My father, Narayan Ji, is 65 years old and lives in Jaipur, Rajasthan.
He’s a man of quiet strength – someone who has endured countless hardships but still greets each day with hope. My mother passed away when my younger brother and I were still children, and our father devoted his entire life to raising us alone. Despite many urging him to remarry, he always refused, saying, “You two are enough for me.”
But as the years went by and both of us got married, we noticed a change.
Father began speaking less, spending long hours by the window, watching the streets of the Pink City in silence. When we visited, he laughed and chatted like old times, but once we left, the house turned heavy and quiet again.
It pained us to see him so lonely. After many heartfelt discussions, my brother and I decided to find someone who could be a true companion for him in his later years. At first, he resisted fiercely, insisting he was too old for marriage. We gently told him, “It’s not just about you, Dad. When someone is there to care for you, we feel at peace, too.”
Eventually, he agreed. The wedding day was beautiful according to Hindu custom, beneath a flower-covered mandap, my father looked surprisingly youthful in his new sherwani. The bride, Rekha, glowed in a cream-white sari. Together, they walked around the sacred fire, and Father carefully tied the mangalsutra and applied the sindoor. Relatives blessed them, smiling with amazement at how radiant he looked.
When the ceremony ended, Dad couldn’t hide his excitement—he whisked Rekha away so fast that we burst into laughter. I teased my brother, “Look at him! He’s more nervous now than he was on his first wedding day.” My brother chuckled, “He’s nearly seventy, yet full of energy!”
But our laughter faded an hour later when we suddenly heard Rekha crying from the bedroom. Alarmed, we rushed over.
“Dad! What happened?” I shouted, but there was no reply only muffled sobs. I pushed open the door and froze. Rekha sat trembling in the corner, hugging her knees, tears streaming down her face. Father sat on the bed, his clothes rumpled, his expression lost and distressed. The air was thick with confusion.
I whispered, “What’s going on?”
Rekha stammered, “I… I can’t do this. I’m not ready.”
My father looked down, ashamed. “I didn’t mean to upset her. I only tried to hold her, but she started crying, and I didn’t know what to do.”
The next morning, after things calmed, I sat with both of them for a quiet talk. “This will take time,” I said softly.
“There’s no need to rush or force anything. Start with simple things such as morning walks in Central Park, cooking together, watching TV, talking. When you’re comfortable, hold hands or sit close. Let inti:macy come naturally when you both feel ready. If needed, I’ll reach out for advice from Uncle or a counselor.”
My father nodded slowly, tears gathering in his eyes. “I didn’t realize how hard it would be,” he murmured.
“I’d forgotten what it’s like to have someone beside you.”
Rekha added gently, “I feel nervous, too. I don’t want to make him uncomfortable. Please give me time.”
They agreed to sleep in separate rooms for a while, taking small, respectful steps toward each other. Later that day, I saw them sitting on the balcony together—two cups of hot tea between them, talking softly about the plants and the laughter of children from a nearby school. The air around them felt lighter, warmer.
A marriage at their age isn’t about a wedding night and it’s about patience, kindness, and rediscovering how to share life again. Watching them, my brother and I finally knew that helping our father wasn’t about arranging a marriage. It was about giving him space to heal from loneliness and the courage to open his heart again, one gentle moment at a time.
