My father’s name is Narayan Ji. He is 65 years old and lives in Jaipur, Rajasthan. He is a man of great willpower who has faced many hardships, yet he still maintains a hopeful spirit. My mother passed away when my younger brother and I were young, and he raised us alone with all his love and sacrifice. For many years, he refused to remarry, saying that the two of us were enough.
But after we married and had children, my father began to speak less and spend more time alone. He would sit by the window for hours, silently gazing at the streets of the Pink City. When we arrived home, he would laugh loudly and talk; but when we left, the house would fall silent.
I didn’t want my father to remain alone forever, so after much discussion, my younger brother and I decided to find someone who could be his companion and care for him in his old age. At first, my father strongly objected, saying that he was too old and didn’t need to remarry. We patiently explained to him, “Not just for you, but for us too. When someone is with you, we feel safer.”
According to Hindu custom, the wedding day was very beautiful: under the mandap, my father wore a new sherwani that made him look quite young; the bride, Rekha, wore a beautiful cream-white sari. They both circled the sacred fire; my father skillfully tied the mangalsutra and applied the sindoor. All the relatives blessed them; everyone was amazed to see him radiant as in his youth.
The celebration ended, and my father happily escorted the bride off to the wedding night so quickly that we laughed until we cried. I joked with my younger brother, “Look at Dad, he’s more nervous now than he was on his wedding day.”
My younger brother playfully slapped me on the shoulder: “He’s almost 70, but he still has so much energy!”
Just when we thought everything was fine, about an hour later, we heard Rekha crying from the bedroom. The whole family was shocked and surprised…
“Dad! What happened?”
No one answered, only sobs. I opened the door and went in.
The scene before me stopped me in my tracks: Rekha was huddled in a corner of the room, her eyes red, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees, and her breathing ragged. My father was sitting on the bed, his clothes disheveled, his face etched with confusion and anxiety. The atmosphere was suffocating.
I asked,
“What happened?”
Rekha’s voice trembled:
“I… I can’t do this… I’m not used to it…”
My father murmured, his face flushed:
“Dad… I didn’t mean any harm. I just… wanted to hug her. She started crying loudly, and I was confused and didn’t know what to do.”
The next morning, after things had calmed down, I sat down to talk with my father and Aunt Rekha. I said gently,
“It takes time to adjust. No one should be forced into something they aren’t ready for. From now on, you and Aunt will take things slowly: start with conversations, morning walks in Central Park, cooking together, watching television. If you feel comfortable, hold hands, lean against each other. As for intimacy, let it happen naturally when you’re both ready. If necessary, I’ll ask my older uncles or a marriage counselor for help.”
My father sighed, but his eyes welled up with tears.
“I didn’t expect it to be so difficult. I… I’d forgotten what it feels like to have someone by your side.”
Rekha nodded gently.
“I’m nervous too. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. Please… give me more time.”
They agreed to sleep in separate rooms temporarily, maintaining a soft boundary and prioritizing each other’s comfort. In the afternoon, I saw Dad and Rekha sitting on the balcony, making hot tea, talking about the garden and the children at kindergarten. There were no more tears, only quiet questions and shy smiles.
The marriage of a 65-year-old man and a 45-year-old woman isn’t measured by their wedding night, but by the patience of each day: respect, listening, and relearning how to walk together. And we—the children—understood that helping Dad doesn’t mean rushing him into marriage, but taking small steps around him so he can emerge from loneliness with security and warmth.