It's not just OK, but mandatory for men to cry

It's OK for men to cry. This is a bromidic topic that social media influencers — mainly women — loved to discuss and write about once upon a time. Thanks to Covid and the demise of patriarchy, men's mental health has got its due share of attention. Men are now portrayed as more expressive and less stubborn. All's fine as long as it's not just another attempt at amplifying gender parity. I always felt women were stronger than men, emotionally and professionally speaking. I guess it's not just OK, but mandatory for men to cry when they feel the desperate need for catharsis. But it's easier said than done.

I want to cry — right now. Cry an ocean of tears. An ocean of shame. An ocean of angst. An ocean of agony. An ocean of remorse. An ocean of compunction. An ocean of nothingness. The question of where I could vent them is more puzzling and worrying than how I could. It isn't difficult to cry, having seen it and done it all by myself at different stages of life. My eyes well up naturally every time I go to a train station or airport to see off someone, not necessarily my kin. Having seen up close the frailties of life, the thought of 'will there be a next time?' always haunts me.

There was this old man, whose daughter, one of more than a dozen children he had from two marriages, happened to be a good friend of mine. Whenever I visited their place, mostly in the evenings, we never bothered to exchange a hello, but the old man, resting in a traditional wooden recliner, would roll out a few seemingly funny words.

"Your host must be in the backyard." With that, his eyes would return to the goddamn job of staring into the infinity. I wished we could talk more. I wished I could peer into his eyes to see if they were damp. "When are you returning?" was the only other one-liner he ever ventured into. Every step I took crossing their dining and kitchen and to the backyard was my baby step into giant lessons in life: to return the love and respect you receive.

And our last meeting was too poignant to ever forget. It was raining cats and dogs, with streaks of lighting attempting to pierce the armour of darkness around the house. As I stood on the front steps dripping wet and saying goodbye, he asked, "When will be your next visit?"

"Maybe a year later."

"Chances are I won't be there." I felt as if a thunderbolt had just hit me in the heart.

He passed a few months later. I cried and cried, hiding in a corner in order not to raise a flag. You never know, to cry for someone unrelated could be haram — politically incorrect would be a milder term — in the modern etiquette. I have since learned to keep my well of tears shut. I have also learned to swallow my sobs.

I now feel tired of drawing a wrong portrait of myself. Pretensions and hypocrisy are not the elements I am made of. I want to cry and baptise myself in my own tears, but I have no church of my own.

"Why is dad crying? Did he lose his latest flame?"

"Is he crying because of an old acquaintance passed?"

"Is he crying because he is unable to pay an EMI back home?"

"Is he crying because his favourite okra fry is burnt?"