looked down at me again, her fingers now stroking my cheek gently.

“This fantasy of yours…It’s not silly, or weird. You just want to be cared for deeply… to be protected by a woman who is taller and stronger than you.”

I felt my throat tighten with emotion. I tried to speak, but she gently put her finger on my lips.

“Sshh… no more talking. Just lie here now. Let me hold my little one a while longer.”

She adjusted herself, gently rocking me back and forth on her lap. And in that quiet, unspoken moment—two hearts filled each other’s emptiness. In an unknown relationship - maybe friends; maybe lovers. Maybe something beautifully in between. A shared secret. A bond sealed in arms.

And as I closed my eyes , I whispered softly, “Thank you, Mousumi didi…can I call you Mousumi…”

She bent down and kissed my cheek.

“Always.”