She was still holding me on her lap, her palm resting right over that shameful, familiar betrayal in my pants. My face was burning. I was 36, a software lead who managed teams across continents, and here I was — a boy again, helpless, cradled by the woman who’d been the fault line in my whole life.
She didn’t move her hand. Just let it sit there, warm, heavy, like a verdict.
“You never answered me, Ravi,” she whispered, her voice dropping lower, the way people talk when the rest of the world has gone to sleep. “After all these years… do you still hate me? Or…” Her thumb moved, just a fraction. Not enough to call it anything. Enough to make my breath catch. “...Or was it never hate at all?”
I couldn’t look at her. If I looked up, I’d see her — 44, solid and gorgeous, those high cheekbones a little softer now, eyes that had seen Singapore, grief, and whatever else the last twenty years had thrown at her. I’d see the girl from my dad’s office and the woman who’d wrecked us, all in one frame. My head was still against her shoulder. I could smell her — some light jasmine, and underneath that, just… her. The same scent from that car ride back from the picnic, when I was 15 and mortified and buzzing all at once.
“I don’t know what I feel,” I finally said. My voice sounded thin, like it belonged to that class 10 kid again. “You took everything, Shukla… didi. My father. My mother’s peace. My… my chance to even have a normal crush without it turning into this.” I swallowed. “And now you’re here, calling me son, holding me like…”
“Like what?” she asked. No tease in it now. Just quiet.
“Like you own me,” I said before I could stop myself.
She was silent for a long moment. Then she shifted, just enough to ease the pressure of my body against her. But she didn’t put me down. Her arm around my back tightened, and with her free hand she brushed my hair off my forehead. The gesture was so motherly it made my throat close. So did the fact that her other hand was still right there, and she knew it, and I knew she knew it.
“Maybe I do, a little,” she said, and there was a sad smile in her voice. “Not because I planned to. Because your father and I… we never had children, Ravi. He didn’t want more after you. Guilt, maybe. And I… I was too scared I’d mess it up. But you… you were already there. Sitting across my desk, trying so hard not to look at me, turning red when I offered you Fanta.”
She laughed softly, and I felt it in her chest. “You think I didn’t notice? I was 23. Not dead. You were this earnest, scrawny boy with big eyes, and every time I stood up you’d scramble to hide… well. You know.”
My face was on fire. “Stop.”
“I won’t,” she said, gentle but firm. “Because you need to hear it. You’ve been carrying this story alone for twenty years. Your version. ‘Shukla was greedy. Shukla seduced my dad.’ Fine. Believe that if you want. But I get to tell mine too.”
She adjusted me on her lap like I weighed nothing. For her, I probably didn’t. “Your father was lonely, Ravi. And so was I. My mama-mami married me off at 19 to a drunk who beat me. I ran away. Divorced. No money, no degree, just typing speed and English I learned from a few Anglo-Indian friends. When your father noticed me, it wasn’t my figure. It was that I didn’t suck up to him like all others in the office, just because he was the big boss, just to get some professional favours. I didn’t want anything from him. We were two broken people who made one stupid, irreversible mistake.”
Her hand finally left my lap. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or bereft. She folded both arms around me now, proper, enveloping. I was 65 kg of grown-man baggage, and she held me like I was still that boy who lost his father twice — once to her, once to Covid.
“He talked about you every week,” she went on. “‘How’s Ravi doing in school? Did he make the school cricket team?’ He kept your report cards. I found them after… after he passed. He wrote you letters he never sent. He was ashamed. Thought you’d tear them up. Maybe you would have.”
Something cracked in my chest. Not loud. Just a hairline fracture I’d been ignoring since I was 16.
“I didn’t come here for his letters,” I muttered into her kurta.
“I know,” she said. “You came because a part of you needed to see if I was still the villain in your head. Or if I was just… a woman. An old crush. A stepmother who never got to be anything.”
She stood up then, lifting me with her like it was the most natural thing in the world. My legs dangled. I instinctively grabbed her shoulders. She carried me to the window, where the late Chandigarh sun was turning the Shivaliks gold.
“Look,” she said. “No balcony. No neighbors. Just us. You don’t have to call me Mummy. You don’t have to call me anything. But you’re staying tonight. Not in a hotel. Your father’s last wish was that you see this place. He bought it for you, actually. In your name. He couldn’t bring himself to tell you while he was alive.”
That stopped me cold. “What?”
She set me down finally — gently, on my feet, but kept her hands on my shoulders, steadying me. I had to tilt my head all the way back to meet her eyes. God, the height difference still did things to my brain I didn’t want to examine.
“He left you the flat, Ravi. And a whole lot of investments and Bank Fixed deposits. And those unsent letters. That’s what I was supposed to give you. But there’s one more thing.”
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, dog-eared photograph. Pressed it into my palm.
It was from that picnic. 20 years ago. My dad was loading the car. And in the background, slightly blurred, was me — 15, gangly, sitting on Shukla’s lap in the backseat of the Sumo, her arms wrapped around me to keep me from falling as the car started. I was looking up at her, half-terrified, half-awestruck. And she… she was looking down at me, not with lust, not with cunning. With something soft. Amused. Almost… protective.
“See?” she whispered. “You weren’t the only one with kuchh kuchh happening. I was just older. I knew better than to name it. So I named it ‘wrong’ and buried it.”
My hands were shaking. Twenty years of anger, and grief, and that filthy, stubborn crush all collided in my ribcage.
“Shukla…” I started, and didn’t know how to finish. Didi? Mummy?
She touched my cheek, her big hand covering half my face. “Stay tonight, Ravi. Have dinner with me. Yell at me. Ask me everything. Cry if you want. Be 16 again if you need. Just don’t run back to Delhi with another twenty years of questions.”
The Old Monk was still waiting in my hotel. My return ticket was booked. My whole life was built on not staying.
But her arms were warm. And for the first time since I was 16, I didn’t feel small because I was weak. I felt small because I was finally, finally allowed to be held.
I looked up at her — my stepmother, my father’s wife, the 6-foot girl of my dreams — and nodded.
“Okay,” I said. “Okay… Shukla didi.”
Her eyes crinkled. Sad and victorious and something else I didn’t have a name for yet.
“Good boy,” she said, and took my hand in hers, and led me inside.
—
The photograph was still warm in my palm. That 15-year-old me on Shukla’s lap in the Sumo, gawky and gone on her. She saw me looking at it, and her hand came up to my chin, tilting my face to hers.
“No more looking down, Ravi,” she said, soft. “Not when you’re with me. You look up. Always.”
I huffed. “Easy for you to say. You’re a foot taller.”
Her laugh was low, real. “Exactly. So let me do the work.”
And before I could argue, she scooped me up again. One arm under my knees, one around my back, and just like that I was off the floor, cradled against her like I weighed nothing. 36 years, 65 kg of IT professional, and she held me like I was made of monsoon air.
“Shukla— didi,” I sputtered, grabbing her shoulder. “I can walk.”
“I know you can,” she murmured, already moving. “But you don’t have to. Not tonight. Not after twenty years of carrying all that alone.”
She didn’t head for the balcony. She walked deeper into the flat, past the drawing room, into a wide, sunlit kitchen. The smell hit me first — something slow-cooked. Home.
“I made your favourite Biryani,” she said, nodding toward the stove. “You told me once, in Dad’s office. When you were 15. You said your Ma cooks the best home made Biryani.”
I stared at her. “You remember that?”
“I remember everything you said, Ravi. You didn’t talk much. So the little you did… it stuck.”
She set me down — but not on a chair. On the kitchen counter. My legs dangled, feet well above the floor. She stood between my knees, hands on the counter on either side of me, caging me in without touching. At 5’11” she didn’t even have to stretch. Her eyes were level with mine like this. It was disorienting. And safe.
“Hungry?” she asked.
“From the travel, yes,” I managed. “From… this… I don’t know what I am.”
“Then we eat first,” she decided. “Feelings later.”
She turned to the stove, and I watched her. The way her kurta stretched across her broad shoulders when she reached for plates. The solid, unhurried way she moved. No flab, like I’d noticed earlier. Just… presence. Weight. The kind of woman you don’t argue with when she says ‘sit’. Or rather, ‘be sat’.
She plated the biryani, added a saucer of raita I didn’t ask for but suddenly needed, and turned back. One look at me — legs swinging like a kid’s — and she shook her head, fond.
“Come.”
She didn’t wait. Hands under my armpits, she lifted me off the counter as if I were a sack of books. For a second my feet pedaled air, and then I was back in her arms, cradled sideways, my head tucked under her chin.
“Dining table is three steps away, Shukla didi,” I mumbled into her collarbone.
“And my arms are right here,” she answered, carrying me those three steps. “Let me, Ravi. Please. I didn’t get to do this when you were small. Let me make up for it now.”
She settled into a big wooden chair and arranged me on her lap like before — sideways, my back against the armrest, legs across her thighs. The plate was on the table, but she picked up the spoon.
“I can eat myself,” I protested. Weakly.
“I know,” she said, and fed me a spoonful anyway. “But you won’t. You’ll push the food around and think about 20 years ago. So open up.”
The biryani was perfect. Like Ma’s, but different. Like her. I opened up.
Between bites, she talked. Not about Dad. Not about Singapore. About small things. “The neighbour in 33-B has a daughter your height. Fierce girl. Reminds me of you.” “I started gardening. Killed three tulsi plants before I learned.” “I kept your letters. Your dad’s letters to you. They’re in the bedroom.”
Each time I tried to get up, to sit on my own chair like a proper 36-year-old, her arm would tighten around my waist. Not trapping. Anchoring.
“You’re safe, Ravi,” she whispered once, mouth close to my hair. “You’re not 15 and confused. You’re not alone. And you’re not too heavy for me. Not ever.”
My throat got tight. Because she was right. The buses, the streets, the tall women I never spoke to — it was all about this. This feeling. Being smaller, and not having to apologize for it. Being held by someone bigger, stronger, and knowing she liked that I fit right here.
After dinner, she carried the plates to the sink one-handed, me still in the other arm. She washed up with me propped on her hip like I was five. I should have been embarrassed. I was, a little. But mostly I was… quiet. Inside.
She dried her hands, looked down at me, and smiled. That mischievous smile from earlier was back.
“Bedroom,” she said. “Letters are there. But first…” She walked us to the big mirror in the hallway. Stood us in front of it. Me in her arms, my head on her shoulder, her chin resting on my hair.
“Tell me what you see, Ravi.”
I looked. A tall, big, dusky woman of 44, strong as a peepal tree. And a 36-year-old grown-up man curled in her arms, eyes wide, looking… found.
“I see,” I whispered, “the daydream that came true.”
She kissed my forehead. “Good. Now let’s go and listen to your daydreams that you couldn’t tell me earlier. And after that… we’ll see...”
She carried me toward the bedroom, my arms finally, finally relaxing around her neck.
---
Shukla didi carried me into the bedroom, but she didn’t put me on the bed. She sat on the edge, settling me sideways across her lap again. My head was back against the curve of her arm, legs over her thigh. She was warm, solid. At 5’11” and 85-90 kgs, she made the big teak bed look ordinary. I made her lap look full.
She brushed my hair back with her fingers. Big hand, wide palm. “Now,” she said, voice low, amused, “you’re going to tell your Shukla didi everything. No more half-truths. You said you had a crush at 15. But I think it started before that, didn’t it? And it didn’t stop at me.”
I swallowed. My 5’3” frame felt even smaller when she looked at me like that — like she could see every bus ride I’d ever taken.
“I… I liked being around tall women,” I mumbled. “Still do.”
“Mm-hmm,” she nodded, as if I’d confirmed a diagnosis. “Tell me. From the beginning. Your growing up days.”
So I told her. Voice soft, eyes on the ceiling, because looking at her while saying this felt like stripping naked.
“I didn’t ask Baba for a bike. Everyone else did. I liked buses. Locals. Crowds. Because sometimes… there’d be a girl. Taller than me. 5’4”, 5’7”, once even 5’9”. I’d see her at the stop and my whole day would change.”
Shukla didi’s arm tightened around me. “And then?”
“Then I’d stand next to her. Not touching. Never. Just… close enough to feel the difference. If she was 5’7”, my head would come to her lips. If she was 5’9”, I’d be under her chin. My heart would do this stupid drum thing. I’d memorize it. Height. Weight guess. The way she stood. Then her bus would come, she’d go, and I’d walk home smiling for hours.”
“Did you follow them?” Her tone was sharp, but her thumb was stroking my shoulder. Sisterly. Checking me.
“Only walking,” I said quickly. “If she was going my way, I’d fall in behind. Few lanes. Just to see. Never spoke. Never scared anyone. I swear. It was… math. Comparison. Like collecting data. How small I felt, and how much I liked it.”
She was quiet for a bit. Then she let out a long breath. Not angry. Understanding.
“Ravi,” she said, and shifted me in her lap as if I were a restless kid, “you were 15, then 20, then 25, doing height surveys at bus stops instead of asking a girl for a date. Do you know what that tells your didi?”
I shook my head against her.
“It tells me my boy was lonely,” she said, simply. “And that he found safety in women bigger than him. Because the world knocked you down young, na? Baba left. Ma got sick. You became ‘the man of the house’ at 16, but you were still 5’3” and 62 kgs. So your heart went looking for someone who could carry the weight for a change.”
My eyes stung. She wasn’t wrong.
She smiled then, that mischievous smile. “And it tells me you have a type. Tall. Big. Dusky preferred. Strong enough to lift you without asking.” To prove her point, she stood up in one smooth motion, sweeping me up with her. No warning. One arm under my knees, one behind my back — classic princess carry.
“Hey!” I yelped, arms flying around her neck. “Didi!”
“Didi is right,” she laughed, already walking. “Look at you. 36 years old, software lead, and your feet don’t even reach my knees when I hold you like this. How did you survive all these years without an older woman to carry you home?”
She paraded me to the mirror again. “See? This is what you were chasing at bus stops, wasn’t it? The height gap. The helpless.” She gave me a little bounce, and I clutched her tighter. “Uff, such a light little brother I have. 65 kgs? I carry atta bags heavier than you.”
“Shukla didi!” My face was red. “Put me down.”
“Make me,” she teased, and shifted her grip. Now she hoisted me higher, so my face was level with hers, my legs dangling. She had me in a bear-hug carry, my chest to hers, my arms pinned loosely between us. My feet kicked air a foot off the ground.
“See how easy?” she whispered, nose to nose. “If I was that 5’9” girl at the bus stop, and I decided to take you home, what would you do, haan? You couldn’t stop me. You’d have to come. Like now.”
I couldn’t answer. Because she was right, and because her strength was doing that thing to my chest — not fear, not lust, just… relief.
She walked to the sofa, and changed grips again. In one fluid move she turned me and slung me over her shoulder — fireman carry. My stomach on her broad, strong shoulder, my head hanging down her back, legs over her front.
“Ravi beta!” she announced to the empty room, patting my backside like I was 6. “This is how we bring home boys who don’t eat properly. Too light. Too short. Too much thinking. Shukla didi will feed you and carry you until you learn.”
I groaned into her kurta. “The neighbours will hear.”
“Good,” she said, spinning once, making me dizzy. “Let them. ‘Shukla’s son is home. She has to carry him, he’s so tiny.’” She laughed, deep and free. “You hate that, don’t you? Or… do you?”
I was quiet. Because the truth was, I didn’t hate it. Not from her.
She felt the change in me. Gently, she slid me down — but only to her front, holding me koala style now. My legs around her waist, arms around her neck, her big hands cupping under my thighs, holding all my weight like it was nothing. My face was right at her neck. I was eye-level with her for once.
“There,” she murmured. “Better? Now you’re tall also.”
I let out a shaky laugh. “Cheater.”
“Big sister’s prerogative.” She walked us to the window, me still wrapped around her like a scarf. “So. Bus stops. Tall girls. You never talked. Because you’re a gentleman, I know. But also because you were scared that if you spoke, the daydream would end. She’d be real. She’d say no. Or worse, she’d laugh.”
I nodded against her.
“Ravi, look at me.” I did. “I’m real. I’m 44. I’m bigger than every girl at every bus stop you ever saw. And I’m not laughing at you. I’m lifting you. There’s a difference.”
She shifted me again — gawd, she was strong — into a cradle carry once more, but walking this time, pacing the room. Each step made me bob slightly in her arms.
“And you know what else your didi deduced?” she said, voice teasing again. “You like them dusky because your Ma was fair, and gentle, and the world broke her. So your heart said, ‘Next time, pick someone who looks like she can’t be broken.’ Someone solid. Someone like…” She grinned, “...me.”
I hid my face in her shoulder. “You’re too clever, didi.”
“I’m your didi,” she said simply. “It’s my job. Now. Last question. When you daydreamed, after the bus stop… what did you want that tall girl to do?”
My voice was paper-thin. “Lift me. Carry me. Not let me go. Tell me I’m safe. Even if I’m 36. Even if I am… a grown-up man.”
She stopped walking. Held me tighter. Kissed my hair.
“Then listen to your Shukla didi, beta,” she whispered. “You are safe. You are grown. And you’re still allowed to be carried. By me. Any time. All the ways. Princess. Shoulder. Koala. Cradle. Pick one.”
I peeked up. “Can’t I be... all of them?”
Her laughter filled the room. “Greedy boy. Just like when you were 15.” She booped my nose with her finger. “Yes. All of them. Tonight, tomorrow, next weekend. I’m not 23 anymore, Ravi. My arms are free now. And you’re not too old, or too tall, or too anything for your didi’s lap.”
She carried me back to the bed and sat, keeping me cradled. “Now. Letters after dinner. But first, you tell me about one bus-stop girl. The tallest. In detail. And I’ll tell you what I would have done if I’d seen my little Ravi staring up at me like that.”
Her arms were a fortress. Her teasing was warm, not mean. And for the first time, the bus-stop story didn’t end with the girl getting on the bus and leaving.
It ended here. With Shukla didi. Holding me.
