The Small Librarian 3

Dear Readers, this story is a continuation of the parts 1 and 2;of the same name..


The Small Librarian 3

Just to remind and put the perspective in place :

Main Characters:

Dr. Priya, 53 years old
5'10", 88 kg
Head of the English Literature Department.
Elegant, commanding, warm-hearted, and deceptively playful beneath her scholarly grace

Mr. Anirudh, 38 years old
5'3", 63 kg
Newly appointed college librarian.
Quiet, meticulous, bookish, and easily flustered by attention — especially from Priya



“The Lift of Love – Shantipath’s First Old Women’s Lifting Championship”.

Word had spread like wildfire.

It started as a joke, really—someone at the weekly haat said,

“Why don’t we make Anirudh Babu the prize object in an old women’s strength contest?”

Within days, posters were up, and the village square was decorated with marigolds and banana leaves. The banner read:

💪🏽 Shantipath Mahila Shakti Mela! 💪🏽
Feat: The Great “Lift Anirudh” Challenge! 
Participants have to be over 50 years of age.

Anirudh tried to protest, but Priya just kissed his forehead and said sweetly,

“You’ve already been carried by half the village women. Let’s give the old ladies a chance now.”

“This place is crazy,” he muttered as he sat on a decorated cot in the middle of the gathering ground, surrounded by giggling aunties and grandmothers cracking their knuckles.

The Rules Were Simple:
Each contestant had one minute to:

Lift and carry Anirudh in as many creative ways as possible.

Judges would score based on style, control, and Anirudh’s reaction (which was, naturally, adorably terrified every time).

The Participants:
1. Nimmi (Age 51, milk delivery woman):
She picked him up in a fireman’s carry and jogged a circle, yelling, “Light as butter!”

2. Fatima Auntie (Age 53):
Surprisingly agile, she managed a cradle carry and rocked him like a baby, muttering,

“Such a nice boy… should have been born in my time!”

3. Rupa Tai (Age 54, blacksmith’s wife):
Lifted him over her shoulder and did mock squats, saying,

“Look, I can bench-press a librarian!”

Anirudh’s face turned redder than a tomato.

Then Came Priya.
She walked in wearing a crisp cotton saree and a look of playful pride. The crowd hushed.

“Oh, our champ is here,” someone whispered.

She approached the cot and held out her arms. 

Anirudh muttered, “Why do I feel like the goat at a village fair?”

Priya winked and lifted him bridal-style with absolute grace, spun him slowly, then shifted him into a piggyback, then a reverse cradle, and finally even a princess lift on one arm!

The crowd erupted into claps and cheers. Someone started beating a dholak. Flowers were thrown.

Even the head priest shouted,

“Shabash, Priya beti! Bahut hi majboot pyar hai!”

And the Winner Is…
Of course, Priya won. Not just for strength, but for the glow in her eyes every time she looked at Anirudh.

She was given a garland and a huge bronze spoon (“symbol of shakti”), but she ignored it all. Instead, she gently kissed the top of Anirudh’s head and said,

“My real prize is already in my arms.”

Later That Night..
Back home, Anirudh was lying across her lap, arms folded, still red-faced.

“I was passed around like a cricket trophy,” he grumbled.

“Because you're rare,” Priya murmured. “Not every man is lucky enough to be lifted in love.”

“You’re going to keep carrying me forever, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely,” she said, adjusting him into a tighter cuddle. “Even when I’m 70… even if I have to drag you around in a basket.”

They both laughed — and somewhere outside, the dholak was still beating faintly in the distance.


“The Wedding Where the Groom Walked on Air”.

The temple bells were ringing, the mango leaves were tied on doorposts, and marigolds bloomed like sunshine on every wall. The whole village was buzzing. But this wasn’t just any wedding.

This was Priya’s wedding.

To Anirudh, the shy, small-built librarian who had become a legend in the village — not for anything he had done, but because he was always found wrapped in the muscular arms of his bride-to-be.

“The only dulha who will arrive at the mandap without walking a single step!” The villagers joked.

And they were absolutely right.

The Baraat Begins… With a Twist
There was no horse. No car. No palanquin.

Instead, four strong young women, Priya’s nieces and her cousin’s daughter, showed up wearing bright lehengas and workout sneakers.

They lifted Anirudh in a doli-style four-cornered cradle, bouncing him gently as they walked through the village path.

“Priya Maasi said not to let his feet touch the ground,” they giggled.

Drums beat. Flowers flew. And people lined up on both sides to cheer and throw petals — and yes, comment loudly.

“Dulha toh literally chhota bachha jaisa hai! Carried by young girls to the mandap!”

“Arey, careful! Don’t drop the baby husband!”

“My daughter also wants a toy-husband like this!”

Anirudh sat in the soft silk cradle, face red, clutching the edges.

“This is ridiculous,” he whispered.

But deep down? He was smiling.


At the mandap, Priya was waiting — tall, radiant, commanding in a red Banarasi saree. Her arms were decorated with bangles and ready for lifting.

As soon as he arrived, she walked up and without a word scooped him into a bridal carry, walking him the final seven steps to the fire.

“You didn’t really think I’d let anyone else do it?” she said, kissing his forehead.

The priest chuckled but said nothing. Everyone knew this was Priya’s mandap.

During the pheras, whenever he had to circle the fire with her, Priya insisted on either carrying him in a piggyback or cradling him like a baby.

“The vows still count,” she said, “even if one of us is airborne.”

Post-Wedding Teasing Chaos.
After the ceremony, the lifting frenzy exploded.

Priya’s cousins, nieces, and even two robust aunties in their sixties lined up for a turn.

Each woman took Anirudh in a different style:

Over-the-shoulder carry with a grin.

A gentle lap-rocking like a baby.

A dramatic twirl while cradled.

Even a team-lift, where three women tossed him lightly into the air and caught him like a feather pillow.

“Stop! You’ll break me!” he laughed.
“You're already broken… broken into being adorable!” they replied.

Finally, Priya Had Enough.
As the sun dipped low, and the crowd thinned, Priya stepped in, hands on hips.

“Bas. This dulha is mine now.”

She lifted him effortlessly one last time, held him tight against her chest, and carried him into their decorated little house.

“No more passing around,” she said.
“From now on, only I get to lift you.”

Anirudh smiled, finally safe in her arms.

“Fine. But… can I at least walk to the bathroom?”

“We’ll see,” Priya murmured, already lifting him into a cozy cuddle again.


A quiet morning in the same village of Shantipath. The banyan tree by the pond still stands, and the temple bells still ring at sunrise.

Priya is now 70 years old, silver-haired but towering and broad-shouldered as ever. Her gait is a bit slower, but her strength remains legendary. She has retired from teaching long ago. But one thing hasn’t changed—her deep, playful love for her smaller husband, Anirudh, now 55, with soft greys in his beard and spectacles perched low on his nose.


Anirudh shuffled into their courtyard with a warm shawl wrapped around his small frame, book in hand.

From behind, Priya appeared silently, and in one smooth, practiced motion, lifted him up into a cradle carry.

“Still as light as ever,” she teased, kissing his cheek.

“Priya! I told you my back—”

“My back’s the one that should hurt, not yours. You are safe in my arms,” she grinned. “But it never does.”

She sat down with him in her lap on the verandah swing, rocking him slowly like she used to. Birds chirped overhead, and the scent of tulsi leaves floated from the nearby pot.

“Sometimes I wonder,” he said softly, “how you stayed so strong.”

“Because you’ve always been my baby,” she replied, stroking his thinning hair. “And a mother never stops holding her child.”

Later That Day: A Walk to the Temple.

They took their usual walk to the temple, though “walk” was a misleading word. As usual, Anirudh ended up being carried halfway—sometimes over her shoulder, sometimes in her arms, and once like a backpack, just for fun.

Onlookers still smiled at the sight.

“That’s Priya Didi. She still lifts her husband like a sack of rice!”

“No, like a precious bundle of cotton!” joked another.

A group of giggling teenage girls even approached and asked,

“Didi, can we try carrying him once?”

“Try in your dreams,” Priya chuckled. “He’s mine.”

Evening: A Quiet Moment
Back at home, Anirudh lay stretched across her lap while she massaged his feet gently.

“Do you regret not having children?” he asked suddenly.

She shook her head, eyes soft.

“No. I had you. And you let me love you more completely than I ever thought possible. You let me carry you—not just with my arms, but with my life.”

Anirudh reached up and touched her face.

“Then carry me forever, Priya.”

“Even if my knees crack and my bones creak, I’ll still carry you,” she whispered. “Until my last breath.”


Epilogue: “The Couple in the Story”.

The dusty village path wound past the banyan tree, past the school, and up to the old librarian’s house. Children often slowed down when passing the house, peeking curiously through the open courtyard gates.

Because inside lived the couple from the story.

The Living Legends.
Now 70 and 55, Priya and Anirudh had become something of a tale in Shantipath folklore.

“You don’t know the story?”
“About Priya Madam who used to carry her husband around like a baby?”

“Still does!”

“Really? At 70?”

“Go peek, she’s doing it right now!”

Indeed—on many afternoons, children would see a peculiar but heartwarming sight:

Anirudh, small-framed with reading glasses slipping down his nose, sleeping peacefully in Priya’s strong arms, as she rocked him gently in a cane chair.

Interview by the Students.
One day, a group of college girls doing a documentary visited them.

“Madam,” the leader asked, “is it really true? You used to carry Sir everywhere? Even now?”

“Used to?” Priya smirked.
She turned to Anirudh.
“Prove it.”

Before anyone could protest, she effortlessly scooped up her husband in a bridal carry.

The girls squealed in laughter and amazement. Cameras clicked.

“He weighs what—a feather?”

“More like a sleepy kitten,” Priya said fondly.

Anirudh, clearly embarrassed, covered his face.

“I’m 55. She’s 70. This shouldn’t be possible,” he muttered.

Priya kissed his forehead and grinned.

“You’re my baby. I’ve trained for this my whole life.”

The Legacy.
That night, the college girls posted the video online. It went viral in nearby towns.

People started calling them “Shakti & Shishu”—Power and the Child.

Soon, a lifting club formed at the girls’ college, with young women training in strength—not just to lift their partners, but as a symbol of empowerment.

One girl said,

“If Priya Ma’am can carry love in her arms for 50 years, maybe we can carry our dreams too.”

Final Scene: By the Riverside.
One peaceful evening, the couple visited the riverside. The same one where Priya had once carried him up the 100 temple steps.

Now slower, quieter—but still together.

As they sat by the ghat, Anirudh looked up at her and asked,

“Will you still carry me when you’re 80?”

Priya smiled, cradled his face in her palms, and said,

“If not with my arms… then always with my heart.”

And as the sun set over Shantipath, she gently pulled him into her arms once more—lifting not just his body, but the decades of love they had shared.