For most of our forty-four years together, we played life as though it were a T20 match. We bowled bouncers at each other, exchanged fiery spells, and instinctively launched every challenge into the stands. We played hard, argued fiercely, taunted shamelessly, but rarely left anything in the pavilion. It was a long and eventful super over of a life shared together.

And somewhere in those closing overs, the Match Referee whispered a truth we had been too busy playing to hear: life is not a sprint of explosive moments, but a Test match of endurance, resilience, and partnership.

By then, we were already walking towards the dressing room — both a little bruised, a little wiser, and perilously close to retiring hurt.

Despite having undergone five angiograms and angioplasties myself, I felt that her ordeal was far graver than mine. Within a short period, she had endured both brain and leukoplakia surgeries. Even more heartbreaking was watching her ordinary forgetfulness gradually evolve into clinical dementia — the chief cause of a new affliction in my own life: panic attacks.

Yet, despite our lengthy medical histories, we ventured into the Himalayan wilderness for a fortnight and emerged relatively unscathed, having traversed some of the world’s highest motorable highways.

The travel bug that usually waits until retirement found us much earlier. Since then, the road has beckoned relentlessly, and we have seldom resisted its call.

I did not take my wife on a journey around the world as recently as in 2026 because there were still destinations left to tick off a list. I took her because time, that faithful companion for so many years, had begun to turn against us.

Over four decades of marriage, we painstakingly built a life filled with ordinary days that became extraordinary in retrospect. We raised our hopes together, weathered our disappointments together, and collected a lifetime of memories that seemed as enduring as the mountains.

As I mentioned at the beginning, ours was not a perfect marriage. Like all couples who spend a lifetime together, we disagreed on many things. We argued, challenged one another, and often saw the world through very different eyes. Yet somehow, through all those differences, we remained side by side. Love was never the absence of disagreement; it was the decision, made over and over again, to stay, to forgive, to understand, and to continue the journey together.

Then the devil arrived — quietly at first — stealing little things: a name, a date, a familiar story. But I knew her dementia would not stop there.

So I made a promise to myself: before the disease could take too much, I would give her the world.

I wanted her to stand beneath the cherry blossoms and feel their beauty, even if one day she could no longer remember their name. I wanted her to hear unfamiliar languages, walk ancient streets, watch the sun rise over distant horizons, and experience the thrill of discovery. I hoped that each new place might awaken her mind, challenge her spirit, and remind her that she was still an adventurer.

But if I am honest, this journey was not only for her.

It was for us.

I wanted to hold her hand in cities we had never seen and remember the young couple we once were, setting out into life with no map except our love for one another. I wanted her to know that even as memories fade, she would never have to face the unknown alone. When she could no longer find her way, I would guide her. When the world became confusing, I would become familiar. When memories slipped away, I would carry them for both of us.

The cherry blossoms taught me something. They are beautiful not because they last, but because they do not. Their brief season makes every petal precious.

Perhaps life is the same.

I know there may come a day when my wife no longer remembers these journeys. She may not remember the countries we visited, the meals we shared, or the blossoms drifting through the spring air. She may not even remember why we travelled.

But I will remember.

I will remember the wonder in her eyes, the laughter that escaped unexpectedly, and the moments when the disease loosened its grip and I caught a glimpse of the woman whose hand I took ages ago. I will remember the life we built together, not because it was flawless, but because it was ours. The disagreements, the compromises, the shared dreams, the disappointments, the triumphs, and the countless ordinary moments that became extraordinary through the passing of time.

Those memories will become my treasure, carefully guarded in the one place dementia cannot reach.

This journey was never about seeing the world.

It was about seeing her. Before the fog grew thicker. Before more pages disappeared from the story of her memory. Before time could take what love had spent a lifetime creating.

And if one day she forgets every destination, every photograph, and every adventure, I hope she will still feel one thing deep within her heart, beside the deep-rooted trust we shared: That despite all our differences, she was chosen every day for forty-four years.

And that she was loved enough to be given the world.