My name is Brian, and I am 61 years old. My first wife died eight years ago, after a protracted illness.
Since then, I have lived alone in silence. My kids are all married and settled. They stop over once a month to drop off money and drugs before hurriedly leaving.
I do not blame them. They live their own lives, which I understand. On rainy evenings, lying there listening to the drips hitting the tin roof, I feel terribly small and alone.
Last year, while reading through Facebook, I came upon Alice, my first love from high school. I adored her back then. She had long, flowing hair, deep dark eyes, and a bright smile that could light up the entire classroom. But, as I was preparing for my university entrance tests, her family arranged for her to marry a man in southern India who was ten years her senior.
We lost communication following that. We reconnected after forty years apart. She was a widow; her husband had died five years ago. She lived with her younger son, although he worked in another city and paid her only occasional visits.
Initially, we exchanged greetings. Then we began calling. Then came the coffee meetings. Without realizing it, I was riding my scooter to her house every few days, carrying a small basket of fruit, some candies, and a few joint pain tablets.
One day, half-joking, I said:
– “What if we two old souls get married?” Wouldn’t that relieve the loneliness?”
To my amazement, her eyes turned red. I stumbled, attempting to explain it was a joke, but she smiled softly and nodded.
At 61, I remarried — to my first love.
On our wedding day, I wore a dark maroon sherwani. She wore a simple cream silk saree. Her hair was neatly tied back, decorated with a tiny pearl pin. Friends and neighbors came to celebrate.
Everyone said, “You both look like young lovers again.”
I felt young. It was past 10 p.m. that night when I finished cleaning up the feast. I poured her a warm drink of milk and went about locking the front gate and turning out the porch lights.
Our wedding night, which I never believed would happen in my old age, had finally arrived.
I froze as I slowly removed her blouse.
Her back, shoulders, and arms were discolored and crisscrossed with old scars, like a terrible map. I stood motionless, my heart aching.
She quickly put a blanket over herself, her eyes wide with fright. I trembled and asked:
– “Meena…” “What happened to you?”
She turned away, her voice choked.
– “He used to have a bad temper.” He’d yell and strike me… “I never told anybody…”
I sat down alongside her, tears welling in my eyes. My heart ached for her. For decades, she had lived in quiet – in dread and shame — never telling anybody. I grabbed for her hand and softly placed it over my heart.
– “It’s fine now.” Nobody will hurt you again starting now. “No one has the right to make you suffer anymore…except me—but only because I love you too much.”
She burst into silent, trembling tears that echoed around the room.
I held her tight. Her spine was frail, and her bones protruded slightly – this petite woman had experienced a lifetime of silence and agony.
Our wedding night was not like those of younger couples. We lay beside each other, listening to the crickets chirping in the courtyard and the wind rustling through the trees. I stroked her hair and kissed her forehead. She stroked my cheek and whispered:
– Thank you. Thank you for showing me that there is still someone in this world who cares about me.”
I smiled. At the age of 61, I realized that money and youth’s unbridled emotions are not the source of happiness. It’s having a hand to hold, a shoulder to depend on, and someone who will sit by your side all night to feel your pulse.
Tomorrow will arrive. Who knows how many days I have remaining? But one thing is certain: for the rest of her life, I will make up for what she has lost. I’ll cherish her. I will safeguard her, so she will never have to worry about anything again.
Because this wedding night — after half a century of longing, squandered opportunities, and waiting — is the greatest present life has ever given to me.
