Boys don't cry

On why I cry. Or why I don't. Or maybe why I can't. And why you should.

Photo by Tom Pumford on Unsplash

TW: Death, Suicide.

I sit in my wonky chair looking at one of my fellow cohorts talking about their dad. There is so much warmth in those words. I can feel my heart reach out to my throat and demand a reaction. I have felt this often. The body is feeling heavy. Something is rising in my chest. My mouth and throat are parched. I feel like I am gliding 50 feet above my body and seeing myself prepare for the inevitable. My fists are tight. My jaws clenched. I twist my lips to the left and then to the right. I see my fellow cohort stop for a moment. I can see tears. I can see emotions in many of the windows of the zoom gallery view. And yet my eyes are dry. My tears are asking for permission, and I have not figured out how to say “Yes.” I switched off my camera because I fear being called out for the phony I am. And I sit alone in a room of people. I wait for the seconds to trickle into minutes and let my chest unknot itself.

One of the earliest memories that I have is of being in an accident with my dad. I was sitting on top of the oil tank of his Hero Honda bike as we zoomed across the relatively empty streets that greet you on a Sunday morning. He was driving to the nearest mutton shop and suddenly some vehicle came in front of us, and he had to swerve to avoid hitting them. What happened next has attained urban legend status in our family. Like one of those stories, you are asked to recollect whenever you get a chance to meet.

The bike was on the ground. The rear wheels were turning slowly. My dad battered and bloody was looking around for me in a panic. And I was missing from the scene. Or probably not missing. But slightly camouflaged. Because the impact has tossed me into a woven basket lying abandoned on the side of the road. The ones in which vegetable sellers put the vegetables in. I was unharmed. “Not even a scratch” my dad would say every time he recounted the tale. He also added proudly “and not one tear.”

“Boys don’t cry.” This was one of the many commandments handed down to me. I let society, the bullies, the powerful wring me, torture me but I don’t let them see my tears. Instead, my tears are the ammunition I store. And store. And store. Because revolution is always around the corner. And what good am I in a revolution without my ammunition? So, I store.

I store the tears as a young boy. Moving to the glaring city lights from the warmth of a small town. I nod as bullies exploit my need for love and acceptance.

“That is Sanket! But we call him Phampa. Empty. That big body is a sham.”

I smile as if that is a joke worth smiling for. Next thing I know I feel my cheeks burning from the hand that has slapped me.

“How dare you show your teeth!”

I store the tears as a young adult. With a broken heart.

“I am sorry. But I can’t love you.”

One day I am playing cricket. My roommate and best friend comes up to me and says, “Give me back my shoes, man.” He is gleaming. With his new t-shirt and newly washed grey cargo pants. His feet are bare, and he is holding my broken slippers in his hand. I say, “Go away man. I will give it to you after the match.” He looks a bit flustered but says, “Ok. Take good care of it.” That afternoon he goes and jumps in front of a train and dies by suicide. I am left with his shoes to take care of and I stand in his front of his funeral pyre. I hear the pandit say something macabre like “Oh, that crackle? That is just the brain exploding.” My friend would have loved that. Surely now is the time for revolution. Surely by now the reservoirs of stored tears are waiting to overflow. And yet, they don’t. A trickle or two, sure. I realize I have let my resolve run a reservoir dry.

---

When my baby was born, I cried. I stood in front of the admission desk filling up mandatory paperwork about where I was born and where my wife was born and cried my eyes out. I felt a rift and soon it was too big for me to do anything. I felt the tears on my cheeks. Warm, uncompromising, and in a hurry to reach somewhere. Soon they were in my hands, the pen that I held, the paperwork that I was filing up. I didn’t let the immediateness of smudged, wet, and torn paperwork interrupt me. It is such a wonderful feeling to be able to cry when your body wants you to cry. The paperwork can be re-done. The pen can be re-bought. But that trigger of emotion inside me, as I remember her wriggling her long legs and arms on the green baby bed and letting out those guttural cry noises to signal to the world that she is here. That she is alive. And with that , so am I.

So, boys, cry. Cry for everything. Cry for anything. Don’t let those tears run dry. Let the tears unknot your being. Do not stand in the way. Heed the warning of someone who can rarely cry and regrets it every damn time. Let every tear rain on your soul. And wet the soil with your life. There is a forest inside that is waiting for you to grow. Let it.