A love story

Once upon a time, in India...

She was in her twenties, he in his forties. She was unwed, the eldest of 10. He was the father of two sons and a sickly wife. They lived across the hall from one another in a small apartment complex, and, sometimes, they would stand in their doorways and glance (shy).
Soon, his wife passed away, and a love affair began. Her brothers and sisters would hear her sneak out in the middle of the night and return with a fruit-- a pear, a mango (a token of his affection). She would eat it, quietly, in the dark. Her parents disapproved, and when her mother passed away, her father guarded the front door of their apartment like a watchman. For five years, he wouldn't step foot outside, for fear that his daughter, Ramila, might meet with her love, Shankarlal. So they waited...

Then. On a trip to visit her uncle in a nearby town, Ramila, pushing 30, explained why she refused to marry: "If I ever wed," she said, "it will be to Shankarlal."
"Ok," her uncle said,"I give you my blessing."
Just like that: with her uncle's approval, and without telling her father, Ramila married Shankarlal.

For years, her father was outraged. But over time, he grew to know and love Shankarlal, and near the end of his life,  if Shankarlal was ever late or absent from the breakfast table in the morning, her father would ask, "Where is he?"

One day, Ramila and Shankarlal had a baby girl.  They named her, my mother, Zankhana, meaning deepest wish, truest hope, because she was the product of what they had wished and waited for: each other.