I’m 61 years old, and my name is Rajiv. After a protracted illness, my first wife passed away eight years ago. I’ve lived quietly and alone ever since. My kids are already situated and married. They stop over once a month to drop off my medications and a small amount of cash, and then they’re gone.
I don’t hold them responsible. I recognize that they have their own lives. However, I feel incredibly little and alone on rainy evenings when I lie down and listen to the drops hitting the tin roof.
My first high school love, Meena, was there when I was looking on Facebook last year. Back then, I had loved her. Her eyes were deep black, her hair was long and flowing, and her grin was so bright that it illuminated the entire classroom. However, her family arranged for her to marry a South Indian man who was ten years older than her, right as I was getting ready for university entrance examinations.
After
We merely exchanged greetings at first. After that, we began phoning one another. The coffee gatherings followed. Unaware of it, I started going to her house on my scooter every few days with a little basket filled with fruit, candies, and joint pain medication.
I asked her, half-jokingly, one day, “What if these two elderly people got married? That way, wouldn’t loneliness be easier?
I was shocked to see tears welling up in her eyes. She nodded and gave me a quiet smile when I quickly clarified that it was a joke.
That’s
She wore a basic cream-colored silk sari, while I donned a dark maroon sherwani on our wedding day. A little pearl hairpin was used to accent her expertly arranged hair. Neighbors and friends joined in the festivities. “They look like young people in love again,” everyone remarked.
To be honest, I also felt young. It was about ten o’clock that evening when the celebration was cleaned up. After making her a drink of warm milk, I went to shut the front door and switch off the lights on the porch.
Our wedding night was over, something I never thought I would experience again in my later years.
I froze as I carefully took off her blouse.
Deep discolorations—old scars, crossed like a tragic map—covered her arms, shoulders, and back. My heart hurt.
Her eyes were wide with terror as she quickly wrapped a blanket about herself. I shook and said, “Meena, what happened to you?”
“Back then… he had a terrible temper,” she said, turning, her voice choking. He beat me after screaming. I didn’t tell anyone.
With tears in my eyes, I sat sagging next to her. I felt so sorry for her. She hadn’t told anyone and had lived in dread, shame, and silence for all those years. I took her hand and covered my heart with it.
“That’s sufficient. No one will harm you again after today. Nobody has the right to ever again cause you pain. aside from me, but only because I love you too much.”
She sobbed silently and shakily. I gave her a strong hug. Her back was brittle, her bones showing a little—that small woman who had lived a life of sorrow and silence.
Young couples’ wedding nights were not like ours. We just lay there together, listening to the wind rustling the trees and the crickets in the yard. I kissed her forehead and rubbed her hair. She muttered, “Thank you,” and caressed my cheek. I appreciate you letting me know that there is still someone out there who is concerned about me.
I grinned. I realized at age 61 that material wealth and youthful fervor are not the keys to happiness. It’s having someone by your side all night long to feel your heartbeat, holding your hand, and resting on their shoulder.
Tomorrow will arrive. How many days do I have left? One thing, though, is certain: I will make up for what she lost for the rest of my life. I promise to treasure her and keep her safe so she won’t ever have to fear anything again.
Because this wedding night is the best gift life has ever given me, after fifty years of waiting, squandered opportunities, and longing.
