Chapter 3: Old Flames, New Wounds

Meera and I discussed the wedding details. Although we’re both remarrying, I won’t let Meera feel slighted—we can’t leave out any part of the ceremony. After all, being able to marry Meera and spend my life with her is something I’ve dreamed of since I was young.

We sat together with the shaadi planner aunty, who insisted on “minimum 400 guests, beta!” and argued over whether the sangeet should be at my old home or in a banquet hall. Meera was adamant: she wanted all the rituals, all the colours—no shortcuts, no embarrassment. In India, even a second wedding had to look like a festival, or people would talk.

Meera’s eyes brimmed with tenderness as she spoke softly, “Rakesh, I hope that during the varmala, Aryan can be the one to bring us the rings.”

She pressed my hand, her eyes hopeful and shy. "If Aryan stands with us, people will have nothing to say," she whispered, as if the world’s gaze could be softened by one gesture. For her, every tradition was a bridge—not just for us, but for our broken family.

I was stunned, not expecting Meera to have such an idea. At that moment, I felt a bit uneasy inside. With Aryan’s temperament, he probably wouldn’t agree. Meera shook my arm and acted playfully. “After all, I’ll be Aryan’s mother from now on. I want to use this moment to break the ice and remove the barriers between us. I believe Aryan will sincerely bless us. I will definitely treat him as my own in the future.”

Her voice trembled, but her resolve was strong. "Let Aryan put the rings in our hands—let him see he’s still our child," she said. I watched her, half in admiration, half in fear that this was too much to ask of a wounded boy.

Looking at Meera’s gentle yet determined eyes, my heart softened. She truly cared about her relationship with Aryan as mother and son. “Alright, I’ll talk to Aryan about this. Don’t worry.”

I knew it wouldn't be easy. In our culture, step-relationships are never simple. But Meera’s faith in small gestures, in rituals, moved me. Maybe a new memory could erase some of the old pain.

Although I agreed readily, I was still uneasy. Aryan’s temperament is like my late wife’s—stubborn and explosive. I remembered when I first brought Meera home, he went berserk, smashing everything in the house and leaving harsh words:

His voice had echoed down the stairwell, neighbours peeping from behind half-open doors. The shame had burned in my ears for days. I wondered if any amount of prayer or patience could really heal such wounds.

“You can marry anyone, just not this woman.”

“If she’s here, I’m not. If I’m here, she’s not.”

The words still stung. In another house, perhaps, a father would have thrown his son out. Here, we waited for time to soften the anger. Sometimes I wondered if I’d made him too bold, too much like his mother.

At that time, Aryan reminded me of my late wife and made me want to avoid him. But Meera was as gentle as water, and even her stepson, Riya, whom she raised, was considerate.

Meera always said, “Beta, time heals. Let Aryan find his own way.” Her patience was a strange, quiet thing; in our house, anger had always been louder.

“Uncle Rakesh, my presence won’t affect your relationship with my mom, right?”

“If Aryan doesn’t like me, I can move out. I definitely won’t disturb you.”

Riya’s voice was always cheerful, her plaits swinging as she moved around the house. She knew how to make everyone smile—"Want chai, Uncle? Should I get the Parle-G?" Sometimes, I wished Aryan could learn from her lightness, her ability to accept.

Riya is lively and likable, always able to make me happy—completely unlike Aryan. Since his mother died, he’s been lifeless every day, never considering my feelings. What man wouldn’t like a woman like Meera? Especially after being suppressed by my late wife for over a decade, I found Meera’s gentleness irresistible.

In the nights that followed, I sometimes lay awake, wondering if I’d been too harsh with Aryan, too quick to find comfort elsewhere. But then I’d see Meera’s sleeping face, peaceful and trusting, and my doubts would fade, replaced by longing and guilt in equal measure.

But I was also very clear inside: it was I who wronged Aryan and his mother. It was me who first betrayed her emotionally with Meera. Meera was my first love in college, as pure as the moon in my heart. I had a secret crush on Meera for seven years, until after graduating, when Meera went abroad, I married my wife and had a child. At that time, I thought I would never have any connection with Meera again in this life. But unexpectedly, two years ago, Meera returned to India.

I sometimes wondered if the old stories ever really ended. My father used to say, "Purani chot sabse gehri hoti hai, beta." I understood now—love never truly leaves; it just changes its address.