Under Her Care 2

Characters Re-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.



Day 5, early morning at the Kerala orthopedic retreat

The morning mist hung thick outside his window, the retreat still half-asleep. Somewhere distant, a koel sang its slow two-note song. The sky was painted in the softest hues of pink and pearl, as if the world hadn’t quite decided to wake yet.

Rajiv was awake.

He had barely slept — not from pain, but from something else.

His mind replayed last night in slow motion: the way she had walked in without a uniform, the softness of her lap, the rhythm of her breathing under his cheek, and how, for the first time in years, he had let someone hold him without apology.

And more than that — how it hadn’t made him feel small.
It had made him feel safe.

A gentle knock broke the quiet.

“Come in,” he said softly, already knowing who it was.

Ananya entered, her long frame wrapped in a cotton shawl, loose kurta fluttering gently at her calves. Her hair was down today, falling softly around her shoulders.

No clipboard. No stethoscope.
Just her.

She didn’t speak. She came and sat quietly beside his bed, hands folded, head tilted.

Rajiv’s voice was hushed. “You came early.”

“I thought you might want to see the morning.”

He hesitated, eyes lowering. And then, finally, he spoke the words that had swirled in his chest all night.

“Would you… carry me to the verandah?”

There was no teasing this time. No smirk, no witty reply.
Just a look — tender, steady — and a soft nod.

Without a word, she leaned forward, her arms gently sliding under him — one under his knees, the other behind his back.

And slowly… she lifted him.

The Carry
This was different.

Not rushed, not medical, not necessary.
This was asked for.

And so, she carried him not like a nurse — but like someone closer, someone warmer.

Her arms encircled him fully, his body curved into hers. His arms wrapped around her neck, but this time they didn’t clutch in surprise. They rested. Like he belonged there.

She walked slowly down the corridor, her bare feet silent against the cool floor, his face buried just below her shoulder. She smelled faintly of coconut oil and hibiscus shampoo.

The hallway was empty. Just them. A world wrapped in early light.

When they reached the open verandah, she paused. A large cane reclining chair was angled toward the garden, its cushions already fluffed, a shawl folded on one armrest.

Ananya sat down on it slowly, and as she did, she kept Rajiv in her lap.

Not placing him beside her.
Not propping him with pillows.

Her lap. Her arms. His space.

The Stillness
The world was utterly quiet except for birdsong and the soft rustle of palm fronds.

Rajiv didn’t speak for minutes. He lay with his head against her shoulder, his cheek brushing the soft curve of her neck, one arm loosely wrapped around her waist. His injured leg rested gently across her thighs, braced but safe.

She cradled him like a memory. One hand rubbed small circles over his upper back, the other supporting his side.

Eventually, he whispered, “Do you carry all your patients like this?”

“No,” she replied simply.

He waited, then asked again, softer. “Then why me?”

Her hand paused for a moment. Then resumed its slow motion.

“Because,” she said quietly, “you don’t just need healing in your knee. You need to be held where you’re softest. And that’s not your body.”

He closed his eyes. His chest rose slowly, trembled once.

She pressed her cheek to the top of his head and let him breathe.

A Quiet Confession
After a long silence, he whispered again.

“I haven’t asked anyone for help in 20 years.”

Ananya nodded slowly. “I know.”

“I’ve carried others. Provided, led, fixed, solved. But... being carried?”
He gave a bitter chuckle. “Never occurred to me that I’d want that.”

Her voice was low. “And now?”

He took a slow breath. “Now... I don’t want to leave this lap.”

A soft smile touched her lips. “Then don’t.”

Later, The Others Notice.
When Ananya eventually wheeled him back — this time at his request, to rest his arms — Sister Pushpa and the two young nurses were at the desk, sipping chai.

As they passed, one of the juniors nudged the other. “Looks like someone got a royal morning tour.”

Pushpa chuckled warmly, folding her arms. “Our little sir is finally enjoying the pampering.”

Rajiv raised an eyebrow. “Why do I feel like I’m a mascot now?”

The junior nurse giggled. “You’re not a patient Sir. You’re a… sweet potato being carried from pot to pot!”

Ananya laughed aloud at that. “Careful. My sweet potato bites back.”

Rajiv groaned. “I used to be respected in boardrooms.”

Pushpa smiled kindly. “You still are, Sir. But here, you’re also loved.”

And somehow, that didn’t feel like a loss.

It felt like a homecoming.


Day 6, mid-morning
A luxurious herbal bath.
The Kerala sky was pale and clear, with no trace of the previous day’s mist. Rajiv sat propped up on his bed, a book open but untouched on his lap. He was trying to read, but his thoughts floated elsewhere.

His body was sore from the therapy — not in a bad way, just... tired. That kind of tiredness you get when someone else has carried not just your weight, but your worries too.

There was a soft knock.

Ananya stepped in, holding a small silver tray.

“Today’s your herbal soak,” she said, her voice light. “The ayurveda team has prepared a neem-turmeric blend for you. Sister Pushpa and Lata will help with the bath — I’ll be back afterward for therapy.”

He looked up. “You’re not staying?”

She smiled, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “Let them pamper you today. You’ll enjoy it. I’ve warned them you’re extra sensitive.”

Rajiv narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t.”

“Oh, I did.” She leaned in. “They’re very excited to carry their ‘cutest patient.’” Then she winked and slipped out.

The Attendants Arrive
A few minutes later, Sister Pushpa entered — all motherly energy, thick arms and a gentle smile. With her came Lata, the younger nursing assistant, probably in her late twenties, tall and cheerful with a bouncing ponytail and wide hips that swung with every step.

“Good morning, sir!” chirped Lata. “Today you get five-star bath service.”

“Don’t remind me,” Rajiv muttered.

Pushpa laughed. “Oh come on, sir. You should be enjoying this. When else will two women bathe you with scented oils, hmm?”

He opened his mouth to object, but she was already pulling a privacy screen across the room. Behind it, he heard water being poured and oils being mixed.

Pushpa peeked back out. “We’ll lift you now.”

Rajiv hesitated, looking between the two.

“Together?” he asked warily.

Lata grinned. “Of course! You’re a team-lift special.”

He groaned, covering his face. “This is the most undignified day of my life.”

Pushpa chuckled. “You say that every day, sir. Now arms around my neck, please.”

The Lift – Two Sets of Strong Arms.
Rajiv felt their hands under him — Pushpa behind his back, Lata under his thighs. They counted softly.

“One… two… hoop!”

And suddenly, he was off the bed — held between two strong, warm women, cradled securely like a child.

His arms instinctively wrapped around Pushpa’s shoulders. His legs, dangling slightly, brushed against Lata’s hip.

“You’re lighter than our laundry baskets,” Lata teased.

“I’m filing a complaint,” Rajiv murmured, face already hot.

They giggled like schoolgirls as they carried him gently into the private ayurvedic bath room — a warm, misty chamber with bamboo walls, faint incense, and a carved wooden tub half-filled with steaming herbal water, golden-green with oils and petals floating on top.

They gently sat him down on a padded teakwood bath chair placed in the water. The temperature was perfect — warm enough to melt tension, cool enough not to sting.

A folded towel was draped over his thighs for modesty.

Lata dipped a bronze bowl and poured the first stream of herbal water over his chest. He shivered.

“Relax, sir. This is special skin-softening water. You’ll glow like a bride.”

“Bride?”

Pushpa grinned. “Yes! You’ll be our little dulha when Ananya comes in.”

“Please don’t call me that.”

Lata giggled. “Sorry, dulhe raja.”

They began to bathe him with slow, practiced care.

Pushpa lathered his arms and shoulders with neem paste, massaging gently, lifting each arm as though he weighed nothing.

Lata focused on his feet and calves, lifting one leg at a time, scrubbing delicately but thoroughly. Her hands were strong but never rough.

Every now and then, they’d pour water over his neck, chest, or back — never letting it get cold, always catching the runoff with towels.

He didn’t speak much.
But his body sank deeper into the warmth, carried not by water — but by their kindness.

Lata began humming an old Hindi tune as she oiled his forearms.

“You know, sir,” she said, “when you lie back like this, you really look like a resting prince.”

“Oh god,” he muttered.

Pushpa smiled. “Next week we’ll braid your hair and decorate you with haldi.”

Lata gasped. “Yes! Let’s do a wedding-themed bath!”

“I’m cancelling my rehab,” Rajiv groaned.

Pushpa wiped his cheek gently. “Then who’ll hold you every morning?”

He paused.

That was the thing, wasn’t it?

For all the teasing, all the laughter — there was something sacred about this care.
These women didn’t mock his weakness.
They held it, respected it, even honored it.

And somehow, it made him feel stronger.

The Lift Back
After drying him thoroughly with warmed towels, they lifted him once again — one on each side — and cradled him back toward the room.

This time, he didn’t tense up.
This time, he leaned his head slightly into Pushpa’s shoulder.

“Getting used to this, hmm?” she whispered.

He closed his eyes. “No. I’ve just stopped fighting what I clearly can’t prevent.”

Lata laughed. “Good. You belong in our arms.”

Back on the bed, as they tucked the blanket around him, he looked at them — both smiling, gentle, unhurried.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “I’ll never forget this.”

Pushpa brushed back his hair. “And we’ll never forget how sweet you looked with petals in your hair.”


Day 7, late morning to afternoon.

Rajiv was sitting cross-legged on the bed, half-listening to music from his phone. His leg brace rested nearby. The physio team had scheduled a light movement test today — range-of-motion only — but that meant being carried again.

He sighed as the door creaked open.

“Knock knock,” came Pushpa’s voice, cheerful and firm.

Behind her peeked Lata, already smirking.

“Ready for your next flight, sir?” she called brightly. “Our cargo service is here!”

Rajiv gave her a long look. “Do you wake up thinking of new ways to ruin my dignity?”

Lata clasped her hands dramatically. “Sir, your dignity is safe. But your pride? We’re slowly softening it like boiled dal.”

Pushpa chuckled, adjusting her sari pallu and stepping closer. “Enough, Lata. Now let me carry the poor man before he melts from shame.”

Without a word, Pushpa came to the side of the bed. She slid one strong arm behind his back, the other beneath his thighs.

Rajiv exhaled, already knowing the drill. “At least warn me this time.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” she smiled — and with one swift, smooth motion, lifted him into her arms.

She was wearing her usual cotton sari and nursing apron, but even through the layers, he could feel the solidness of her body — not bulky, but grounded, like she could hold him forever without effort.

He sighed into her shoulder. “You carry me like I’m a rolled-up bedsheet.”

Pushpa laughed. “That’s because you fold so nicely in my arms.”

Lata, walking ahead of them down the hallway, turned back and snapped a photo on her phone.

“Delete that!” Rajiv shouted.

She stuck out her tongue. “Too late. I’m sending it to Ananya!”

The Physio Room –
The physio room was softly lit, with mats, straps, and bolsters stacked neatly. Rajiv was lowered carefully by Pushpa onto a cushioned bench.

Lata stood with her clipboard, grinning. “Okay, sir. Today’s test is simple. We’ll see how far you can lift your legs without crying like a baby.”

Pushpa slapped her arm. “Cheeky girl!”

Rajiv raised an eyebrow. “You’re really letting her talk to patients like this?”

Pushpa smirked. “We only tease the ones who enjoy it.”

“I don’t enjoy it,” he grumbled.

Lata leaned closer. “Then why are you blushing, dulhe raja?”

The Movement Test
She sat on a low stool and gently placed her hand beneath his right foot. “Now lift this leg straight. I’ll support it.”

Rajiv tried — and groaned.

Lata gave a mock gasp. “Oh ho! Weak legs, strong pride. Very poor combination.”

“I swear I was a squash player in college,” he said between breaths.

Pushpa, from behind, whispered, “Not now. Now you’re our cuddly therapy bunny.”

Rajiv turned to glare. “How did I become everyone’s mascot?”

Lata tapped his knee playfully. “Because you’re fun-sized, well-mannered, and — best of all — too polite to stop us.”

After the session, Rajiv’s arms were limp. His face flushed from both effort and embarrassment.

Pushpa returned quietly, lifting him again — slowly this time, giving him a moment to settle into her chest. His head rested near her shoulder, her arms strong beneath him.

This time, he didn’t say anything.

And neither did she.

They just moved slowly down the hallway, Lata trailing behind humming a filmi lullaby — badly.

Pushpa turned her head slightly and said, “You know, sir… I’ve carried people screaming, crying, shaking. But you? You always go quiet.”

Rajiv looked up. “Is that good or bad?”

“It’s peaceful,” she said. “Like carrying someone who knows they’re safe.”

That stopped him cold.

He swallowed. Then rested his cheek back on her chest.

“Maybe I finally believe I am.”

Later That Afternoon –
Lata returned post-lunch to check vitals. She brought in a tray with lemon tea and biscuits.

As she placed the cup beside him, she asked, “Shall we feed you too, sir? One cookie for each smile?”

“I can lift a cup,” Rajiv said with mock sternness.

“Oh no no,” she said. “You’re not supposed to lift anything. That’s our job.” She reached out and gently pretended to cradle his elbow. “Here, allow me. Sir’s precious hands must not be stressed.”

He pulled away laughing. “Okay, enough. I’ll walk out of here soon.”

Pushpa, folding linen near the window, called out, “You can walk soon, but you’ll still miss our arms.”

Rajiv smiled at her.

Quietly. Deeply.

And in his chest, a warmth bloomed that had nothing to do with therapy.


( To be continued…)