61 Years of imperfect togetherness…And Still Counting!

Recently, Maa-Papa completed 61 years of their marriage.

Sixty-one years!!

When I say it aloud, it still feels unreal. We had a very small family celebration, though it was for them, but honestly, none of that makes much sense to them because they hardly remember things, and moreover, any extra efforts exhaust them. Still, it is a big milestone for us, hence we did!

Everyone wished them, congratulated them. admired the number!

And I was sitting in wonderment, thinking about just one question… How?

How do two people stay together for sixty-one years?

Not sixty-one perfect years… Just sixty-one real years.

I am sure those years would have been filled with joys and celebrations, but also disagreements, disappointments, misunderstandings, illnesses, responsibilities, raising us, financial ups and downs, growing older... and everything else that comes with living a life together.

I honestly don't have any answer to this. I would never know, and perhaps no one really knows except the two people who have lived those years together.

But I have had the privilege of watching them all my life as a daughter. And maybe... just maybe... I have understood a few things….

The first thing that comes to my mind is this: leaving was never an option.

Wait, wait! Before I say anything further, and even before you jump the gun, I want to clarify something important and make it loud and clear…

This is not my way of saying every marriage should be saved at any cost.

It should not and in a few cases… must not!

If a relationship is abusive, violent, repeatedly disrespectful or emotionally unsafe, choosing to leave can be the healthiest and bravest decision. No relationship should demand that someone lose themselves in order to keep it alive.

Here, I am not talking about marriage in general. I am very specifically talking about my parents' marriage.

In their world, despite all the ups and downs, leaving was never something they considered.

That one decision may have shaped how they faced everything else.

I often wonder... as they never kept the option of walking away, did their brain automatically start looking harder for ways of staying?

I don't know. Maybe. Maybe not!

One thing I have always noticed is that they respected each other’s space and boundaries. Not because they always agreed. They had completely different personalities, different opinions and different ways of doing things. Yet they allowed each other to be exactly who they were.

Neither tried to become the other. Neither tried to constantly change the other. They gave each other space, long before "giving space" became relationship advice.

The roles they played in the family were never discussed. Yet they both seemed to know them.

There was no keeping score. No competition. No constant comparison of who had done more.

Each quietly did what they believed was their responsibility. And life kept moving.

As I grew up, I also realised that love changes with time. When we are young, we often imagine love as conversations, romance, surprises and grand gestures.

Maa- Papa showed me something very different.

Love quietly changes its language. Over time, care becomes its language. Even fights, harmless and small, become its language!

Even today, whenever Maa goes somewhere for a few days, Papa becomes surprisingly restless. He keeps asking, "Where is she?" "When is she coming back?" "Has she called?"

He would ask everyone in the house. Again, and again. And then, the moment she comes home...

Nothing. He quietly goes back to reading his newspaper as if nothing had happened. No dramatic welcome. No emotional conversation. I find it truly amusing.

If someone saw only that moment, they might think these two hardly care for each other. But we, as their children, know better.

His questions when she is away say much more than his silence when she is home.

Another memory has stayed with me for years…

Maa once had to stay away from Papa for quite some time because of her medical treatment. The doctor wanted her to continue there till the treatment was complete. But she kept insisting that she wanted to go home. The doctor tried explaining that it was necessary.

She looked at him and said, almost pleading, "Please let me go. He is all alone. He cannot take care of himself. Do you want me to stay here till he dies?"

Even today, that memory makes me smile. I don't know whether the doctor laughed first or gave up first.

It was emotional. It was amusing. It was so completely... Maa.

Behind those words was a woman who had spent decades caring for someone so naturally that she couldn't imagine not being there for him.

The funny thing is...When they are together, they hardly talk. There are no conversations. No expressions of affection.

Sometimes I wonder whether they have simply run out of emotions and feelings after sixty-one years…

But then I watch them carefully. Papa notices if Maa is not around or unwell. Maa knows what Papa needs without him asking. There are so many little things that happen so naturally that no one notices them anymore except perhaps... us, their children.

Maybe love doesn't disappear. Maybe it simply becomes quieter. Less visible. Less vocal and much deeper.

As I write this today, life has changed for both of them. Age has finally caught up. Papa has dementia and shows symptoms of Alzheimer's. There are days when he doesn't remember us, his own children. He forgets names and conversations. Sometimes he forgets entire pieces of his life.

But somehow... He still remembers Maa. Maybe not every conversation, not every detail, but somewhere, she still lives in a place that the illness has not been able to touch.

And Maa... Time has not been very kind to her either. She can barely hear now. Her hands tremble. Her legs shake. Even simple movements take effort. We keep telling her, "Please sit. Let us do it”, but she doesn't.

Almost without thinking, she still gets up to do things for Papa. She still worries whether he has eaten, still notices what he needs, and still takes care of him.

Not because anyone asks her to. She simply does.

Sometimes I sit quietly and watch them, think about them. There are no conversations anymore. No celebrations. No gestures of love and affection that people usually talk about.

Age has taken away many things… Health. Strength. Memory. Hearing. Energy.

But it has not taken away something much deeper.

Somewhere over these sixty-one years, they have simply become a part of each other. Looking after one another is no longer a duty. It is no longer even a conscious choice. It has simply become who they are. Almost like breathing.

I don't know if this is what every long marriage looks like…

I don't even know if I have understood their marriage correctly….

These are only mine- a daughter's reflections.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

I think I am fortunate that I got to grow up watching this kind of commitment.

An imperfect marriage! Between two imperfect people… Who must have hurt each other, who must have disagreed countless times, who surely had days when life felt heavy.

And yet... They stayed.

Not because everything was easy, but perhaps because, somewhere along the journey, they stopped thinking only as two individuals. They quietly became a part of each other.

Maybe that is what sixty-one years do. Maybe love, after all these years, is not found in saying "I love you."

Maybe it is found in asking, "Where is she?" "When is she coming back?"

And in saying, "Please let me go home. He won't be able to manage without me."

Perhaps... That is what love looks like after sixty-one years.

Happy 61st Anniversary, Maa and Papa.

Love does not always speak. Sometimes... It simply stays!