I remarried three months after my ex-husband’s death, and an uninvited guest appeared at the wedding.
During long, lonely nights, I often sit by the window looking out at the dark garden, where the white lotus flowers he planted still bloom even though their owner is gone. Three months ago, my life crumbled when I received the news of his death in a horrific car accident on the road from Bangalore to Mumbai. People say it was fate, but to me, it was like a deep, bleeding wound. I didn’t cry much, I just quietly packed my belongings in my Colaba apartment, trying to forget the warm memories I shared with him – my gentle husband, Arjun, a software engineer who always smiled despite life’s hardships.

Strangely, the pain didn’t seem to last. After only a few weeks, I began to think about a new future.

I met Rohan on a stormy afternoon during the monsoon season, at the familiar Arabic café in Fort that Arjun used to take me to. Rohan was a close friend of my husband, a talented architect in Delhi with a warm smile and attentive eyes. He had been by my side throughout the mourning period, comforting and sharing my grief, and gradually, feelings blossomed naturally. “You deserve happiness, Priya,” Rohan whispered in my ear as he proposed just two months after Arjun’s death. I nodded, without hesitation. Life was too short, and I didn’t want to dwell on the past anymore. The wedding was quick, simple, but warm, held at a small hotel in Goa, witnessed by friends and relatives from both sides. I wore a traditional crimson sari, carrying a jasmine wreath – Arjun’s favorite flower – and walked into the hall with a radiant smile.

The hall that day was filled with the melodious sounds of sitar music and laughter. The guests filled the room, all offering their blessings. Rohan stood beside me under the mandap, holding my hand tightly, his eyes sparkling with joy. The Brahmin priest began reciting the vows. “Do you agree to take me as your husband…?” My words rang out clearly, but deep down, a vague unease flickered. Was I rushing too much? Three months – too short a time to forget a husband of eight years. But I dismissed that thought, focusing on the present moment.

The first surprise came just as the priest finished speaking and everyone began throwing rose petals. A strange noise came from the front door – the door flung open, followed by heavy footsteps. The entire hall fell silent, all eyes turning toward it. A middle-aged man, wearing a faded white kurta, his face gaunt and his hair gray, entered. He wasn’t a guest; no one recognized him. Rohan squeezed my hand, whispering, “Who is that?” I shook my head, my heart pounding. The man stopped in the aisle, staring straight at me with red, swollen eyes, as if filled with immense sorrow.

“Hello everyone,” he said in a hoarse voice in Hindi. “I wasn’t invited, but I had to come. Because today is the happy day of… my daughter-in-law.” The whole hall buzzed. Daughter-in-law? Arjun was the only son; his parents had died long ago in Chennai. I was stunned, my feet rooted to the spot. Rohan turned to me, his eyes full of suspicion. “Do you know him?” I shook my head, but deep down, a vague memory suddenly flooded back – the stories Arjun told about his biological father, whom he had never met, a businessman who had left his family to make a living far away.

He continued, his voice trembling, “I am Arjun’s father – your ex-husband. I abandoned him and his mother when he was a child in Kolkata, a mistake of youth. Arjun searched for me for years, but I avoided him. Until… he passed away.” Whispers spread throughout the room. I felt the world spinning. Arjun – my husband – had never given any details about his father, only hinting that he had disappeared. Why was he here now? And why at my wedding?

A second surprise came when he pulled a tattered, old letter from his pocket. “Arjun sent this to me before he died. He knew he was going to die – it wasn’t a random accident. He was seriously ill, terminal cancer, but he hid it from you so you wouldn’t suffer.” The entire hall fell silent. I trembled, tears welling up. Arjun had never spoken about his illness. He had always been healthy and cheerful. Or perhaps… I remembered the sleepless nights he spent at Pune’s office, the dry coughs he tried to hide. “He loves you very much,” he continued, “so he arranged everything. He knew you would remarry Rohan – your closest friend – because Rohan has loved you for a long time too. Arjun asked me to come here, if you find new happiness, to hand over this will.”

Rohan let go of my hand, his face pale. “How… how did Arjun know?” He smiled sadly: “Because Arjun confessed to me. He knows your feelings for her, and he wants her to be happy. But there’s another secret…” My heart tightened. A third surprise: He looked directly at Rohan. “Rohan, my son. Arjun isn’t an only child. You are Arjun’s half-brother. I’ve kept this a secret from you all these years.”

The entire hall fell silent, the murmurs turning into screams of astonishment. Rohan recoiled, his face pale. “It can’t be… Arjun and I were childhood friends at Delhi school, but…” He nodded: “That’s right. I arranged for you two to be together without knowing. Arjun found out before he died, and he wanted me to reveal it today – the day she remarries his younger brother.”

I collapsed onto the marble floor, my head spinning. Arjun knew everything? He pretended not to know about the relationship between me and Rohan? And Rohan was his younger brother? Tears streamed down my face. I knelt before him – the father Arjun had always longed to see – not out of fear, but out of gratitude and regret. Grateful for Arjun’s silent sacrifice, arranging a new life for me with the man he trusted most. Regretful for my hasty remarriage, for not realizing how deeply he loved me. “Dhanyavaad, Pitaji… Dhanyavaad, Arjun,” I whispered through my sobs.

He helped me up and handed me the letter. Inside was Arjun’s last message, written in his native Tamil: “My dearest Priya, be happy with Rohan. I will always be with you, like a bird flying back to the Himalayas.” The wedding ended in tears, but not tears of sorrow, but of awakening. Life is full of surprises, and love, sometimes, transcends death, like the Ganges River that flows on despite the changing silt.