Exactly fifty years ago today, they opened the book of life together.

They came from different castes, religions, and culinary traditions, with disparate financial backgrounds and life experiences. Yet, the love that blossomed between them erased these differences, uniting them as one. Defying their families, they built a life together, becoming not only partners but also the closest of friends. Even now, like the gentle warmth of the morning sun, they remain an extraordinary couple, bound by love.

Let us turn to a still-damp page in their book of life.

“Who are you? Where am I?” she asked, her voice trembling. Fear flickered in her eyes.

“I’m your Janu. Janakiram. We’re in the park near our home,” he replied, gazing into her eyes with reassurance.

Her gaze swept the surroundings, a vacant question lingering in her expression.

“What happened to me?” Her voice quivered with anxiety.

“Nothing happened. You’re safe. I’m right here, the one who loves you,” he said, resting a comforting hand on her shoulder.

In an instant, she pushed him away. His head struck the edge of the cement bench they shared, the impact resounding with a thud. For a moment, his vision blurred. He turned away, discreetly wiping the tears welling in his eyes.

His head throbbed, but he forced a smile, rose from the bench, and looked into her eyes. “Look at me. I’m your Janu,” he said softly, guiding her to sit again.

Ignoring him, her eyes darted around, searching for someone. Anxiety clouded her gaze. He realized she was looking for her husband. Sitting beside her, he opened his phone and showed her their wedding photo, pointing out their names. Then he displayed pictures of their children, naming them one by one, repeating the names patiently.

She began to echo some of his words, sometimes listening in silence. He shared stories about their family, emphasizing how much they loved her.

“Is that so?” she asked, a spark igniting in her eyes. A faint glow brightened her face.

He smiled, took her hand, and gently kissed it. Her eyes lit up momentarily.

But soon, she withdrew her hand and stood. “My mother is waiting for me. Let’s go home,” she said, stepping forward.

Her mother, who had disowned her decades ago for marrying an outsider, had passed away ten years earlier. She had forgotten this truth. Telling her would plunge her into grief, prompting questions about her father, who was also gone. He couldn’t bear to cause her such pain.

“Okay, let’s go,” he said, taking her hand and offering a reassuring smile.

This was their routine. He responded to her questions with confidence to ease her mind, knowing she would soon forget. Contradicting her led to arguments, agitation, and distress, so he tailored his answers to her mood, striving to keep her calm.

Sometimes, she wandered off or ran outside, always yearning to go somewhere unknown. To prevent this, he brought her to the park each morning around ten or eleven, when it was quiet and safe. They would stroll, sit, chat, sing, or play with a small ball. Her emotions were unpredictable, and he adapted to her ever-changing moods.

On her gentle days, she spoke softly and smiled radiantly, resembling the vibrant woman who had captured his heart fifty years ago. Her beauty, both inner and outer, had only deepened with time, and he marveled at it.

They had faced life’s challenges together, learning to confront problems with wisdom and patience. When she mourned the loss of her privileged upbringing, her words echoed in his mind: “No one’s life is perfect. It only seems so from afar. Making life beautiful and joyful is in our hands.”

How true, he thought. Yet, a cruel disease had invaded their lives, shattering his heart. She saw distant Himalayas as if they stood before her, wandered snowy peaks in her mind, and conversed with long-departed loved ones as though they were present. This deceptive illness distorted her reality, making the absent seem real and the real vanish. In those moments, he ached with the pain of losing her, his everything.

“Hey, Papa… when did you come? Your gown is so pretty. Will you give it to me?” she asked, her face glowing with childlike wonder.

Startled, he watched her. “Oh, don’t cry. Let’s play instead,” she said, comforting an imaginary child before turning to him eagerly. “No? Then shall we tell stories?”

“Okay, I’ll tell one,” she began, repeating fragmented tales. Her words faltered, the wrong ones slipping out. She paused, searching for the right word, then muttered, “I know the story, but I can’t tell it.” Her face fell.

“You told it beautifully,” he praised.

“Really?” Her eyes widened like blooming cotton pods, radiating maternal warmth.

She stood and said, “Let’s go.” They headed home.

On the way, she complained sweetly, “My legs hurt.”

“Look, a driverless car is coming. Shall we ride it?” he teased, smiling.

“No driver? I’ll drive! Where’s the car?” she asked excitedly.

He humored her, and they reached home amid light conversation.

Exhausted and hungry, he brought her food. “Ugh, it’s watery. What kind of rice is this? I want mango juice,” she said, pushing the bowl aside.

He poured some Mazza into a glass. “I asked for mango juice, not this,” she snapped, spitting it at him.

After cleaning up, he felt drained. He served himself rice, but she interrupted, “Don’t you know there are children here? Feed them first! You’re eating everything yourself!” Her glare was fierce.

Moments later, she sobbed loudly, “I’m hungry. So hungry. Is no one here? Mother, I’m hungry…”

He had shielded her from tears for years, but this relentless disease toyed with her emotions. She didn’t understand her own distress, and her tears pierced his heart.

He embraced her lovingly, but she pushed him away with surprising strength. He stumbled, steadying himself as tears welled up. He knew her aggression stemmed from the disease, not her heart, so he remained silent, his hunger forgotten.

His untouched plate waited on the table. Her crying subsided, and she approached him. “Did you eat everything?” she asked. He glanced at the table, and she followed his gaze.

Silently, she took his plate and ate eagerly, as if afraid someone might snatch it. Rice spilled onto the floor. He offered to feed her, but she insisted, “I can eat my own food.”

His patience waned, his body weak. He served himself another plate and ate quietly.

“Boy, are you eating rags? Who eats rags?” she asked, covering her mouth in surprise, then sat beside him.

He shook his head, signaling no.

She gazed at him with love and smiled, her eyes sparkling. That smile infused him with renewed energy.

“There’s an amazing person here,” she said, locking eyes with him.

“Really? Show me,” he replied eagerly.

“Look into my eyes. You’ll see him,” she teased.

His heart swelled as he gazed at her playful eyes, radiant face, and mischievous grey curls. She was the most amazing person. His fatigue faded, replaced by strength. For a moment, their gazes exchanged boundless love.

That afternoon, her voice blended with a cuckoo’s song drifting from somewhere. Resting her head on his shoulder, she murmured, “Janu… where’s the moon? Why hasn’t it appeared?” Unaware it was daytime.

“The Chinese are building an old-age home on the hill, they say,” he said, weaving a tale.

“Really? Why?” she asked, surprised.

“So old folks like us can live there,” he replied.

Her face fell, eyes half-closed, lost in another world. After a pause, she asked, “Where are we?”

“In aerospace,” he answered playfully.

“Are we going to the hill?” she exclaimed.

“Mm-hmm.”

“How amazing! Janu, you’re so kind. You always do what I want. Stay with me,” she said, clasping his hand, her eyes showering him with love.

Within minutes, she screamed, “I’m not going anywhere! I’m scared!” She fled to the bathroom and crawled under the sink, trembling and sweating.

Coaxing her out was arduous. His knees and back ached, preventing him from bending low. “Your Janu is here. Come to me. You’re safe,” he soothed, trying various tactics.

Finally, she emerged, still shaking. She sat on the bed, resting her head in his lap, fear lingering. He stroked her hair, and she drifted into sleep.

Was this the woman who had fearlessly faced life’s trials? His heart wept silently, his chest heavy. He pressed it gently, grappling with the weight of their shattered dreams.

Retirement plans lay in ruins. Hope for the future dimmed. His mind churned like a storm-tossed sea. Could he reach shore alone? No lifeline appeared, and his soul writhed in anguish.

He hid his pain, bleeding internally from a heart full of wounds. She, unaware of how her disease had crushed their dreams, remained lost in her fractured reality.

The doorbell rang. Gently lifting her head, he opened the door to find a courier boy with a flower bouquet and a large box.

“I didn’t order anything. Wrong address?” he asked.

“For Janakiram,” the boy confirmed.

He accepted the delivery, and the boy wished him well before leaving. The bouquet and cake, sent by their elder son and daughter-in-law for their anniversary, lifted his spirits. Pride swelled as he thought of his son, who hadn’t forgotten them. He reached for his phone, noticing four missed calls from his son—his phone had been on silent. Regret stung him.

For four days, she had been in an episode, agitated and restless. He longed for her to be her old self, joyfully celebrating their milestone.

Fifty years had passed swiftly. Their journey held both valleys of sorrow and peaks of joy. Defying relatives who shunned them, they found refuge in Hyderabad, starting a small vegetable business that grew into a thriving shop. Even as senior citizens, they continued working, managing their household harmoniously, their love as seamless as milk and water.

They spent frugally, educating their two sons well. By the time their children graduated, they owned a modest home, though debts lingered. Demonetization struck like a thunderbolt, crippling their business. As they recovered, Covid arrived, closing their shop permanently. Hospitalized with the virus, they faced financial ruin when their insurance failed. Living on meager fixed-deposit interest, they struggled.

Her Alzheimer’s diagnosis compounded their woes. A woman who rarely fell ill was now ensnared by an incurable disease. Their savings dwindled on medical visits and tests. His arthritis worsened, requiring surgery he couldn’t afford; steroid injections offered temporary relief.

Their younger son, born after twenty years of marriage, had been their joy. His campus placement brought celebration, but his sudden turn to monkhood and subsequent suicide in Kolkata left an unresolved wound. His withdrawal during Covid, locking himself away, had gone unnoticed, mistaken for work. His friend hinted at inner conflict, but no answers surfaced. The loss devastated them.

Their elder son, in America, sent money monthly, easing financial strain. But her condition deteriorated. She fretted over his life abroad, hallucinated her younger son’s return, and feared imagined threats—snakes, worms, strangers. A psychiatrist confirmed Alzheimer’s dementia, shattering hopes of recovery.

Her forgetfulness grew. She failed to recognize him, their friends, or herself. Falls became frequent, and she resisted hospital visits. Friends misunderstood her behavior, and he couldn’t leave her alone to attend social obligations. Their struggles went unseen, their pain unspoken.

Standing by the window, he watched rain-soaked trees sway and a small bird seek shelter. Life’s universal quest for joy mirrored his own. Recalling their first meeting fifty years ago, he smiled, glancing at her.

She awoke, disoriented. “How long will the children stay, leaving their jobs? They have responsibilities. Let’s send them away,” she said.

“Okay, let’s send them. Have some water,” he replied, offering a glass, aligning with her reality to avoid distress.

He prioritized her comfort, knowing forcing her into his world caused pain. Her sudden tears pierced him, but he hid his sorrow, comforting her as she hid under the table, covering her ears.

“Someone’s waiting for you,” he said.

“Did the younger one come? The elder one?” she asked, emerging eagerly.

He showed her a banana. She threw it at him, cursing, then declared, “I’m going to America,” grabbing a bag.

She struggled with the locked door, growing frantic. Early on, he mistook her actions for defiance, but understanding her disease, he bore it patiently. As she fled to the neighbor’s house, shouting incoherently, he followed, apologizing to the startled residents. When she began removing her clothes, oblivious, he gently redirected her, humiliated but calm.

“Let’s go home. There are new clothes,” he said. She smiled, radiant as a blooming flower, and his heart swelled. Her laughter was a waterfall, cascading into his soul.

Moments later, she turned. “Where are they? Who are you? Why are you in our house?”

“I’m your husband,” he said, smiling.

“What? My husband isn’t old like you! He’s handsome, like the picture on the wall. My best friend,” she retorted, unaware her mind betrayed her.

She handed him the TV remote, complaining it didn’t work. He turned it on, and she watched silently before exclaiming, “That girl is beautiful. Shall we arrange a match for our younger son? He’s educated, has a good job, a big house…”

“Who’s the girl?” he asked.

“She’s building sparrow nests in the sand dunes,” she replied.

He laughed heartily, swept into memories. Her words, though jumbled, stirred joy.

“My clothes are gone. Someone took them. They’re playing tricks on me,” she said, tears welling. “I have so much to say, but the wrong words come out. People laugh. Sometimes I remember, sometimes I forget. My mind burns.” She struck her head, her face crumpling.

Her memories, skills, and identity were eroding. Depression, anger, and hallucinations plagued her. No doctor could halt the disease’s march. She hovered between consciousness and oblivion, and he grappled with the agony of losing her.

What if he died first? Could their elder son, with his own family, care for her? Uprooting her from familiar surroundings seemed cruel. These thoughts tormented him, though he knew they were futile.

Her fleeting moments of recognition were precious gifts. A faint smile on her lips sparked hope, but her gaze soon returned to emptiness. Under Alzheimer’s shadow, she lived in her imagined world, unaware of time’s passage.

The pages of their book of life remained wet—some with tears of joy, others with sorrow. Yet, their love shone clearly on every page. Time could steal their memories and weaken their bodies, but it could not sever their hearts.

One day, their book would close. Until then, he would cherish her, care for her, and transform every moment into a treasured memory. She was his world, and he was hers.

What would tomorrow’s page hold, a testament to their enduring love?