Cleanliness or purity of heart

"She laughed.

Reluctantly, I lifted my hands, allowing her to pull the turmeric-stained T-shirt off. She squeezed it with a mock look of disgust and tossed it aside, then returned to me with a soft cloth in her hand.

The first touch of the warm, damp cloth on my chest made me flinch. But her hands were gentle. She began to slowly wipe the haldi off my skin, working patiently. As she worked, she hummed an old romantic song—maybe a Lata Mangeshkar tune—her movements slow, rhythmic, and strangely

[soothing.

At one point, she held my chin to clean my cheeks and forehead. "Stay still," she whispered.

I looked at her face. Her eyes, usually so full of mischief, were now soft and glowing. There was a calm power in them—not the boisterous triumph of a woman who had physically bested a man, but the quiet satisfaction of someone who knew she was in complete control, yet was also gentle.

"You know, Salman," she said softly, continuing to wipe the turmeric from my neck and shoulders, "when I lifted you, and you just... lay there on my chest... all I could think of was how much I loved the feeling. It had been so long since I'd felt that kind of closeness."

Her voice became softer. "You were so small... so light... so weak... and so easy to hold. I felt needed again. Do you understand that?"

I didn't know what to say. I just nodded silently.

Suddenly, she stood up again and, to my shock, bent down and picked me up once more—this time with a more tender and intimate hold. I was just beginning to regain my lost strength, but now I was back in her arms, my chest pressed against her soft cotton kurti, which was also still stained with haldi.

"Auntie... I can walk now," I protested weakly.

"I know," she replied with a smile. "But I don't want you to."

She carried me gently into her bedroom. My heart was pounding in my chest with anxiety. I could smell the faint scent of turmeric, sandalwood soap, and something warm and maternal from her skin. She lowered herself onto her bed, still holding me in her arms like a

[child.

As she sat, she shifted me into a more comfortable position—my back resting against her left arm, my legs dangling over her right thigh. She placed her palm on my cheek and caressed it.

You) looked so proud up there, when you were trying to resist," she teased. "But then you became mine. I won you in front of everyone. And I want to cherish that."

She then took a fresh cotton towel and began to dry my arms, then carefully wiped the remaining haldi from my knees and legs. The attention she paid to every part of my body was not hurried or indifferent—it was deliberate, with affection. Every wipe was intentional.

"You know," she whispered, shifting me slightly in her arms, "when I was younger, I dreamed of taking care of someone like this. Carrying him. Bathing him. Feeding him. Just having someone to feel... needed and strong for."

I looked up at her, still blushing, and she whispered, "Today I got my chance."

She looked at me warmly and bent down again, rubbing her lips against my forehead—this time not with mockery, but with a deep affection.

"And I don't want this chance to end," she said, pulling me closer to her. "Not today. Maybe... never."

I said nothing. My hands found their way back around her neck, this time more willingly.

She gently rocked me on her lap in silence for a while, occasionally pressing her cheek against my hair.

After a while, she whispered, "Let's wash your hair too. There's haldi in it."

"But... I can do it myself," I whispered weakly.

She chuckled softly. "No, you can't. Remember, you lost to an older woman in a fair physical contest today. I won you in the battle of the sexes. Today, you are mine."