It is time I faced it. I am a crybaby. It goes against my machismo to say it, but it is true. However much I try to hide it, whatever ways I use to stop it, there it is. I cry. And at the least pretext.
I have a fair idea of how it started. Growing up amidst a motley crew of older cousins, I realised very early on how effective a good wail is to capture the attention of female powers-that-be. I failed to note then the reaction of the male higher-ups who would steadfastly look the other way. I should have realised then that as far as the male of the species is concerned, crying is just a taboo.
I wasn’t too much of a problem child during my early school years and so did not face too much of the wrong end of the rod. The only occasions to bawl were when confronted by the schoolyard bullies, if only to create confusion in their ranks. It got the teachers there in a hurry anyway. By the time I got to middle school, whatever angelic features I had were long gone and a howl stopped evoking sympathy and raised eyebrows instead. Not good form, the boy is actually crying… something just not done in civilised society.
High school really changed things. Not only did I end up getting chastised more severely for my misdemeanours, worse, I had to keep my upper lip straight to protect me from the jeers of my peers. Looking back, I think that was the bravest period of my life — to endure six of the best across the knuckles and keep the slightest hint of tears out of your countenance certainly forges character. A big Yay! for the educational system. College and bachelorhood provided me quite a lot of opportunities to indulge in my favourite hobby. Yes, by that time, I had begun to enjoy it. Heartbreak was the major cause, the others being sports losses, exam failures, election debacles, et al. Cry it all out, that was my motto. And then move on. It didn’t work all the time, but it was the only defence mechanism I knew.
I realised I was not alone, when in my late twenties, I went for a movie with some of my best friends. It was a real tearjerker, that one. I sat there in that dark theatre, praying to god that none of my companions would see the tears streaming down my cheeks.
I could be classified as a sucker for punishment, because I took my wife to the same movie after we got married. She scaled the heights of embarrassment, utilising her kerchief to the best use to soothe a despondent Yours Truly. Since then, she has never had a problem getting me to do whatever she really wants — she knows that deep down, I am just a softie. Unfortunately, my son has got wind of that very early on too. He doesn’t listen to a thing I say.
So I finally acknowledge it. What have I got to lose? I cry. I cry when I hear my wife croon my son back to sleep when he wakes up in the middle of the night. I cry when I listen to Kishore Kumar at his soulful best. I find it hard to blink back the tears when Jack falls off the Titanic. When I come across a very soulful statement in an otherwise trashy novel, my hair stands on end and my eyes blur. I cry about a lot of things I have no intention to tell you about.