Setting: A heritage girls’ college in a quiet hill town, surrounded by ivy-covered buildings and timeless silence.
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
Part 1: The Arrival
It was a foggy Monday morning when Anirudh first stepped into the stone corridor of St. Theresa’s Women’s College. With a satchel slung over one shoulder and the smell of old books in the air, he made his way into the ancient library — his new home.
He was busy arranging catalogues when a voice rang out behind him, rich and melodious:
“Are you the new custodian of our chaos?”
He turned — and nearly dropped his folder.
Towering in the doorway was Dr. Priya Sinha, her gray-streaked hair tied in a graceful bun, a maroon shawl draped over her shoulders. Her presence was like a monsoon cloud — majestic, unhurried, impossible to ignore.
“Y-yes, ma’am. I mean, Dr. Sinha. I’m Anirudh. Sen. New librarian.”
She smiled. “Welcome, Mr. Sen. I do hope you don’t plan on hiding behind these books all day. Or I might have to pull you out myself.”
He chuckled nervously.
Part 2: The First Lift
A few days later, Priya found Anirudh trying to reach a book from the top shelf in the archives room — tiptoeing, stretching, and ultimately stepping on a rickety wooden stool.
“Mr. Sen!” she called, alarmed. “That thing will fall apart—”
Too late.
The stool creaked, wobbled, and before he could tumble, two strong arms swooped around his waist. He was lifted clean off the stool, and turned around in mid-air like a child being moved from one room to another.
By the time his feet touched the ground, he was nestled against Priya’s side like a library book returned to its rightful shelf.
“I told you I’d pull you out if I had to,” she teased.
He blinked, speechless. His ears burned red.
Part 3: Across the Campus Lawn
It was the College Day rehearsal, and the front lawns were bustling with students, chairs, banners, and chaos. Anirudh was tasked with overseeing a few volunteers arranging donated books on display. But navigating the uneven grass with crates in hand was… problematic.
As he stumbled once again, his small frame struggling under the weight of two book bundles, Priya appeared beside him like a storm in heels.
“Honestly, Mr. Sen,” she sighed.
Before he could protest, she set down his crates, scooped him up — both arms under his legs and back — and began walking across the lawn.
“W-WHAT are you doing, Dr. Sinha?!” he stammered, now held bridal-style in full view of students setting up.
“Carrying a valuable asset,” she replied calmly, “one who clearly has no business lifting more than a paperclip.”
“But—people are watching! You’re... you’re a senior professor, and I’m— I’m a 38-year-old grownup adult man! This is—this is not normal!”
She smirked down at him. “You’re very light for an adult grown-up man, Mr. Sen. Like a paperback.”
One of the students — bold enough — let out a cheer:
“Go ma’am! One more round!”
Part 4: The Corridor Rescue
Later that week, it was pouring. Anirudh had stayed late reorganizing the Philosophy section and now found himself trapped near the old block — rain hammering the tiled corridor outside.
Just as he wondered how to escape, a familiar umbrella appeared, shielding him. It was Priya again — wrapped in a raincoat, looking like an academic warrior queen.
“You’ll catch a cold,” she scolded.
“I’ll just wait a bit—"
“No time.”
Whoosh. She bent down and in one smooth motion, lifted him over her shoulder like a duffel bag.
“W-wait—Ma’am, I’m too old to be carried like a—!”
“Like a what?” she said, stepping through the rain with him. “Like a sack of poetry? Like a helpless kitten? Like a grown man who keeps acting surprised every time I pick him up?”
He groaned, face buried in her shoulder. “How does a 53-year-old woman do this? Effortlessly! I feel like a baby every time...”
“Well,” she said with a grin, “I do have experience. I carried five girls through college exams last year alone.”
Part 5: Between the Bookshelves
One quiet afternoon, Priya and Anirudh were reorganizing a shelf of rare poetry anthologies. They ended up standing too close. Her arm brushed his, and a shared silence grew heavy.
“I—I hope I haven’t embarrassed you too much these past few weeks,” she said softly.
“You mean the part where I’m 38 years old and you carry me around like a handbag?” he smiled nervously. “Or the part where I secretly… don’t mind it?”
She blinked. Then stepped closer.
“Anirudh,” she said, his name sounding unusually tender, “you’re the only person I’ve met who thinks a woman being strong is somehow… unnatural."
“No, not unnatural. Just... surprising. You're older, wiser, and still strong enough to lift me like I'm weightless. It’s equal parts humbling and... oddly comforting.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“I could lift you again,” she offered.
He flushed. “Don’t you dare. Not unless no one’s around.”
She grinned wickedly. “Then I suppose the archives room after 5 p.m. is ideal?”
Part 6: Prize of the Day
The college's Annual Literary Carnival was in full swing. The courtyard was buzzing — colorful stalls, banners fluttering, loud laughter, and endless cups of tea. The students had organized fun games for the faculty too: book balancing, quote-matching, “Guess the Poem,” and a goofy segment called “Catch Your Character”.
It was meant to be a dramatized game, where a character from literature was acted out and “caught” by another — all in good fun.
Anirudh, cautiously sipping tea behind the safety of the history stall, heard his name shouted across the grounds.
“Mr. Sen! Mr. Sen! Please come to the main stage!”
He blinked. “What for?”
“Just come, sir! Surprise game!”
He reluctantly walked up, where a group of giggling final-year girls handed him a cardboard sign reading:
"Prize for the Strongest Heart".
Before he could escape, Priya’s voice echoed through the mic:
“And the lucky contestant who wins today’s challenge gets this lovely little librarian — yes, all 63 kilograms of him — as their prize!”
The crowd roared in laughter. Anirudh’s ears turned crimson.
Suddenly, Priya walked to the center with a flourish, removed her shawl dramatically, and declared:
“I’m playing. And I always win.”
Before Anirudh could react, she grabbed him by the waist, spun him around in the air, and caught him in her arms like a showgirl lifting her co-star.
The students screamed and clapped.
“Dr. Sinha!” he whispered in horror, as he dangled above the stage, “You can’t just carry me in front of hundreds of people!”
She looked up at him with mock innocence.
“Oh, but Mr. Sen, I’ve earned my prize. And look — not even out of breath.”
He stared at her — elegant, strong, laughing with absolute poise, holding him like a schoolbag.
He murmured, “How does a 53-year-old woman carry a full-grown 38-year-old man like he’s nothing but a loaf of bread?”
“Simple,” she smiled. “With practice. And affection.”
Part 7: A Sunday Ride and Woodland Mischief.
Sunday mornings in the hill town were blissfully quiet. Birds chirped, the mist lifted slowly, and the winding village paths were almost empty — except for one unusual sight.
Anirudh, looking nervous and mildly mortified, was perched awkwardly on the front bar of a bicycle, clutching the handlebars for dear life.
Behind him sat Priya, laughing softly, her arms securely around him as she pedaled steadily through the village.
“Dr. Sinha, this is highly irregular— I’m 38! This is not how grown men travel !”
“Shh, librarian sahib,” she chuckled. “On Sundays, I pick my own transport.”
“But I can walk—”
“Too slow. Besides, I like the ride this way.”
The bicycle jolted a little as they passed a group of village women gathered near a well. A few giggled and waved.
“Oho Priya Didi! Took your husband out for a ride, eh?”
Anirudh buried his face in his hands. “I’m not her husband,” he mumbled.
“Not yet,” Priya said casually, smiling as she rang the bicycle bell.
Later: Up the Hillside Trail.
They reached the edge of a wooded hill trail. Anirudh started to climb, but Priya had other ideas.
“Getting tired already?” she teased.
“No, I’m fine—woah!”
Without warning, she ducked, grabbed him around the waist, and in one powerful motion, hoisted him over her shoulder like a sack of rice.
“Priya!” he protested, his voice muffled against her shawl. “This isn’t fair! You’re—53! And I’m—!”
“A full-grown man, yes, I’ve noticed,” she said with a smirk, adjusting her grip.
“But how do you lift me so easily every time? It’s like I weigh nothing to you!”
“Because you practically do,” she teased, taking strong steps up the path. “Besides, this is good exercise. Builds character.”
She didn’t stop there. Reaching a clearing, she gently lowered him, then swept him into a cradle carry, his feet dangling, his face redder than ever.
“You’re doing this on purpose now,” he muttered.
“Of course. Sundays are for fun.”
And just when he thought it couldn’t get more embarrassing, she tossed him lightly onto her back and piggybacked him the final stretch.
“Admit it,” she said, as he held onto her shoulders, “you like this more than you pretend.”
“…I’m not admitting anything,” he said, but rested his chin on her shoulder with a small, defeated smile.
Part 8: The Whispering Village
Monday morning. The sun was barely up, and Anirudh stepped out of Priya’s front gate, adjusting his kurta and trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. He needed to get back to his own house — just two lanes away — before anyone started noticing.
Too late.
A group of village aunties, all in their morning cotton sarees, were already gathered at the corner tea stall. As soon as they spotted him, they leaned together like synchronized flowers turning to the sun.
“Oho! Look who’s awake early!”
“Had a nice ride yesterday, babu?”
“Arrey, you looked like a new bride in Priya didi’s arms!”
Anirudh nearly dropped his bag.
He stammered, “W-what ride? That was just—uh—fieldwork…”
One of the women laughed and mimicked cradling a baby. Another added, “Priya lifted you like a coconut bucket, so effortlessly! She’s still got that old wrestling strength.”
He turned red. “She didn’t wrestle me!”
Just then, Priya herself appeared from behind — in a crisp white cotton saree, her silver-streaked braid over one shoulder and a calm smile on her face.
“Good morning, ladies,” she said smoothly. “Enjoying your tea?”
The women giggled even harder.
“Didi, you didn’t tell us you were so romantic!”
“She carried him all the way up the hill, y’know?”
“Some say she kissed his forehead after he dozed off on her shoulder!”
Priya smirked. “Well, I had to carry him. He gets tired easily. His tiny librarian legs can’t keep up.”
Anirudh nearly choked. “Tiny?! Priya—!”
The women erupted in laughter. “Such a good match, you two. She carries him, and he blushes. What more does a marriage need?”
Part 9: Safe in the Library... Or Not
An hour later, Anirudh was hiding behind the desk in the campus library, trying to regain his dignity.
Priya walked in, holding a steaming cup of coffee. She leaned on the desk, looking amused.
“Still hiding?”
“I’m not hiding. I’m recovering,” he muttered. “Do you know they said you carried me like I was your bride?”
She handed him the coffee and whispered, “Technically, I did. And you didn’t even resist.”
“I did!”
“You sighed and nuzzled into my neck.”
He flushed again, taking the coffee but avoiding her gaze.
“…How are you 53, an almost old woman and still strong enough to carry a grown-up man like a toy?”
She leaned in with a grin. “Because you’re the perfect size for lifting. And I’ve got a lot of reasons to keep picking you up.”
He looked up. “Reasons?”
She straightened and winked. “Come to the hill again next Sunday. I’ll show you a few more.”
Part 10: The Annual College Day – Reenactment Madness.
It was College Day at the Girls’ College — the most awaited event of the year. The courtyard was strung with marigold garlands, banners flew high, and rows of plastic chairs filled with proud parents, teachers, and amused villagers buzzed with chatter.
Onstage, performances rolled out — classical dances, skits, poetry recitals.
Then came the final act by the third-year English literature students:
“Real Life Inspirations” – A Play Based on True Events.”
Anirudh, seated in the front row next to Principal Madam, frowned. “What’s this about?”
Priya, calm and unbothered, just sipped her tea. “No idea.”
The curtains parted.
A familiar figure entered — a slim girl with a fake beard and glasses, wearing a kurta two sizes too big.
She hunched and clutched a file.
“Good morning, Dr. Sinha,” she said in an exaggerated nasal voice, making the audience chuckle.
From the other side of the stage, a tall, sturdily built girl in a silver wig and a stiff cotton saree strutted in with mock authority.
“Mr. Sen! You’re late again. Shall I carry you to the library now?”
The crowd roared with laughter.
The “Anirudh” actor protested, “Dr. Sinha, please! Not again! People will see!”
The “Priya” actress winked, then marched over, grabbed 'him' in a bridal carry, and spun in slow motion while dramatic music played.
“I must! For your weak librarian legs!”
The entire audience burst into giggles. Someone even yelled, “Lift him higher, Priya Didi!”
Anirudh buried his face in his hands, moaning, “This is actual bullying.”
Priya leaned over, whispering, “They’re quite good. I like how she mimicked your voice — very nasal and flustered.”
“But they’re making me look like a helpless child!”
She patted his knee. “To be fair… you are very liftable.”
Backstage: After the Chaos.
After the play ended, a group of students came running.
“Sir! Ma’am! Did we do it right?”
Anirudh gave a weak thumbs-up. “You did something, yes.”
One of the girls grinned. “Ma’am, can you please really lift sir once? Just to bless the stage with authenticity?”
Before Anirudh could protest, Priya smiled sweetly and said:
“Only because it’s a special day.”
She turned, bent slightly, and in one swift movement, lifted him in a perfect cradle carry, stepping onto the edge of the stage for all to see.
The crowd exploded in applause and cheers. Someone shouted, “Shaadi kab hai?!”
Anirudh’s face was red as ever, but… he wasn’t protesting anymore.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” he whispered.
“Very much,” Priya said. “And so are you, whether you admit it or not.”
Part 11: A Carried-Away Evening.
It was a full-moon night, and the village paths were quiet, silvered with soft light. The chirping of crickets and rustling of peepal leaves set the perfect backdrop for romance.
Well… almost romantic.
Because Anirudh, the 38-year-old, somewhat fussy librarian, was not walking by Priya’s side. He was being gently cradled in her arms, head resting lightly against her shoulder, arms awkwardly tucked against his chest.
“Priya,” he murmured, blushing as he glanced around, “is this necessary?”
“Yes,” she replied cheerfully, “you said your sandals were giving you blisters.”
“I said I could walk barefoot for a bit!”
“And I said no such nonsense while I’m around.”
She switched her hold effortlessly, shifting him into a piggyback, his legs dangling helplessly at her sides.
“You’re so confident for a man who gets lifted more than laundry,” she teased.
“I can’t believe you’re an almost old woman of 53 and still doing this like I weigh nothing,” he muttered into her ear.
She laughed. “You weigh less than my pressure cooker.”
Part 12: Aunties' Assembly.
As they rounded a bend, they came upon a group of village aunties sitting under a banyan tree — shawls around their shoulders, knitting, sipping tea, and exchanging gossip like currency.
They paused mid-sip when they saw Priya, with Anirudh comfortably perched on her back.
Then — laughter.
“Arrey wah! Priya’s carrying her little dulha around again!”
“He looks like a schoolboy with his mummy!”
One of the younger aunties, strong from years of farm work, giggled. “Didi, may I? Just one try?”
Before Anirudh could protest, Priya raised an eyebrow and said, “Be my guest. He’s quite light.”
“Wait, wait, what is happening—” Anirudh began.
Too late.
The young aunty gently took him in her arms, lifting him in a sturdy cradle carry. The rest clapped and giggled like teenagers.
Another aunty chimed in, “Let me see if I still have it in me.”
Soon, Anirudh was being passed from arm to arm, bounced playfully like a prized possession. They laughed at how easily he fit, how light he felt.
“Our Priya chose so wisely! So small, so sweet!”
Even a 65-year-old shawl-wrapped woman adjusted her back, grabbed him with surprising strength, and rocked him slowly as if he were a child.
“I used to carry my twins like this,” she mused, “but they were heavier!”
Anirudh squeaked, “Can someone please put me down?! This is deeply undignified!”
Part 13: Rescued and Cherished
Just then, Priya stepped back in, arms crossed, smirking like a queen surveying a festival.
“Alright, ladies. He’s mine. You’ve had your turn.”
She marched over and scooped him back into her arms — a protective bridal carry — and glared (playfully) at the giggling women.
“You all may borrow him. But I’m the only one allowed to keep him.”
They cheered and waved her off as she carried him away, like a victorious warrior taking her prize home.
Anirudh, red-faced and wide-eyed, whispered, “This village… it’s wild.”
Priya looked down at him, her eyes warm and teasing. “You love it.”
“…Maybe."
She pressed a kiss to his forehead and smiled.
“Don’t worry. I won’t let anyone drop you.”
Part 14: The Shantipath Women’s Lifting Club.
It all started as a joke after the incident under the banyan tree. But within a week, it had transformed into something official.
A brightly painted sign appeared near the community hall:
🏋️♀️ Shantipath Women’s Lifting & Strength Club.
“We don’t just carry water — we carry men too!”
The logo? A bold, curvy woman effortlessly carrying a man in a bridal pose.
Priya, of course, was made the President. No vote needed — everyone just agreed she was the undisputed queen of strength. Especially since she carried her “pet librarian” everywhere now.
Anirudh’s New Life: No Walking Allowed.
It had become an unspoken rule:
Anirudh was no longer permitted to walk on his own.
Not to the temple.
Not to the market.
Not even from the courtyard to the veranda.
If he dared to step foot unassisted, Priya would appear out of nowhere and scoop him up like a hawk grabbing a kitten.
“Where do you think you're going?”
“I-I was just going to check the post…”
“Wrong. You’re going to sit here in these arms.”
And up he’d go — cradled, hoisted, piggybacked, or occasionally tossed gently over her shoulder while she hummed and walked.
Club Meeting Chaos
The lifting club met every Sunday evening under the old banyan tree. Instead of dumbbells, they used bags of rice, clay pots, bundles of wood… and occasionally, a very reluctant Anirudh.
One of the younger women, Rekha, winked at him.
“Sir, Priya Ma’am says you’re the perfect size for balance training.”
“I am NOT a kettlebell!” he protested.
Priya sipped her tea from a mud cup. “He's very versatile, actually.”
That Sunday’s event..
“Rescue Relay”: Who can carry Anirudh through the obstacle course fastest.
“Priya, please tell them this is not how human beings are treated—”
“Quiet now,” she said sweetly, stuffing a sweet into his mouth and adjusting his seat in her arms.
Each woman ran with him — across cow-dung-free mud paths, over logs, under clotheslines. He bounced between arms faster than a cricket ball.
Later That Evening...
Anirudh finally lay on Priya’s lap, dizzy but safe, as she rocked him in her large woven armchair on her porch.
“I can’t feel my legs,” he muttered.
She smirked. “You don’t need to feel your legs. You’re not using them.”.
(To be continued...)
