Poor man needs 200 million to save his father — agrees to marry 70-year-old woman, 10 days later discovers a terrible secret but it’s too late…
A small village in the hills of central India is dyed in the colors of sunset. In a shabby house at the end of the alley of a poor panchayat on the outskirts of town, Aman, a 27-year-old man, sits slumped beside his father’s hospital bed. Old man Ram is wheezing; the doctor at the medical center says bluntly: “To save him, we need an emergency surgery — at least 200 million.” Aman is stunned. He has run around everywhere, mortgaged a small piece of land, sold his only bicycle, but it’s still not enough. The people his father once helped can only shake their heads now.

At the most desperate moment, a neighbor stopped by and said in a low voice: “There is a Doña in the city — Savita, over seventy years old, very rich. Her husband and children have all passed away. She is looking for someone to marry her — just do the paperwork, no need to live together. If they agree, I will give you 200 million.”

The thought struck Aman as if he had been struck. A wedding with a 70-year-old woman — it sounded cruel. But when he saw his father lying there gasping for breath, he gritted his teeth and nodded. Three days later, the wedding took place quietly in front of the small village temple; no music, no party, just a few witnesses. The groom was 27 years old, the bride was 70 — Savita appeared in a luxurious sari, her silver hair neatly combed, her eyes sad and cold.

She handed Aman a thick envelope: 200 million in cash, and said briefly: “Bring the money back to save your father. Never ask why I chose you.” Aman bowed his head, both grateful and confused. He did not understand why someone like her would choose to hide herself among hundreds of people.

The surgery was performed in time. Aman’s father was out of danger. A few days later, Mrs. Savita called Aman to the city, inviting him to her big house — a quiet tube house filled with incense, the glass windows reflecting the afternoon sunlight. She sat by the window, holding an old photo in her hand; she asked softly, “Do you know your mother’s name?”
Aman was stunned: “Yes, your mother’s name is Meera — she died early.”
Mrs. Savita smiled slightly, a smile mixed with bitterness: “Meera… The woman who took away the man I loved most nearly fifty years ago.” She pulled an old photo from a drawer — it was a photo of Ram when he was young, and a young woman next to him — it was Mrs. Savita when she was young. She looked at the photo with eyes filled with memories and resentment.
“You resemble him so much,” she said, her voice trembling. “So much so that I wanted revenge. At that time, all I could do was scream in pain, wanting to make him pay for the pain I carried with me all my life. Then time passed, life healed everything, but the wound never truly healed. When a worker at my house came back to my hometown and happened to tell me about your family situation, and when I received your photo — I was stunned. That’s why she gave you a choice: to marry her to get money to save your father. Not to shame him, but to let him know that the woman he left behind was still kind enough to save the one he loved.” Aman’s heart was choked. He fell to his knees, tears streaming down his face: “I… I didn’t know. If my parents had hurt you in the past, I apologize on their behalf…”
Mrs. Savita placed her dry hand on his shoulder, her voice softening: “It’s okay. I’ve endured too much. Now I just want to close all the old chapters. Go home, take good care of your father. I’ll consider it as having paid off my debt to life.”
Aman returned to the village with a troubled heart: between gratitude and invisible guilt. His father gradually recovered; the villagers whispered. In the afternoons, standing by the side of the dirt road, listening to the bell from the village temple and the distant sound of a rickshaw, Aman carried a lingering question — about his father’s past, about the pain a woman had kept for half her life waiting for a small justice. He understood that fate sometimes offered bleak choices: a loveless marriage in exchange for the life of a loved one.
The story ends both sweetly and bitterly: a formal wedding, a payment for life, and the secrets of youth—everything ends in the sunset sky of the hills, but the memories and wounds still smolder, never truly extinguished.

A month after that strange wedding, Aman thought everything was over. His father gradually recovered, the surgical wounds healed, the gentle smile returned to his old face. But Aman’s heart was still heavy as a stone. He never told his father where the money for the surgery came from — only that he “borrowed it from an acquaintance in the city.”

However, fate did not want to leave him alone.

One hot afternoon in early April, while cleaning out a corner of his father’s old cupboard, Aman discovered a dusty wooden box with a rusty lock. Curiously, he took a small knife and pried it open. Inside were a few old photos, a yellowed letter, and… a photo of his father as a young man, standing next to a beautiful woman in a white sari — it was Savita!

Aman’s hands were shaking. He opened the letter, his father’s handwriting was shaky but clear:

“Dear Savita,
If you are reading this, it means I didn’t have the courage to come back. I’m sorry, Savita. When Meera told me she was pregnant, I couldn’t leave her alone. I chose responsibility, not because I stopped loving you. I know I’m a coward, I know you’ll hate me for the rest of your life. But I don’t want that child to grow up without a father.
No matter what, Savita, I still pray for your safety.
— Ram.”

Aman sat silently for hours, the letter shaking in his hands. He was shocked to realize: his father had known Savita all his life, had loved her deeply — and the person who had been hurt the most was not only her, but also his father, who carried that guilt for the rest of his life.

That night, Aman couldn’t sleep. The chirping of insects in the fields seemed to remind him of Savita’s every word: “I’ve suffered enough. Now I just want to close it all.”
But how can we close the past when it has never been told?

Two days later, Aman decided to go to the city to see Mrs. Savita again. The villa was still quiet, the bougainvillea pots on the porch drooped. The maid said she was sick, lying in her room.

Aman walked in and saw Mrs. Savita lying on the bed, her face gaunt, her eyes half-closed. On the bedside table was an old photo of her and his father. He choked up:

“Mrs. Savita… I know everything. I found a letter from my father to you.”

She opened her eyes slightly, her lips trembling:
“A letter…? Ah… I finally found it…”

Her voice was weak, but her eyes softened:
“Back then, when I received that letter, I cried for a month. I swore I would never forgive. But then time took everything away – both beauty and loved ones. Now there is only her, and loneliness.”

Aman sat down by the bed, holding that wrinkled hand:
“You saved my father, saved my whole family. But my father never forgot you. He kept the letter all his life… Perhaps, he was always waiting for a chance to apologize.”

Mrs. Savita smiled softly, tears rolling down the pillow:
“That chance came, but it was too late. As for you, Aman… You are the shadow of both of us. I only hope that you live well, love sincerely, and never let any woman suffer the pain I did.”

Aman bowed his head, tears falling. Outside, a gentle wind blew, carrying paper flower petals into the room, covering Mrs. Savita’s silver hair.

A week later, Mrs. Savita passed away in her sleep. In her will, she left the small house in the suburbs to Aman — not to repay her, but as a final message: “Don’t let the mistakes of the previous generation prevent you from moving towards happiness.”

On the day of the funeral, Aman brought his father. Mr. Ram sat in front of Savita’s portrait, his eyes clouded by old age still shining with nameless pain. He trembled, touching the photo, whispering:
“Savita… I’m sorry. I was a coward all my life, and it was my son who gave you justice.”

Aman looked at his father, then at Savita’s portrait. In that moment, he understood that sometimes love doesn’t need to have a happy ending — just being acknowledged, belatedly, is enough to resolve the injustice that has lasted half a century.

The Pune sky that day was red with sunset, like the color of an old letter and a resting heart.

And Aman knew, from now on, his life would change — no longer the poor boy who married an old woman for money, but the one chosen to close a debt of gratitude between two generations.