My name is Rajiv, and I am 61 years old. My first wife passed away eight years ago after a long illness. Since then, I have been quiet and alone. All my children are married and settled down. Once a month, they stop by to drop off money and medicine, and then quickly leave.
I don’t blame them. They have their own lives; I understand. But on rainy nights, lying there listening to the drops hitting the tin roof, I feel so small and utterly alone.
Last year, I was scrolling through Facebook when I stumbled upon Meena—my first love from high school. I adored her back then. She had long, flowing hair, deep black eyes, and a smile so bright it could light up the entire classroom. But while I was preparing for my university entrance exams, her family arranged her marriage to a man in Southern India—ten years her senior.
We lost contact after that. Forty years later, we met again. She is a widow now—her husband died five years ago. She lives with her youngest son, but he works in another city and rarely visits.
At first, we just said hello. Then we started calling. Then came the coffee meetings. And without even realizing it, I found myself riding my scooter to her house every few days, carrying a small basket of fruits, some sweets, and some joint pain supplements.
One day, I was joking, I said: – “How about… we two old souls just get married? Wouldn’t that lessen the loneliness?”
To my surprise, her eyes welled up. I fumbled, trying to explain it was a joke—but she smiled softly and nodded.
And just like that, at the age of 61, I got married again—to my first love.
On our wedding day, I wore a dark maroon sherwani. She was in a simple cream silk saree. Her hair was neatly tied back, adorned with a small pearl pin. Friends and neighbors came to celebrate. Everyone said, “You two look like young lovers again.”
And truthfully, I felt young again. That night, after clearing up the feast, it was nearly ten o’clock. I prepared her a warm glass of milk and went around to lock the front gate and turn off the veranda lights.
Our wedding night—something I never thought would come back to my old age—had finally arrived.
As I gently removed her blouse, a chill ran through me.
Her back, shoulders, and arms were covered in deep discoloration—old scars that looked like a tragic map. I went silent, my heart aching.
She quickly pulled a blanket over herself, her eyes wide with fear. I trembled as I asked: – “Meena… What happened to you?”
She turned away, her voice strained: – “Back then… He had a terrible temper. He would yell… Slap me… I never told anyone…”
I sat beside her, tears welling up in my own eyes. My heart broke for her. All those decades, she had lived in silence—in fear and shame—never telling a soul. I took her hand and gently placed it over my heart.
– “It’s okay now. From now on, no one will ever hurt you again. No one else has the right to make you suffer… except me—but only from loving you too much.”
She sobbed—quiet, trembling sobs that echoed throughout the room. I held her close. Her back was fragile, her bones slightly protruding—this small woman, who had endured a life of silence and suffering.
Our wedding night was not like those of younger couples. We just lay next to each other, listening to the crickets chirping in the courtyard, the wind rustling the trees. I stroked her hair and kissed her forehead. She held my cheek and whispered:
– “Thank you. Thank you for showing me that someone still cares for me in this world.”
I smiled. At 61, I finally understood: 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 sit next to you throughout the night, just to feel your heartbeat.
Tomorrow will come. Who knows how many days I have left? But one thing I know for sure: for the rest of her life, I will make up for what she lost. I will cherish her. I will take care of her so she will never be afraid again.
Because for me, this wedding night—after half a century of longing, of missed opportunity, of waiting—was the greatest gift life had returned to me.