Under her care 3

Main Characters Reminder :

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.


Under her care 3


Setting: Thunderstorm, Kerala Orthopedic Wellness Retreat.

It had been drizzling all evening, but by midnight, the rain had turned wild. Thunder cracked over the hills, wind howled through the tall palm trees, and the wooden walls of the retreat creaked softly under the weight of the monsoon.

Inside his darkened room, Rajiv lay awake, leg throbbing beneath the blanket. He had refused a second painkiller — the side effects made him dizzy. But now, every nerve in his knee was on fire.

He shifted. Grunted. Swore softly.
Sweat trickled down his temples.

He pressed the nurse call button.

But it wasn’t Pushpa or Lata who came.

It was her.

Ananya Enters.
She stepped in, barefoot, in a simple blue cotton kurta and shawl — her hair damp from the corridor, sticking lightly to her cheeks. Her eyes went to his face instantly.

“You’re in pain,” she said, not asking.

He nodded, jaw clenched.

She walked straight to the bed, brushing his forehead with the back of her fingers.

“Why didn’t you take the second dose?”

“I hate feeling dull,” he muttered. “I’d rather hurt.”

“You stubborn, proud thing,” she murmured — but not angrily.

She stood there for a moment… then quietly sat down on the edge of the bed and opened her arms.

“Come here.”

He blinked. “What?”

“You need to be held.”

“I—”

She didn’t wait.

Her arms slipped behind his back and under his knees. With one slow, steady motion, she lifted him into her arms.

She sat back in the rocking chair by the window, holding him across her chest like a large child, legs over one thigh, back resting against her arm.

He sagged into her, finally letting go.
His forehead pressed into her neck.
His breathing began to slow.

Outside, lightning cracked. But inside, there was only the sound of her heartbeat, her breathing, and the rain.

She pulled the shawl around both of them, her arms strong and unmoving beneath him.

“Better?” she whispered.

He gave a small nod. “Much.”

They rocked in silence.

Minutes passed.

Then he spoke, voice barely above the rain.

“I was married once.”

She didn’t react — just held him tighter.

“Arranged. Families matched. She was… polished. Educated. Pretty, in that magazine-cover way.”

A pause.

“But she had someone else. Someone from her past. We didn’t fight. We just… ended. In six months. Quietly. Mutually. Like two strangers at a train station who realized they took the wrong train.”

She said nothing. Just stroked his hair.

“My parents still don’t speak of it. I buried myself in work. Promotions, travel, clients. Bangalore. London. Tokyo.”

He exhaled long and slow.

“But at night, I’d come back to empty hotel rooms and feel like a mannequin. I don’t think anyone’s… held me in years.”

She whispered, “You’re being held now.”

He closed his eyes. “Yes. And it’s… undoing something in me.”


After a long pause, she spoke.

“I’m not like you,” she said softly. “I didn’t have options.”

His brow furrowed. He lifted his face slightly.

“My father died when I was sixteen. Heart attack. Sudden. My mother — she was a nurse then — took on double shifts. I did nursing only because I needed a job quickly.”

She shifted him slightly on her lap — not to adjust his weight, but to cradle him better, one palm gently cupping the back of his head now.

“I’m the only earning member. My mother’s retired now. My brother — hopeless, but sweet — he still tries. My sister’s in college. Smart girl, science student.”

“Do you ever think of leaving? Getting married?”

She smiled faintly. “I did. Once. Long ago.”

“And?”

“I told him: ‘If you marry me, you marry my family too.’ He stepped back.”

Rajiv reached up and touched her shawl. “His loss.”

Ananya looked down at him.

He was fully resting on her now, nestled into her body, the lines of pain softened, even gone.

“I always carry people, Rajiv,” she said. “Not just with these arms — but with my time, my strength, my life.”

She looked out at the storm again.

“But no one has ever asked, ‘Are you tired, Ananya?’”

Rajiv’s fingers tightened slightly on her arm.

“Well,” he whispered, “tonight… you can carry me. And tomorrow, maybe… I’ll try to carry some of you.”

He Breaks – And Is Held.
Something cracked then. Maybe in the thunder.
Maybe in his chest.

His breath hitched.

His shoulders trembled once… and then again.

“I’m so tired,” he whispered. “Of pretending I’m not lonely.”

Ananya didn’t say anything.

She just pulled his head tighter to her chest, rocking him slowly in her arms like a child.

When the first tear rolled down his cheek, it landed on her shawl.

And she said, with the gentlest strength:

“You don’t have to pretend here.”

They stayed that way for hours.

Through the thunder.
Through the rain.
Through the storm both inside and outside.

Until he fell asleep — his face buried in her neck, her arms around him, the chair swaying gently in the rhythm of a love that hadn’t been spoken aloud yet… but had already begun.


Day 9 : 
It was the first time in days that Rajiv awoke before anyone came to his room.

The morning light was soft, gold seeping through the half-open curtains. His knee still ached, but something in his chest felt lighter.

Maybe because of the night before.

Maybe because, for the first time, he had wept in someone’s arms — and hadn’t been judged.

He thought of Ananya’s words: “No one has ever asked if I’m tired.”

Today, he would ask.

He pressed the call button — not for Pushpa or Lata — but asked specifically for Ananya when the nurse arrived.

A little while later, she entered — fresh from the shower, hair braided, clipboard in hand.

“Feeling better?” she asked softly.

He nodded. “I’ve been thinking... I always get carried. Lap, arms, to bed, to bath…”

“Don’t forget shoulder carry once, when Pushpa showed off,” she teased.

He chuckled. “Yes. But I never give back. I want to.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Rajiv, you’re recovering from surgery.”

“Still,” he said, slowly reaching out a hand. “Sit here. Just for five minutes. Please.”

She hesitated. Then pulled up the side chair and sat beside the bed.

“I can’t carry you,” he murmured, “but will you just let me... hold your hand and thank you?”

He took her hand gently in both of his. Rubbed it slowly. Carefully.

“This hand has carried me for a week. Like a child. Like I’m made of glass. Like I’m precious.”

She looked away, blinking fast.

He whispered, “And you are never carried. By anyone.”

Her lips trembled, and he did something then that surprised them both:

He gently tugged her hand until she was sitting on the bed, half-turned toward him — and then slowly, hesitantly, he rested his head on her lap.

“I may be small enough to carry,” he murmured, “but I promise… I have enough love to carry you here.”

She brushed his hair, a tear slipping from the corner of her eye.

No one had ever said that to her.


Later that day, Dr. Bose knocked on the door.

“You’ve progressed well. We can let you out for a short garden walk today. Just the far verandah — fifteen minutes.”

Rajiv sighed. “And how exactly do I reach there?”

Pushpa smirked from behind him. “Same way you go everywhere.”

He turned to Ananya, eyes wide. “You’ll be carrying me outside now?”

She gave a one-shoulder shrug. “I’ve carried you through fevers, storms, and your crying. What’s a bit of sunshine?”

Lata popped her head in. “Can I walk behind you and fan him like a prince?”

“Denied,” Rajiv groaned.


She came back fifteen minutes later, dressed in her soft maroon kurta and shawl.

Without a word, she leaned down, slid her arms under his back and knees, and gently lifted him.

He had become used to the feeling now: her strong arms wrapping him like memory foam, her soft scent, the little bounce in her step.

But this time, as she stepped into the hallway, he didn’t flinch.
He didn’t blush.
He didn’t hide.

He let his head rest softly on her shoulder — in full view of two passing interns and a receptionist.

They paused.

Smiled.

One whispered, “He looks so peaceful.”

Another said, “She always carries with so much care.”

And Rajiv — proud corporate executive, once too dignified for help — closed his eyes, and let himself be carried like he belonged there.

In the Garden.
She sat down on the outdoor bench with him still in her arms, lap cradled like a child or a recovering lover.

The breeze kissed his cheek. Birds chirped. The scent of wet earth filled the air.

Ananya leaned her head gently against his.

“I never thought I’d carry a grown man into my heart,” she whispered.

Rajiv smiled against her shoulder. “And I never thought I’d beg to be carried.”

“You didn’t beg,” she whispered. “You asked. And I gave.”

“That’s even scarier.”

“Why?”

He looked up into her eyes.

“Because now… I never want to get down.”

They sat there until the sun slipped lower into the trees.

Two people.

One carrying.
One healing.
But both slowly being held — in arms, and in love.


A Quiet Afternoon.
The sun hung low over the hills. The retreat was peaceful.

Rajiv lay reclined on the large wooden armchair in his room, his head nestled into Ananya’s lap. She sat calmly, one hand caressing his hair in slow strokes, the other cradling the curve of his ribs.

His legs were bent gently across the chair, knee supported with cushions. His eyes were closed, lips parted in half-sleep, his cheek pressed lightly to her kurta.

He wasn’t embarrassed anymore.

Not when she held him.
Not when Lata giggled and brought tea.
Not when Pushpa joked about adopting him.

He had let go. And in doing so, he had become himself.

A Footstep at the Door.
The doorknob turned.

Ananya didn’t move — but her hand paused.

Rajiv blinked. “Hmm?”

The door opened.

And in walked his mother.

The Silence.
She stopped mid-step.

A tall, elegant woman in her early sixties — saree draped with precision, hair in a soft bun, pearl earrings. She looked every bit the dignified Chandigarh homemaker — proud, poised, protective.

Her eyes landed on the scene:

Her only son, 42 years old…

…cradled fully across the lap of a tall woman, like a small child

…his head resting under her chin

…her hands gently stroking his chest and hair

…both of them not noticing the world

Her mouth parted slightly.

Not in shock. But… in disbelief.

Rajiv Looks Up.
He turned his head slowly and saw her.

He froze — for a moment.

Then, instead of jumping up or scrambling away, he took a deep breath, and shifted a little in Ananya’s lap — his hand coming to rest gently over hers.

“Hi, Ma,” he said softly. “You came.”

She didn’t respond immediately.

Her eyes flicked to Ananya — tall, simple kurta, no jewelry, thick arms wrapped around her son like he belonged there.

Then back to Rajiv.

“You’re… lying in her lap?” she said, her voice low, uncertain.

He nodded. “Yes.”

The Mother’s Voice Trembles.
“I didn’t think…” she whispered, “I mean… I thought you’d be in a wheelchair. Or a recliner. Not... like this.”

Ananya quietly began to shift, but Rajiv held her wrist.

“No,” he said. “Please. Don’t get up.”

She looked at him, confused. “Beta… what is this?”

And Rajiv said something he had never said aloud.

“Ma, I’m not weak because I’m being held. I’m healing. She carries me, yes. But not because I can’t manage — because I don’t want to manage alone anymore.”

Ananya Speaks, With Grace.
Ananya gently straightened her back, her voice calm.

“Auntyji,” she said, “this is not what it looks like. Or maybe… it is. I carry your son every day. Not just from room to room. But through his silence. Through his pain. Through the tears he hides. He allows it now. And that is his strength.”

There was a pause. A deep pause.

Rajiv’s mother sat down slowly on the other chair.

Her eyes softened — but still held layers.

“I raised him to be strong.”

“And he is,” Ananya replied. “But even strong people deserve arms to rest in.”

His mother looked at her son.

She remembered the day he was born — three and a half pounds, tiny, always needing to be held.

She remembered how he never cried when he fell. How he stopped asking to be hugged by age ten. How he put on that silent, proud mask after his divorce.

And now… here he was.

Resting on a woman’s lap — not in shame, but in peace.

His fingers curled lightly around Ananya’s shawl.

The mother nodded, slowly.

“I didn’t know,” she said. “I never thought I’d see this side of you.”

He smiled faintly. “I didn’t know it existed.”

Before She Left.
As she stood to leave, his mother touched Ananya’s shoulder.

“Thank you,” she said. “For holding him when I couldn’t.”

Ananya smiled gently. “He holds me, too. Just in quieter ways.”

Outside the door, the mother stood for a moment… then smiled to herself.

“I think,” she whispered to no one, “my son may have finally come home.”



( To be continued….)