Soft Little Girl 2

Just for a recap on the vital statistics :
Nandini 5’10” / 90 kg / 50 years
Ayush     5’3” / 64 kg / 35 years

Soft Little Girl - 2

“Let’s see how many ways I can carry my chhoti si gudiya,” she said with a mischievous grin.

Before I could respond, she shifted me effortlessly over her shoulder in a fireman’s carry. My body bounced gently against her tall, broad frame as she laughed and walked around, pretending to parade me.

“Too light! You feel like my dupatta,” she teased. “I bet I can carry you while doing squats!”

And she did—slow, deliberate squats while keeping me perched on her shoulder. I let out a helpless laugh, hanging on as she grinned.
Then she flipped me down again into her arms and transitioned into a straddle carry, my legs around her wide waist, arms holding her neck.

 She held me chest to chest, snug and close.

“Mmm… This one’s my favourite,” she whispered, locking eyes with me.

She bounced me softly. “Now say it—who’s the taller one?”

“You are…” I mumbled, blushing.

“And stronger?”

“You are…”

She smiled. “And who’s my little doll?”

I hid my face in her neck, and she just chuckled, tightening her hold and carrying me to the wooden bench under the tree.

We sat down slowly, and she settled me back into her lap, arms cradling me like a child.

The garden had grown quiet. The sky was streaked with pink and orange.

“I want to tell you something,” she said, her voice softer now, more serious. “When you first opened up to me… about your fantasy, your feelings… I didn’t laugh. Not even once. You know why?”

I looked up slowly. She held my gaze.

“Because it touched me. It made me feel… trusted. Important. Like someone you could finally rest with.”

I bit my lip, feeling my throat tighten.

“And honestly?” she added, brushing her big warm palm along my back, “You gave me something too. A purpose. I’ve always been big, strong and motherly. People would tease, fear, or ignore me. But you… you melted in my arms. You let me protect you.”

I blinked back a tear, surprised at the lump forming in my throat.
“I feel safe with you,” I whispered, barely audible.

Her arms wrapped tighter around me, her hand now stroking my hair. “Then stay. Just like this. I don’t care if the world sees us like this. You’ll always be my little girl. My soft, sweet boy.”

The sun slipped lower, casting a soft orange glow over the two of us—an unlikely pair, a 50 year old big tall lady carrying a small adult guy of 35 in her arms, but fitting together perfectly.

After dinner, she took me to her room, dimly lit by a side lamp. The windows were open, and a soft breeze drifted in. She sat legs stretched out on her bed, arms stretched out towards me. I didn’t hesitate—I walked into her embrace and slowly laid myself face down along her tall body, stretching across her lap and torso like a blanket.

Her hands instinctively began stroking my back. I nestled my cheek on her broad chest, where her heart beat slow and steady.
"Comfortable?" she asked gently.
I nodded against her.

After a while, she whispered, “Tell me, sweetheart… When did you start liking this? Being held, carried, pampered?”

I swallowed, unsure. But wrapped in her warmth, I felt safe—like a child again.

“I think it started when I was little,” I murmured. “I was always the smallest in school. My class mates—especially the girls—were all taller, bigger. 

I was… the last to grow. The teachers would always seat me in front. I used to hate it.

But then there was Mrs Roberts, our class teacher in Class 5. She was tall…taller than my father also, I observed during the parents teachers meeting.

I was an introvert, I did not go out to play during the lunch break. I used to have my tiffin sitting in class. On some days Mrs Roberts used to call me to her chair. She used to lift me up on her lap and ruffle my hair and pat my back. She used to talk to me lovingly and tell me stories. I used to love those few minutes of tiffin time. I was 10 years old then.”

Her large hands started rocking me gently, her chest rising and falling under my weight. I felt like I was floating on an ocean of warmth.

“Would you have liked it,” she whispered after a pause, “if I was there back then? In your school? I’d have sat you on my lap in front of everyone.”

I smiled, eyes closed. “You would’ve scared away all the bullies.”

She grinned. “Or lifted you right off your bicycle and carried you to school myself.”

I laughed softly, and she held me even closer.

I had more to say, “If you ask, when I first started liking this feeling of being lifted and carried by a taller girl or woman, maybe it was that summer vacation. I was fifteen, in Class 10 then, a senior school boy.” 
I continued slowly, “My cousin sister came from Pune to visit us for some days. She was only twelve but already 3 inches taller and bigger than me. She used to lift me up—just to tease me. Carry me on her lap and rock me. And… I don’t know why… I liked it.”

She let out a small, understanding sigh.

“I didn’t tell anyone, of course. I started pretending I hated it. But deep inside, every time she picked me up or sat me on her lap, I felt… happy. Small. Cared for. It’s like… I could finally stop being the ‘big boy’ for a while. Just… rest.”

She kept stroking my hair, listening without a word. Her arms slid slowly around me, locking me tighter against her big body.
“You don’t have to explain, baby,” she said, kissing the top of my head. “You were craving love. And safety. And someone bigger who wouldn’t hurt you.”

I nodded. “But people laughed. Even my own family, when they saw my younger cousin sister of 12 just forcefully pick me up, a senior school boy of 15, in her arms cradling me, and walk around the rooms, proudly showing me off to everybody, like she had won a trophy. And the pathetic part was although I struggled helplessly in her arms to free myself, I inwardly loved being carried away by her.”
Her voice turned firmer. “Not me. I wouldn't have laughed. Never me. You’re not weak, jaan. You’re soft. That’s rare. That’s precious.”

“I love you like this, my soft little one,” she murmured. “Wrapped on my body. Every inch of you rests on me. You’re safe now.”

I continued, “Now when I reflect back after becoming an adult and finding that my weird fantasy is not leaving me…I think that it all started with Maya didi. 

When I was around 10 years of age, my mother became quite sick. She had asthma and arthritis. My own sister was just 3 years old then. So my mother appointed a full time nanny to take care of my baby sister. This Nanny, her name is Maya, was a big woman. She was about 30 years of age then. About 5’8” tall and 82-85 kgs in weight. She was not only physically very strong but also had a dominating personality. My mother had so much confidence in her that in a very short time, she became the de facto caretaker of our house. On behalf of my mother, she used to monitor our part-time cook and the cleaning maid. Although she was brought in to take care of my sister, she started monitoring me as well.
Whenever my mother used to go out shopping for festivals; to some relatives’ houses; to her doctors or even to movies, this Maya didi was her constant companion. She rather looked like my mother's bodyguard though with her straight back, tall and broad figure. 

My mother sometimes wanted me to also accompany her to our relatives' houses and also during some shopping visits. We used to travel by our family car, the small Alto. My Father used to be in his office, so we had a driver appointed. 

My mother was also a little heavily built. My mother and Maya didi sat on the back seat and all of Mother's bags and stuff were kept on the front seat beside the driver. My mother did not like to use the car’s boot. My mother used to hold my sister on her lap, while my seat was Maya Didi's fat cushiony lap. She used to hold me tight with her big arms strapped around my stomach like a seat belt. Since she was so much bigger and taller than me, I did not feel abnormal in the initial few years when I was 10 or 11. All the more so, since I was quite a small sized boy for my age and Mayadidi was huge compared to me.

But this process continued. Even when I reached classes 7, 8, 9, 10, Mayadidi still insisted on holding me on her lap. Imagine, a boy of 15 travelling in a car sitting on the lap of a big, tall Nanny, with my legs hanging 6 inches over the car floor. Even when I was in Class 10, I was a relatively small boy of 15, only 5 feet tall sitting on the lap of a 5’8” giant woman of 35 years. It was quite embarrassing.

These lap rides stopped when I passed my Class 10 boards.

When I reached adulthood at 18 and I finished growing further, I ended up at 5’3”. When my mother used to go to the doctors for regular check ups every month, my father insisted that I must always accompany her, since I was an adult then. I remember the awkwardness of walking holding my mother's hand protectively to the Doctor’s chamber. Why awkward? I would walk sandwiched between Mayadidi and my mother. Mayadidi would in turn have her protective arm around my shoulders. With her height of 5’8” / 82 kgs against my 5’3”/ 60 kgs, she would tower over me. She had the habit of standing in any public place right behind my back with her big hands placed on my shoulders dwarfing me. I knew she did not mean to embarrass me, it was just her way of being protective of the little boy she had known from my childhood.

I graduated from a good college in a metro city, which was around 4 hours by train from our house. So I had to stay in the college hostel. I used to come home every weekend to my parents. 

Every time when I returned home Mayadidi opened the main gate. She used to just bend down and pick me up from the front, chest to chest and started walking carrying me inside the house. Instinctively my arms would go around her neck. I had to wrap my legs around her thick waist, otherwise my feet dangled 5 inches above the ground. This middle aged woman, who was 20 years older than me, carried me, an adult young man, in her arms, crossed the courtyard, walked through the house right in front of the maid and cook and my sister, walked up the stairs with me straddled on her chest to the first floor and dropped me in front of my mother. This continued every Saturday of my three years of College days. Sometimes straddling her from the front, sometimes helplessly cradled in her arms. She would laugh boisterously and snuggle her nose on my face, as if I was still a child. No amount of reasoning with her would yield any result. Her logic was simple– I was still her ‘chhota sa bachcha’. 

After graduation, I went for MBA to Mumbai. I got a campus placement in Mumbai itself. Then changed companies, went to Delhi. And now I'm an independent Marketing Manager of our Company's Chandigarh Branch.

Even now when I go home to meet my parents, at least once a year, I get the same reception from Nanny, although she is an old woman of 55 now. She would stand and hug me at the door. So when she hugs me from the front, my body goes right inside her embrace with her fat arms tightly holding me wrapped around my back. Now since she is 5 inches taller, imagine my face getting buried inside her neck or her chest. I cannot see anything. But her face being over my head she can see over my head. Imagine an almost old woman of 55 towering over an adult young man of 35 and looking over his head, whereas I, a Corporate Manager, whom all respects in office, am so small as to be tucked inside my old nanny’s body.”

Her arms were still around me as I finished my story. For a moment she didn’t speak—just looked at me with those calm, assessing eyes. I could feel the weight of her gaze, not judgmental, but… protective.

Finally, she exhaled softly. “So you’ve carried this with you… all these years,” she murmured, her deep voice almost like a lullaby.

 “And every time she lifted you, you didn’t just feel the weight leave your feet… you felt your heart rest."

I swallowed, my throat tight. “Yes.”

Her broad palm stroked the back of my head slowly. “Ayush… you realise what you’ve told me is not weakness. It’s a language. Your body has always understood it. Your mind just never gave it permission.”

She shifted slightly on the bed, drawing me even closer so I was entirely on her lap, my legs folded, my side pressed into her chest. “And now you’ve given me permission.”

I gave a faint, almost embarrassed laugh. “You’re really okay with this? With me?”

She smiled—slow and deliberate, the kind of smile that made the corners of her eyes crease warmly. “Baby… look at me. I’m big. I’m tall. I’m strong. My lap is wide, my arms are solid. Do you know how rare it is that someone lets me *use* this strength to comfort, instead of just to intimidate? You’re a gift.”

Her words sank into me like warm sunlight.

Without warning, she slid one arm under my knees, the other behind my back, and stood up in one smooth motion. I let out a startled breath, my arms instinctively going around her neck.

She chuckled. “Still surprised?”

“I… I didn’t even feel you bend down.”

“That’s the point,” she teased, carrying me out of the bedroom. “I could do this for hours.”

We entered the verandah again. The night air was cool, scented faintly with wet earth. She stepped to the railing, still holding me, and looked out at the mist rolling in from the hills.

Her cheek brushed my hair as she spoke, almost as if she were thinking aloud. “You know… I think little Ayush from all those years ago—sitting in that car on Maya Didi’s lap—he’s still here. Right now. Sitting in my arms. The only difference is… now you don’t have to pretend you hate it.”

I closed my eyes, the truth of it hitting harder than I expected.

She turned and walked to the big cane chair in the corner. Sitting down with me still in her lap, she adjusted me so my head was against her shoulder, her dupatta draped over both of us like a shawl.
Her arms were warm and unyielding. “From tonight,” she said softly, “you stop calling it ridiculous or weird. You call it yours. Your comfort. Your safe place.”

I didn’t reply. My throat was too tight. But I nodded against her collarbone, and she kissed my hair like she had been doing it forever.

The mist outside thickened. The night sounds grew softer. And for the first time in my adult life… I didn’t feel like I was borrowing someone’s arms. I felt like I belonged there.


( To be continued...)