My name is Brian, and I am 61 years old. My first wife di:ed 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.
However, on rainy evenings, lying there listening to the drips hitting the tin roof, I feel terribly little 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, just 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 now a widow; her husband had di:ed five years ago. She lived with her younger son, although he worked in another city and paid her only occasional visits.
At first, we only exchanged greetings. Then we began calling.
Then came the coffee meetings.
And, 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 got red. I stumbled, attempting to explain it was a joke, but she smiled softly and nodded.
And just like that, 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.”
And I honestly 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, has 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.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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