I cry, too.

An expression that started my life became the most detestable one for me as I grew up. Crying is the most natural response to a range of emotions we feel - anger, sadness, guilt, pain and many more. An emotional scene from a film, falling and hurting yourself, a terrible fight with your parents or the death of a loved one can all make us cry. Like anybody else, I used to cry. The fear of my dad’s wrath after making a mistake would make me cry. Seeing my brother cry would trigger tears in me. My mother’s silent treatment after I misbehaved would also tear me up. But then, one fine day, I decided that I did not want to cry. And for a good number of years, I portrayed myself as someone who did not cry - whatever the occasion or situation may be. I believed it was a subject of pride. Happily, I would announce to the people around me that I never cried. It is not vividly clear to me what they thought upon my proud claim of having control over my tear glands. Were they in awe of my ‘unique’ ability? Did they think that I was stupid to think it was a big deal? Or did they not care at all? I can never be sure because my memory is not cooperating.

Recently, when I began being okay with crying, I started contemplating the reasons behind my negative relationship with this expression in the past. What had made me detest something so innate? Why did I feel guilty for crying? In retrospect, I realised it was the result of a few remarks that I had repeatedly heard people around me say.

“Strong ban. Ladki jaise kyu rota raha hai?” (Be strong. Why do you cry like a girl?)

“Ladkiyan toh hamesha roti hai.” (Girls are cry babies.)

“Kuch bol mat, nahi toh ro degi.” (Stop being so harsh, or she will end up crying.)

Growing up, I often heard these remarks in school, at home, in films and more. It impacted me so much that I hated being a girl. If crying meant that I was weak, I did not want to cry. At home, I was the only girl amongst the five kids. If boys were encouraged to be stronger, I wanted to be like boys. I wanted people to praise me for being physically and mentally strong. The weak were looked down upon. I did not want that to happen to me. I did not want people to go easy on me just because I am a girl who can cry easily.

And so I stopped crying. Or at least I stopped crying in front of people. And went on announcing my ‘feat’ to people. It also acted as a constant reminder to avoid crying in public.

In a recent conversation with my dad, I understood that he cries too. I had seen my mom cry but never my dad. We were watching Masoom, a 1983 film, written by Gulzar and directed by Shekhar Kapur. Dad had seen it during his teens. But for me, it was the first time as an adult. When I was a child, I faintly remember watching it. Even though we started the movie when half of it was over, I understood the story. Not just that, a few scenes even made me tear up. We did not end up watching the whole movie till the end because it was a weekday and everyone had to go back to their duties.

Then in the evening, dad told me that he cried a lot when he watched it in the cinema with his friend. I was surprised to hear him say that and asked if his friend had cried too. He then immediately explained that by crying, he did not mean shedding tears and continued, “My friend would have laughed at me if I had done that.” Then, he smirked and said, “Men are supposed to be macho, right?” I gave him a look. Laughingly, he continued, “I have not seen you crying either. You are not too emotional”. This statement from him confirmed that I was successful in hiding my tears all this while. Since I was more comfortable with crying now, I told him that I also cry. “When?”, he asked. I explained with examples, “I cried while reading a children’s picture book last night. Even movies make me cry.” He immediately praised me for it and said, “Good. You should cry. It is a sign of sensitivity.” For the first time in my life, someone praised me for being able to cry. The ability that I once hated was suddenly gaining my respect. We discussed that as kids, we are so sensitive. But, when we grow up, we tend to suppress our emotions. All this while, I just needed someone to tell me that it is okay to cry. It is not a sign of weakness but rather a sign of strength.

I say it is a strength because of a film scene in Kumbalangi Nights, a 2019 Malayalam film that I watched a little while back. In the film, Saji, a character played by Soubin Shahir, is unable to cry. When he’s too frustrated with himself, he visits a psychologist, where he’s able to cry his heart out and relieve himself of years of suppressed emotions. It brought a change in him. This scene is the epitome of how crying is so powerful that it can help you heal. So why shouldn’t we use the power of crying?

Saji crying during his visit to the psychologist: A scene from Kumbalangi Nights (2019)

At least now I know that crying became a shameful act for me only when I started associating it with gender after hearing comments passed by society. I may still not be able to cry freely in every situation, every place and in front of everybody. And I don’t think anyone can do that. But the fact that I no longer associate both crying and my gender with shame is a big step forward. However, I am still curious to know why girls shed more tears than boys. Is the reason biological, psychological, social or a combination of all? Or is my assumption itself wrong? I have a plan to find that out.