The whole family raised their glasses to bless my father — a 60-year-old man who just married a 30-year-old bride. But as the clock struck midnight, the honeymoon room door swung open… and what we saw next made everyone’s blood run cold.
In Jaipur, the ancient city glowing in shades of pink, every spring begins with the faint fragrance of jasmine and the soft echo of temple bells drifting through the wind.
That year, my father — Rajendra — turned sixty. He still kept his old habits: waking up early, brewing tea, and opening the doors to welcome the first rays of sunlight spilling onto the veranda.
For twenty years, he had lived alone. My mother passed away from cancer when my sister and I were still in college. After the cremation, he seemed to age by ten years overnight; his hair turned completely white. He seldom went out and never once spoke of marrying again.
Relatives often advised him,
“Rajendra, you are still strong, still full of life. Don’t live alone forever — loneliness is a heavy thing.”
He would only smile and reply softly,
“When my two children are settled, then I will think about it.”
And he meant it.
When my sister got married and I found a job in Delhi, he finally allowed himself to slow down — taking morning walks and joining a yoga class for middle-aged people nearby.
One day, he called us, his voice trembling as if holding a secret:
“I want to talk to you both… I’ve decided to get married.”
I froze.
“With whom?”
“A woman named Meera.”
Meera was thirty, divorced, with no children. She worked as an accountant in a small firm near my father’s home. They met in the yoga class, and slowly, through small conversations — about health, about work, about vegetarian food — they came to understand each other.
At first, my sister and I were worried. A woman thirty years younger — could her intentions be pure? Was it love, or something else?
But when I met Meera, I saw her gentle eyes, her calm voice — without pretence or calculation. She cared for my father with quiet grace, knowing just how hot he liked his tea, when he wanted to talk, and when he preferred silence.
The wedding was simple, held in the courtyard of an old house on the outskirts of Jaipur.
No band, no fireworks — only chanting, incense smoke rising into the morning sky.
My father wore a cream sherwani; Meera, a pale pink saree with a white flower tucked in her hair. He smiled all through the ceremony — the soft, innocent smile of a man who had fallen in love again.
That night, we had dinner together.
My sister teased him,
“Papa, don’t make too much noise tonight — there are elders and kids in the house!”
He laughed, waving her off.
“Nonsense!”
Then he took Meera’s hand and walked into the old bedroom — the one that used to belong to my parents.
I had once asked him to renovate it — change the bed, the curtains, the paint — but he refused.
“This room makes me feel like your mother is still around, watching over me.”
That night, the wind turned cold. I lay in the living room, ready to sleep.
Near midnight, I heard faint sounds — footsteps… and then, someone sobbing.
I thought it was just a cat, but then—
A scream pierced the air.
“No! Please don’t… don’t do this!”
It was Meera’s voice.
I jumped up and ran to the room with my sister. The door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open — and what I saw froze my blood.
My father sat collapsed beside the bed, his face pale. Meera trembled, tears streaming down her cheeks, pointing at the photo on the wall — my mother’s photograph.
It was an old picture in a cracked wooden frame. But what made my heart stop was the small oil lamp on the altar — still burning — and the photo trembling slightly, as if someone had just touched it.
My father stammered,
“She… she said she saw your mother… standing in the corner of the room…”
Meera clutched her silver necklace, crying,
“I didn’t mean any disrespect… I had just lain down when I saw a woman in a white saree, looking at me with such sadness… I thought it was a dream, but then the lamp lit up on its own…”
No one spoke after that.
We lit more incense and prayed quietly.
That night, Meera slept in the living room, trembling. My father sat by the window, silent, till dawn.
The next morning, he said nothing — just took flowers to the temple, then to the cemetery where my mother rested.
I followed him from a distance.
He knelt before her grave, laid down the garland, and whispered,
“Anjali, if you are still here, please let me live once more. I have not forgotten you, but I cannot stay alone forever.”
The wind swept across the fields, carrying fine golden dust like mist.
I saw a tear roll down his cheek, sinking into the earth.
When we returned home, he told Meera,
“I think we should move to another room — so that you won’t be afraid.”
She nodded, eyes red.
Days passed, and life seemed to return to normal.
But every night, Meera heard the wind chime in the old room tinkling softly — even with the windows shut tight.
One evening, she found an old diary in the cupboard — my mother’s diary.
The last page was written in faint, trembling handwriting:
“If one day Rajendra meets someone who makes him smile again, I hope he takes her hand. Love is not about holding on, but about letting the one you love live again.”
Meera broke into tears as she read.
She brought the diary to my father.
He took it with shaking hands, eyes brimming with tears.
“Anjali… you always understood me better than I understood myself.”
From that day, the oil lamp in the old room continued to burn — but no one feared it anymore.
My father placed my mother’s photo and the diary on the altar, and beside them, he hung a new picture — of him and Meera.
Not as a replacement, but as a continuation.
A year later, Meera became pregnant.
When the baby was born, my father held her close, his voice trembling,
“Anjali, can you see? I kept my promise. I’ve let life move forward.”
The baby girl had deep, dark eyes — just like my mother’s.
He named her Anaya, meaning “a gift of grace.”
On her first birthday, when the family gathered, Meera stood before the altar, lit incense, and whispered softly — as if to someone unseen:
“Thank you… for letting me love him.”
Just then, a gust of wind blew open the door.
The oil lamp flickered, and my mother’s photo tilted slightly — as though touched by an invisible hand.
No one said a word. But my father smiled.
He held Meera’s hand, rocked little Anaya in the other, and said,
“At last, our family is whole again.”
That spring, jasmine bloomed white around the veranda once more.
My father still brewed tea every morning — only now, Meera stood beside him, and their baby laughed in his arms.
And on the altar, three lamps always burned — one for the past, one for the present, and one for a love that never fades.