My name is Rajiv, and I am 61 years old. My first husband passed away eight years ago after a long illness. Since then, I have lived alone, in silence. My children are now married and settled. Once a month they come to leave me some money, my medicines, and they leave immediately.
I don’t blame them. They have their own lives, and I understand that. But on rainy nights, lying down and listening to the drops hitting the tin roof, I feel helpless and alone.
Last year, while browsing Facebook, I met Meena, my first high school girlfriend. I had a crush on her. She had long, flowing hair, deep black eyes, and a smile so bright that it lit up the entire classroom. But while I was preparing for my college entrance exams, her family set her up with a South Indian man ten years her senior.
We lost touch after that. Forty years later, we met again. She was a widow now—her husband had died five years earlier. She lived with her youngest son, but he worked in another city and rarely visited her.
At first, we just exchanged greetings. Then we started calling each other. Then came the coffee meetings. And before I knew it, I found myself driving my scooter to her house every few days, carrying a small basket of fruit, some candy, and supplements for joint pain.
One day, half-jokingly, I said to her:
“What if… these two old men got married? Wouldn’t it be easier to be sad that way?”
I was surprised, tears welled up in her eyes. I quickly explained that it was just a joke, but she smiled softly and nodded.
And that was how, at 61, I got married again – to my first love.
On our wedding day, I wore a dark maroon Sherwani. She wore a simple cream-colored silk sari. Her hair was neatly tied, adorned with a small pearl hairpin. Friends and neighbors came to celebrate. Everyone said, “They look like young people in love again.”
And honestly, I felt like a child again. That night, after cleaning up the party, at about 10 p.m. I made her a glass of hot milk and went to close the front door and turn off the lights on the veranda.
Our wedding night – something I had never thought of coming back to life – was over.
As I slowly removed her blouse, I felt cold.
Her back, shoulders, and arms were covered with deep discoloration – ancient scars, crisscrossed like a tragic map. I froze, my heart ached.
She quickly covered herself with a blanket, her eyes wide with fear. Trembling, I asked her,
“Meena… What happened to you?”
She turned, her voice trailing off:
“Back then… she had a terrible temper. Screaming… she beat me… I didn’t tell anyone…”
I sat down hard next to her, tears welling up in my eyes. My heart ached for her. All these years, I had lived in silence – in fear and shame – without telling anyone. I took her hand and gently placed it on my heart.
“That’s enough. From now on, no one will ever hurt you again. No one has the right to hurt you again… except me, but only for loving you so much.”
She was sobbing—quiet, trembling sobs that echoed throughout the room. I hugged her tightly. Her back was weak, her bones jutting out a little—the little woman who had endured a lifetime of silence and suffering.
Our marriage was not like that of young couples. We just lay next to each other, listening to the crickets chirping in the yard, the wind moving through the trees. I stroked her hair and kissed her forehead. She touched my cheek and whispered,
“Thank you. Thank you for showing me that there was still someone in this world who cared about me.”
Smile. At 61, I finally understand: happiness is not money or the wild passions of youth. It is having a hand to hold, a shoulder to lean on, and someone to stay by your side all night, just to feel your heartbeat.
Tomorrow will come too. Who knows how many days I have left? But there is one thing I know for sure: With the rest of his life, I will make up for what he lost. I will cherish it. I will take care of him so that he will never be afraid again.
Because for me, this wedding night – after half a century of longing, of missed opportunities, of waiting – is the greatest gift life has ever given me.