Soft Little Girl 4

I must have dozed, because I woke to her shifting. She slid her legs off the bed, and before I could protest, she stood—with me still cradled to her. I let out a startled sound.

“Shhh,” she smiled, kissing my hair. “My gudiya doesn’t walk to get water. He rides.”

She carried me through the dark hallway, my arms looped around her neck, my cheek pressed to her collarbone. In the kitchen, moonlight pooled on the stone floor. She held me one-armed against her hip to fill a glass, her other hand steadying me like I was a child who might slip.

“You’re so quiet when you’re like this,” she observed, taking a sip before holding the glass to my lips. “Is it because for once, you don’t have to be big?”

I drank, then buried my face in her shoulder. She chuckled and hitched me higher, my legs wrapping around her waist instinctively. She carried me back in that straddle hold, chest to chest, my toes brushing the backs of her knees with every step.


“Can’t sleep?” she asked when we were back in bed. I shook my head.

“Come.” In one fluid motion she rolled, stood, and hoisted me over her shoulder in a fireman’s carry. I yelped, hands flying to her back. My torso was across her broad shoulders, my head hanging down her back, my legs dangling over her chest.

“Nandini!”

“Best way to carry a sleepy boy,” she said, perfectly calm, walking toward the balcony doors. Her hand splayed across the back of my thighs, holding me secure. “And look—you weigh less than the sacks of wheat I used to carry for the guesthouse. You’re my feather.”

The night air hit my face as she stepped outside. The valley was silver. She braced one hand on the railing, the other still holding me, and just… stood there. Holding me. Letting the breeze wash over us.

“I could walk the whole perimeter like this,” she said quietly. “Would you like that? To be carried under the stars, not because you’re weak, but because I can?”

I couldn’t speak. I just nodded against her back, and felt her smile.


I woke again to movement. It was just before sunrise, the sky a pale grey. She was already up, already carrying me—this time in a deep, sideways cradle, my head tucked under her chin, my knees bent over her arm.

“Where…?” I mumbled.

“Shhh. You said you wanted the garden. I want you to see it when the first light hits the deodar trees.”

She walked barefoot across the cold dew-wet grass, her steps unhurried. My body was deadweight, trusting, utterly surrendered. She held me tighter when I shivered.

“See?” she whispered as the sun crested the hills. Gold spilled across the lawn, across her face, across me in her arms. “The world is quiet. And you’re safe. That’s all that matters.”

She didn’t sit. She just stood there, rocking me slightly, her arms a fortress. “I could stay like this till noon,” she admitted. “You’re the lightest burden I’ve ever wanted to carry.”

Back inside, the stairs to the upper veranda loomed. She glanced at me, grinned, and shifted me face-to-face, my legs wrapping around her waist, arms around her neck. Koala hold. Chest to chest. Nose to nose.

“Hold tight, baby,” she said, and started up.

Each step made me bounce against her, made me feel how strong she was—how her thighs powered us up, how her arms didn’t tremble once. Halfway, she paused, deliberately, just to look at me.

“You know what I love most?” she murmured. “When we’re like this, you have to look up to meet my eyes. And I have to look down to kiss you.”

And she did. Slow. Certain. A kiss that said mine.

She carried me all the way to the top without stopping. Only then, on the sun-warmed wooden floor of the veranda, did she finally sink down cross-legged, keeping me in her lap.

“I asked you if I was weird for wanting this,” I said finally, my voice hoarse.

She brushed my cheek with her thumb. “And I told you it was beautiful. But Ayush…” Her arms tightened. “What’s happening now? This isn’t your fantasy anymore. This is us. This is me choosing to carry you—up stairs, across gardens, through nights—because I want to. Because you let me.”

The wind moved the prayer flags. The valley woke up. And I, 43 years old, 5’3”, 64 kilos of adult man, melted further into the lap of a 45-year-old, 5’10”, 92-kilo woman who held me like I was the most natural thing in her world.

“Don’t put me down,” I whispered, not caring how it sounded.

Her smile was slow, possessive, and tender all at once. “I wasn’t planning to, jaan. Not for a long, long time.”

And she didn’t.


It had been three weeks since that first kiss.  

My “guest room” was no longer in the guest wing. Nandini had moved me into the private quarters—two sunlit rooms adjoining hers, with a connecting door that was never locked. The other boarders thought I was “extended corporate staff.” Only Nandini and I knew the truth: I wasn’t a guest anymore. I was hers.  


Work had exploded. The Dharamshala eco-resort project I’d come to salvage was now green-lit for phase two, and HQ wanted me on-site for at least four months. My laptop lived on Nandini’s rosewood desk. My clothes were in her carved deodar wardrobe. My mornings started with her coffee, my nights ended in her arms.  

And the carries? They never stopped. If anything, they got more… intentional. Because now there was no deadline. No “last night before I leave.” This was home.  

But I still hated PDA. The idea of her scooping me up in front of the site contractors or the chai-wallah made my skin crawl. Nandini understood. “Your safe place is with me,” she’d said, kissing my hair. “Not on display.”  

Which is why what happened last Tuesday surprised me.  

---

The bell at the private gate rang at 6 AM. Nandini, already up and watering her tulsi, threw open the door and shrieked.  

“Amu!”  

A woman burst in—mid to late 40s, broad-shouldered, 5’11” in flat chappals, silver-threaded hair in a thick braid, wearing a cotton saree hitched up for travel. She dropped her suitcase and grabbed Nandini in a bear hug that lifted Nandini clean off the ground.  

I froze in the doorway of my room, hair messy, kurta half-buttoned.  

Nandini set down, laughing, then turned. “Ayush! Come, meet my Amu didi. We were in boarding school together. She’s the only person on earth who could bully me into finishing my maths homework.”  

Amu’s eyes landed on me. Sharp. Assessing. Then they softened. “So this is him,” she said in Hindi, loud enough for me to hear. “The ‘chhota sa gudiya’ you won’t stop writing about.”  

My face went up in flames. Nandini didn’t even blush. She just walked to me, slid one arm behind my back, the other under my knees, and lifted. Right there. In front of Amu.  

“Nandini!” I hissed, but my arms had already gone around her neck.  

“She knows, jaan,” Nandini murmured, nuzzling my temple. “Amu’s seen me at my worst. She gets to see me at my best.” She turned to Amu, me cradled to her chest like a prize. “See? Told you he fits.”  

Amu just grinned, arms crossed. “Hai rabba. My Nandu, finally using those shoulders for something good. Don’t you dare put him down on my account.”  

And Nandini didn’t. Not once during Amu’s entire visit.  
  
Day 2 of Amu didi's visit. I was trying to reach saffron from the top shelf. Amu watched from the doorway, sipping chai. Nandini came up behind me, plucked me off the ground by my waist, and held me there mid-air while I grabbed the box.  
“See, Amu?” Nandini said, me dangling. “Human ladder. More useful than a stool.”  
Amu cackled. “You’ve upgraded from carrying cricket kits to carrying men, Nandu!”  
I was bright red. Nandini just kissed my cheek and didn’t put me down till I’d measured the saffron.  

Monsoon hit early. The power went out. The veranda was flooding. I stepped out to pull the laundry in and slipped. Before I hit the ground, Nandini was there. She scooped me up in a sideways bridal carry and ran back inside, me clutched to her, Amu holding the door.  
“You’ll catch cold, baby,” Nandini scolded, setting me on the sofa but keeping me in her lap. Amu threw a towel over both of us. “Good catch, Nandu,” she said dryly. “Decades of practice carrying you after hockey finally paid off.”  
  
Day 4. Amu had brought old school photos. One showed 16-year-old Amu carrying 14-year-old Nandini piggyback after she sprained her ankle.  
“Your turn,” Amu said, eyes gleaming. Before I could move, Nandini stood, hauled me up, and dumped me over her shoulder in a fireman’s lift. “See? Same, but smaller,” Nandini told Amu, patting my backside. I was mortified. They were both laughing.  
“Put me down!”  
“Why?” Nandini bounced me once. “Amu carried me for half a kilometer that day. Let me show her I can do better.” And she marched around the living room with me over her shoulder while Amu timed her.  

We were watching old films. I fell asleep on Nandini’s shoulder. I woke up to being moved—but not by Nandini alone. I was horizontal, head on Nandini’s shoulder, legs on Amu’s arm. They were carrying me together to bed, like I was a child between them.  
“Shhh, he’s awake,” Amu whispered.  
“Good,” Nandini murmured. “Let him see he has two sets of arms now.”  
I pretended to be asleep. My heart was too full to speak.  

Amu left with a hug for me and a warning for Nandini: “You drop him, I’ll come back and carry you out of here. Samjhi?”  


Since I’m here for months now, and PDA is off-limits outside, here’s how our private world is evolving:

I work at Nandini’s desk. When I get a stressful call, she doesn’t interrupt. She just comes up behind my chair, slides her arms under mine and my knees, and lifts me out of the chair, laptop and all, carrying me to the window seat. “You think better in my lap,” she says, settling down with me cradled there. I finish the call with her thumb rubbing circles on my back.  

We drive to the resort site on Sundays when no workers are around. The path to the viewpoint is steep. She parks, opens my door, and without asking, scoops me into a bridal carry. “You’re the boss. Bosses don’t climb in mud,” she teases, carrying me all the way up. At the top, she doesn’t put me down. She just stands there, holding me, both of us looking at my project.  

Hills = frequent outages. When the lights die, she finds me in the dark, lifts me face-to-face, my legs around her waist, and walks. “So you don’t bump into things,” she says. But really, it’s because in the dark, I cling tighter. She loves that.  

I caught a cold. 101 fever. I was shivering in bed. She came in, peeled back the blanket, and slid in behind me, hauling me back against her chest, one arm under my knees, one across my chest, legs curled around me. “Sleep, baby. I’m your hot water bottle.” She stayed like that for hours.  

Old house, slippery tiles. After a shower, she waits outside with a towel. Before my foot hits the cold floor, she steps in, scoops me up in a towel-cocoon cradle, and carries me to the bed. “My gudiya doesn’t get cold feet,” she says, toweling my hair while I’m still in her arms.  

We got final approval on phase two. I told her at dinner. She stood up, walked around the table, hauled me up from my chair and spun me once in her arms, me laughing, terrified, elated. “That’s for being brilliant,” she said, kissing me mid-spin. “And this—” she shifted me to her hip like a child “—is for being mine while you did it.”  

 
A new female architect joined the project. She was tall. She shook my hand too long at the site. I told Nandini that night, joking. Nandini said nothing. Just stood, walked to me, and lifted me over her shoulder fireman-style. Walked to the bedroom. Dumped me gently on the bed. Climbed over me. “Let them look,” she said, caging me in. “But I get to carry you home. Always.”  


Nandini doesn’t carry me for show. She carries me because it’s her love language. Because every lift says: You’re safe. You’re chosen. You’re home.  

And with Amu didi’s blessing, the last thread of shame I had… snapped.  

Now when Nandini walks into my home-office, I don’t even ask. I just close the laptop and hold my arms up.  

She always catches me.