Under Her Care 1

Under Her Care

Setting: Rainy evening, Kerala Orthopedic Wellness Retreat.

Characters introduced:

Rajiv Mehra – 42, 5’3”, 64 kg, Vice President of a big corporate house, recently had a knee surgery.

Ananya Thomas – 38, 5’9”, 85 kg, strong, calm physiotherapy nurse assigned to him.

The first drops of rain were drumming gently on the sloped tiled roofs of the retreat center when Rajiv Mehra was wheeled into his private cottage suite.

He hated this feeling — helpless, horizontal, humiliated.
Two weeks ago, he was chairing board meetings in Mumbai, his presence commanding entire rooms. Now? He couldn’t get off the bed without assistance.

He glanced around at the luxurious room: polished wooden floor, ceiling fan slowly rotating above a teakwood bed, wide French windows looking out into swaying coconut trees. AC purposely turned off to let the cool breeze drift in.

Not that he could enjoy any of it. His right leg was in a post-operative brace, elevated on pillows. He couldn’t even stand, let alone walk.

The nurse accompanying him — a plump, chatty local — said, “Sir, your dedicated care expert will be with you shortly. She’s our best — very strong and very sweet also. You’ll like her.”

Rajiv just gave a small nod and turned away. He doubted he would like anyone right now.

The knock on the door was firm. A moment later, it opened, and in walked Ananya Thomas.

She was nothing like he expected.

Tall. Very tall. Easily over 5’9”, broad-shouldered, full-bodied, with a confident stride and deep-set eyes. Her uniform hugged her strong frame neatly — sleeves rolled just enough to expose forearms that were unmistakably muscular under smooth skin.

She looked like someone who could bench-press a motorcycle... and offer you tea right after.

Her eyes fell on Rajiv with a professional calm. She smiled.

“Good evening, Mr. Mehra. I’m Ananya. I’ll be your personal nurse and physiotherapist while you recover.”

Rajiv gave a faint, formal nod. “Pleasure.”

She set her file down, then walked to the bed and without asking, gently adjusted the brace on his leg. Her hands were firm, sure, confident.

He flinched slightly at the touch. “Uh—shouldn’t we start with talking about the treatment plan or something?”

Ananya’s lips curled into a small smile as she straightened up. “We’ll get to that. But first, I need to help you into the wheelchair. It’s time for your intake scan and posture assessment. You can’t walk yet.”

He looked at the wheelchair waiting nearby. “Right. So I can—maybe slide down and—”

“No need to strain,” she said smoothly. “I’ll carry you.”

He blinked. “You’ll what?”

She stepped closer. “You’re just out of surgery. You’re not supposed to put weight on that leg. I’ve done this a hundred times. You’re light for me.”

“I’m forty-two years old,” he muttered, awkwardly. “I’m not a baby.”

Ananya’s eyes twinkled — not mockery, but something softer. Almost playful. “No, you're not. But you're still injured. And in my care. So, Mr Rajiv… let me handle this.”

Before he could protest further, she leaned in, one arm under his knees, the other behind his back — and with one smooth motion, lifted him off the bed.

He gasped. His arms instinctively went around her neck.

“Whoa—hey—wait—”

She carried him easily, his legs dangling slightly, chest against her shoulder, his cheek close enough to her collarbone that he could smell the faint scent of lemongrass from her skin.

“I always do a cradle lift the first time,” she said softly. “Helps patients settle in.”

Rajiv’s voice was muffled. “Settle in?! I feel like I’m being kidnapped.”

She chuckled. “If I were kidnapping you, sir, I wouldn’t be this gentle.”

She lowered him into the wheelchair with extraordinary care — not plopping, not shifting him around — but letting him down like he was a porcelain doll.

He looked up at her, unsure whether to feel embarrassed or... safe.

“You really didn’t struggle at all,” he murmured.

Ananya smiled again. “You’ll find I don’t, usually.”

Next morning.
The sun filtered through the gauze curtains in golden slants, dust motes dancing in the morning light. Rajiv lay awake, already dressed in the soft cotton kurta-pajama provided by the center. The thin material clung slightly to his frame, still unfamiliar with how light and exposed he felt here — not just physically, but emotionally.

He heard her footsteps before she knocked — a measured, steady rhythm on the polished wooden corridor.

Knock. Knock. Then the door opened with a gentle creak.

“Good morning, Mr. Mehra,” said Ananya, stepping in with a clipboard, a bright smile, and her ever-relaxed confidence. She was in fresh scrubs — cream and forest green — her hair tied up in a loose bun with a pencil poked through it.

Rajiv, still on the bed, shifted slightly. “Morning.”

Her eyes scanned the room quickly. She set the clipboard aside and looked at him with that same steady calm. “Ready for your first therapy session?”

He glanced at the wheelchair beside the bed, then nodded stiffly. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

She walked to him, leaned down to adjust his leg brace slightly, and looked into his eyes.

“I’ll carry you now.”

His body tensed.

“Do we have to?” he asked, half-hopeful, half-dreading.

“Yes,” she said gently. “Still no weight on that leg, remember? But don’t worry. You’ll get your strength back. And when you do, you’ll walk out of here on your own.”

She didn’t give him time to protest. With the same quiet strength as yesterday, she slipped one hand behind his back, the other under his knees, and lifted him smoothly off the mattress.

Rajiv found himself pressed against her body again — but this time, his senses were even sharper.

Her arm cradled his back firmly, and her hand cupped just behind his thigh, her fingers pressing gently into the flesh. The curve of her hip supported his side, and her scent — a mix of soap, eucalyptus oil, and something deeply feminine — drifted into his nose.

His face brushed against her collarbone.

Her skin was warm. Her chest rose and fell calmly beneath his cheek.

And this time… he didn’t protest.

Only a faint, “This is becoming a habit,” escaped his lips.

Ananya chuckled softly. “You’ll miss it when you’re better.”

“I doubt that,” he muttered, but his hand unconsciously tightened around her shoulder.

She turned toward the door. “Alright. We have to go through the main corridor. It’s the only way to the hydro suite. Hold tight, Mr. Mehra.”

The Walk of Shame... or Something Else.
The hallway was not crowded, but there were people. Two other patients with walkers, a few attendants, a young receptionist with a clipboard. All paused as Ananya walked past, carrying a full-grown man in her arms like it was nothing.

Rajiv could feel their glances. A mix of curiosity, amusement, maybe even sympathy.

He turned his face deeper into her shoulder. “I could’ve worn sunglasses.”

“You’re not a celebrity,” she teased gently.

“I am... to myself.”

She smiled without replying.

They passed a nurse who grinned at them. “Ananya chechi, another featherweight patient?”

She laughed. “The lightest I’ve had this month. And the most talkative.”

Rajiv groaned quietly. “They’re making jokes.”

“They’re jealous,” she whispered. “None of them get to carry someone this cute.”

He looked up sharply. “What?”

She gave him a playful wink.

Rajiv looked away, ears tinged red.

The Hydrotherapy Suite.
The pool area was warm and softly lit, filled with steam rising from the heated water. Ananya stepped into the changing alcove with him still in her arms.

“Do I need to change into something?”

“No,” she said. “Your therapy wear is water-friendly. I’ll just help you remove the brace and slippers.”

She sat down on a bench, still holding him on her lap — his legs draped over hers, his back against her arm.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then he glanced down. “You could’ve put me in a chair, you know.”

“I could’ve,” she said calmly, her fingers now adjusting the velcro straps of his brace. “But I didn’t want you to feel cold or exposed. This is warmer, isn’t it?”

Her hand, large and warm, rested on his knee. He felt protected.

And strangely... cherished.

When she finally rose and carried him into the shallow end of the warm pool, she kept one arm around his chest from behind, her strong body supporting his weight while he floated, semi-reclined.

“Let your muscles relax,” she whispered.

He nodded. “I’m trying... but it’s hard when someone has her arms all around you.”

“Would it help if I sang a lullaby?” she teased.

He smiled faintly. “Don’t tempt me.”

Later That Night:
The night air was heavy with rain and cicadas.

Rajiv’s brace had been adjusted. The therapy had drained him. And the low throb in his leg returned — a dull, persistent ache that the painkillers only muted.

Ananya arrived with a fresh gel pack.

But when she saw the lines of pain on his face, she said nothing. She placed the gel aside and quietly sat down on the bed beside him.

Then, slowly, she turned and opened her arms.

“Come here,” she said softly.

He looked up, surprised. “What?”

“I can feel you’re not sleeping well. Let me hold you. Just for a little while.”

“I’m not a child, Ananya,” he said, half-heartedly.

“I know,” she said. “But even grown men need to be held sometimes.”

He hesitated.

Then slowly, he let her guide him forward — and a moment later, he was resting across her lap, head against her breast, his legs curled slightly across her thigh.

She ran her fingers through his hair in slow, rhythmic strokes.

He let out a long, trembling breath.

“I haven’t felt this safe in years,” he whispered.

Her voice was barely audible. “Then stay. I’ll hold you as long as you need.”

And in that warm silence, his pride softened. His body relaxed. His world, once cold and fast, now slowed… to the pace of her heartbeat.

In the Hands of Women.
The second morning began with the sound of light rain and soft footsteps on polished wood. The center had a quiet rhythm — calm staff in muted uniforms, faint chants playing in the background, the smell of herbal oils floating in the air.

Rajiv sat upright in bed, his right leg braced and elevated. A nurse had entered to help him freshen up.

But not Ananya.

Instead, it was a tall, kind-faced middle-aged woman in her mid-forties. Her ID badge read “Sister Pushpa – Attendant Care.”

“Good morning, sir,” she said warmly, with a faint Malayalam accent. “I’m here to help you get fresh before your morning physio.”

Rajiv adjusted his kurta modestly. “Ananya’s not here?”

“She’ll be here in a bit. I’m assigned for your morning assistance — washing up, fresh clothes, toileting, brushing. Don’t worry, sir. I’ve helped many gentlemen like you.”

Rajiv cleared his throat. “I’d prefer to do it myself, as far as possible.”

“Of course,” she said gently. “But I will assist you for now. You’ll do more yourself once your balance improves.”

She fetched a wide, wheeled bath chair, padded and reclined slightly. Then turned back to him and said without hesitation:

“I will carry you now, sir.”

Rajiv’s eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me?”

Sister Pushpa smiled gently. “I’ve been a nursing attendant for 15 years. I’ve carried 6'2" men double your weight. And you’re like a small boy to me — don’t mind me saying.”

He blinked, speechless.

She stepped forward, wrapped one broad arm under his knees, another around his shoulders, and lifted him smoothly into her arms.

Her body was soft, maternal, but undeniably strong. His head rested against her shoulder as she walked toward the attached bathroom.

He was embarrassed, but she spoke gently to ease the tension.

“You corporate gents… always acting shy,” she said with a warm chuckle. “But when I carry you, I can feel the tension leave your back.”

He tried to smile. “Do you say that to all your patients?”

She laughed. “Only the small ones.”


Washroom Scene: Modesty and Care.
The washroom was warm, misty with herbal steam. She placed him gently into the bath chair and wrapped a towel across his lap and upper body.

“Don’t worry, sir. I will only clean the lower limbs. I’ll help lift the good leg. Your hands are free — you can freshen your face, brush, etc. The rest, I will assist.”

And she did — gently, respectfully, wrapping a towel around his waist as she lifted each leg carefully, wiping with warm water-soaked cloths. She offered him a soft toothbrush and mouth rinse. Every motion was efficient, practiced, but not clinical — almost like a trusted aunt taking care of her injured nephew.

When she finished and gently dried his feet, she tapped his shoulder.

“Ready to go back?”

He nodded, thankful but flustered.

And once again, she lifted him carefully into her arms — and this time, without a word, he let his cheek rest against her shoulder for a moment.

She didn’t say anything.

But as she placed him back into the bed and tucked the sheet around him, she smiled gently.

“You’ll walk soon, sir. But till then… don’t be ashamed to lean on us. That’s what we’re here for.”

Later That Day.
At mid-morning, Ananya returned for his therapy session — clipboard in hand, hair loose today, falling over one shoulder. She was in casual scrubs now — a soft maroon color — and as always, she had that steady, grounded energy.

“How was your morning?” she asked, already adjusting the velcro brace.

He mumbled, “Pushpa Sister gave me the royal treatment.”

Ananya smiled. “She’s stronger than me, you know. She lifts our heaviest patients.”

Rajiv shook his head. “That’s the thing — why are all the nurses here so... tall and strong?”

“Because we have to be,” Ananya said simply. “When you’re caring for people physically, it’s not just about height or muscle — it’s about presence. We hold more than just your weight, Mr. Mehra.”

Her voice was soft at the end.

He looked at her then, for a moment too long.

She gave a small smile. “Come on. Therapy time. And yes… I’m carrying you.”

Down the Hall Again.
This time, he didn’t argue.

She scooped him up like he was a bundle of towels — her arms around his back and knees, her cheek brushing his hair as they exited the room.

This time, more staff were around.

Two junior nurses — young women in training — stood at the nursing station, and they watched them pass with quiet grins.

One whispered to the other in Malayalam.

Ananya caught it and said loudly, “Yes, yes — you’ll get practice with this after six months.”

The girls giggled. “Chechi, you look like you're carrying a little groom.”

Rajiv closed his eyes. “I’m going to die of shame.”

Ananya laughed. “You're popular. Everyone wants to carry you.”

“God help me.”

She cradled him tighter. “He already did. He sent me.”

Nightfall – The Turning Point
That night, his leg throbbed more than usual. He shifted uncomfortably in bed, sighing.

The door opened quietly. Ananya again. No clipboard. No uniform. Just a soft kurta and a large shawl around her shoulders.

She walked to him, her eyes kind.

“I heard from Pushpa that your pain flared up.”

He nodded. “It’s worse tonight.”

Without a word, she sat on the edge of the bed and opened her arms.

His eyes widened. “What are you doing?”

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she leaned forward slowly… wrapped her arms gently around him… and guided him toward her body.

This time, he didn’t resist.

He leaned willingly into her lap.

His head rested on her chest, his ear over her heart. Her shawl wrapped around both of them like a cocoon.

She cradled him gently, like a mother would a child, but without condescension. Just warmth.

“You came... even off-duty?”

She nodded. “I knew you wouldn’t sleep otherwise.”

After a long pause, he whispered into her shawl-covered shoulder.

“Ananya… will you carry me to the verandah tomorrow morning? Just for the breeze?”

There was a stillness in the room.

And then her voice, soft and almost touched:

“You’re finally asking.”


( To be continued…)