My name is Rajiv, I am 61 years old. My first wife died eight years ago after a long illness. Since then, I have lived in silence and loneliness. All my children are already married and settled. Once a month, they come to leave me some money and medicine, and then quickly leave. I don’t blame them. They have their own lives, and I understand that. But on rainy nights, when I hear drops beating on the tin roof, I feel indescribably small and lonely.
Last year, while scrolling through Facebook, I unexpectedly came across Mina — my first love from school days. Back then, I was head over heels in love with her: her long wavy hair, dark deep eyes, and smile — so bright it lit up the whole classroom. But when I was preparing for university entrance exams, her family decided to marry her off to a man from southern India, ten years older than her.
After that, we completely lost contact. Only after forty years did we meet again. She was already a widow — her husband had died five years earlier. She lived with her younger son, who worked in another city and rarely came home.
At first, we only greeted each other. Then we started talking on the phone. Later came shared meetings over a cup of coffee. And I didn’t even notice when I started visiting her every few days, arriving by scooter with a small basket of fruit, a bit of sweets, and medicine for her joints.
One day, jokingly, I said:
— “And what if… two old hearts like ours got married? Wouldn’t loneliness then become lighter?”
To my surprise, her eyes filled with tears. I froze, wanting to explain that it was just a joke… but she smiled gently and nodded.
And so, at the age of 61, I remarried — with my first love.
On the wedding day, I wore a maroon sherwani. She wore a simple cream silk sari. Her hair was neatly tied up and decorated with a small pearl clip. Friends and neighbors came to celebrate with us. Everyone said: “You look like teenagers in love again.”
And indeed — I also felt young. That evening, when we had already cleaned up the remains of the meal, it was almost ten o’clock. I prepared her a glass of warm milk, locked the front door, and turned off the light on the veranda.
Our wedding night — a night I never expected to experience again at this age — had finally come.
When I gently removed her blouse, I froze.
Her back, shoulders, and arms were covered with deep scars — old traces scattered across her skin like a tragic map. I stood still, my heart beating wildly.
She quickly covered herself with a blanket, fear appearing in her eyes. In a trembling voice I asked:
— “Mina… what happened to you?”
She turned away, her voice shaking:
— “He… had a harsh character. He shouted… hit me… I never told anyone about it…”
I sat down beside her, my heart tightened, my eyes filled with tears. I hurt for her. For so many years she had remained silent — out of fear and shame — never opening up to anyone. I took her hand and gently pressed it to my chest.
— “Now everything is fine. From today no one will ever hurt you again. No one has the right… except me — but only with love.”
She burst into tears — sobbing, trembling, her crying echoing through the room. I embraced her. Her back was fragile, her bones slightly protruding — a small woman who had silently endured a lifetime of pain.
Our wedding night was not like that of the young. We simply lay side by side, listening to the crickets chirping in the garden and the whisper of the wind in the leaves. I stroked her hair and kissed her forehead. She touched my cheek and whispered:
— “Thank you. Thank you for showing me — that in this world there is still someone to whom I am not indifferent.”
I smiled. At 61 years old, I finally understood: happiness is not money nor the fiery passion of youth. It is — a hand to hold. A shoulder to lean on. Someone who will be there at night, simply listening to your heartbeat.
Tomorrow will come. Who knows how many days I have left? But one thing I know for sure: in the years she has left, I will surround her with care. I will love her. I will protect her — so that she will never again be afraid of anything.
Because for me this wedding night — after half a century of waiting, lost moments, and hopes — became the greatest gift life has given me.
