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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.”
