The Second Bloom: A Hidden Throb
Sandeep Ji had just turned sixty. A Kashmiri by birth, he once lived in apricot-scented lanes of Sopore. Where mornings began with temple bells and evenings with noises of the cricket crazy matches on school grounds nearby. But the winter of 1990 uprooted him along with hundreds of others, from the land of his ancestors.
What followed was a long, silent exile through dusty camps in Jammu. Shared taps, tattered ration cards and years of waiting for home to return. Life was never easy after that.
But Sandeep kept going.
He raised his two children — Aditya and Kritika — through school and college. Cared for his ailing wife Meenakshi until her last breath and eventually moved to Delhi to live alone.
The children had their own lives now, settled in other cities. They visited occasionally, like trains that pause briefly at quiet stations.
His flat in Patparganj, Delhi was tidy and quiet. Perhaps too quiet. His days passed reading the newspaper twice, watching Vaishno Devi arti live and attending satsangs, and preparing meals for one. Thus, his life passed on peacefully and steadily.
He spent his afternoons and evenings posting on Facebook and casually scrolling on his phone. But one night, while browsing through his Facebook — a modern window into the very past, he saw her….Sheela, Sheela ……….
His first love.
Sheela from school, who once sang the most popular song, during morning assembly. She, who used to borrow his fountain pen during history class and never returned it. The girl who once smiled at him under the walnut tree near Sopore High School.
They had been inseparable — until fate tore their story at the seams. Her parents had married her off to Omkar Nath, a rich and powerful trader from Jammu. While Sandeep prepared for engineering entrance.
They had been inseparable — until fate tore their story at the seams. Her parents had married her off to Omkar Nath, a rich and powerful trader from Jammu. While Sandeep prepared for engineering entrance.
Now, forty-three years later, her eyes still held that same quiet fire.
But her smile had dulled — like a mirror left out in winter.
They reconnected slowly. Cautiously. Over texts, phone calls and finally, tea at her apartment.
She lost her husband in a fatal car accident eight years back, living with her younger son Samar, who was mostly away on IT assignments. She made the tea with just the right amount of salt, Nun Chai, reminded them of old golden days, when they cherished it, in their college canteen of Sopore. He brought her some dry fruits and her favourite Sarita magazine.
One day, as they sat watching sparrows from her balcony, Sandeep said, half-joking, half-hopeful.
Why don’t We just get together with a permanent relation, Sheela?
Grow old together — on purpose this time. Sheela didn’t laugh. Instead, tears welled up in her eyes.
Yes, she said. Just one word — but it was the loudest thing she’d spoken in decades.
Theirs was not a marriage it was more like a reunion of two swayed souls, was very ordinary and simple, held at the Kashmiri Sabha Hall. He wore a handwoven embroidered Waist Coat over his kurta. Sheela wore an ivory silk saree passed down from her mother. Their children stood by, uncertain but with supportive warmth.
After the guests had gone, the flat fell into a soft silence. Sandeep brewed two cups of kahwa. Sheela lit a diya near the window. The air held the sweetness of new beginnings, but also the hesitation of wounds not yet spoken aloud.
Later that evening, as they prepared to rest, Sandeep reached to help ease the drape of her saree from her shoulder, a simple gesture of care and intimacy.
But what he saw underneath made him freeze.
There, across her back, were long, faded scars — pale ridges that ran like roads across a war-ravaged land. Some were fine lines. Others were deeper like lashes from an old whip.
He pulled back instinctively, stunned.
She turned, realising what he had seen and instinctively clutched the pallu of her saree. It’s alright, she said quietly. “They don’t hurt anymore”.
Sandeep sat down beside her, shaken. Sheela… what is this? What happened to you?
She looked at the floor for a long while. And then — perhaps for the first time in her life — she spoke the truth she had buried for decades. Omkar ji was a man of great reputation. In public, he was charitable, courteous, even spiritual. But at home, he was in a storm. He had expectations. And rules. Too many rules. My tone, my clothes, my visitors — even how loudly I stirred my tea. He didn’t raise his voice — he raised his hand.
And when his silence came, it was worse. The beatings were quiet. So were the bruises. Always where they wouldn’t show. I’d hide them under shawls and full-sleeve blouses.
And I never told my parents. What would they have done?
They told me to ‘adjust’, that women are the keepers of the family’s Izzat, honour. Her voice was too calm.
I stopped thinking of myself as a woman. I became a function: a wife, a mother, a servant in my own house. I would talk to the walls sometimes, just to remember what it felt like to be heard.
Sandeep felt tears rising. Not just out of pain — but helplessness. He had lived his life thinking he had lost her to fate. But now he realised he had lost her to cruelty, masked as duty. He held her hand gently. You didn’t deserve that. Not then. Not ever.
She gave him a small, tired smile. But I survived. And now I’m here. With you. That night, they didn’t touch further. There was no need. Love was no longer about desire. It was about safety. And this — this was safe.
In the weeks that followed, Sandeep saw the lingering scars in Sheela’s everyday behaviour. She still asked him for permission before sitting beside him. She still apologised too quickly. If a glass slipped from her hand, she’d flinch as though expecting punishment.
One day, while folding blankets together, he turned to her and said softly, ‘You never have to ask me for space. Or forgiveness. This home belongs to you as much as to me.’
Sheela looked at him, stunned for a moment. Then smiled — not the weary smile of years past — but something lighter. Something closer to the girl she used to be.
Their children still took time to understand. Society didn’t. Neighbours murmured.
Some relatives called the union “inappropriate” at this age.
But Sandeep had already been through worse. Exile, loneliness, death, distress and displacement.
What he had now — was peace……..
Not perfection. But peace and peace only.
And every night, as they sat together drinking warm kehwa in quiet gratitude, he would sometimes look at Sheela and think.
“She didn’t need saving. She just needed someone who wouldn’t look away.”
Some scars are not meant to be hidden. They are not shame. They are signs of survival.
And sometimes, love does not arrive to the rescue. It arrives to stay.
Rajender Koul
Rajender Koul, a resident of Talab Tillo, Jammu, is a retired officer from the State Bank of India. After decades of his first innings and very dedicated service in the banking sector, he now enjoys his second innings in the quiet rhythms of retired life. A keen observer of people and the world around him, Rajender Koul, has turned to writing as a way to reflect, create and reconnect with life’s deeper meanings. He spends his leisure time crafting short stories and capturing memories, experiences and moments that often go unnoticed in the everyday hustle. Through his thoughtful storytelling, he seeks to preserve personal and collective journeys of spiritual growth, humane love, loss, resilience and hope. Prayers and blessings a support to the world of ours we live. Jai Bhagwan ji
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