I can cry for the most frivolous things.
Like when I was stuck behind a Tata Sumo in a traffic jam for hours at Akshardham. Or that time when I kept going round and round the concentric circles of India Gate without really getting anywhere. The anger and frustration melded into a ticking time bomb that went off the moment I reached home. For 10 minutes I bawled the shit out of me.
My parents, first-time witnesses to this, were very worried. For their son-in-law, of course. This was my quarterly bawl.
I bawl with my mouth wide open and eyes tightly shut, with a wail drummed up from the stomach, heart, lungs, wind pipe and every nook and cranny of my body, with full waterworks (eyes, nose, mouth) and at times even with a story line (like I haven’t taken a bath in 4 days or Kabul was so pretty and now it is all fucked up). All this happens within 10 minutes with my very wet face buried firmly in Udit’s chest.
This is the quarterly exorcism. All it requires is a little nudge and then the cup that brimmeth, floweth! A cleansing of the soul. A complete tune up of the plumbing. The lifting of weights from the chest and all that.
Better out than in, he says.
But I am not just a quarterly crier.
I have cried in college on days when instead of chola-poori-halwa (for which I waited for a whole week) the tiffin aunty sent tinda. Food is a touchy issue. Good food, bad food, no food—anything can trigger the waterworks.
I cry in pain when the back and neck connive to teach me a lesson for being unfit. I cry in anticipation of meeting my favourite doctor who will reprimand me for letting my body go. “I give you a couple of more years…”he will say.
Kind words well me up. I have teared up in joy and relief for the friends—both grown ups and little ones—I have. I wake up weeping from dreams that leave me angry. Angry because Udit moved our furniture or worse bought new ones… in my dream!
I have cried through Ochre Sky stories. I have cried through films. I cried on the passing of Farooque Sheikh and Irfan Khan! I cry for friends dead and gone.
I cry when I am sick and feel like my dad. I cry when I realise (again and again) that I will never hear his comforting “betaaaaaa” on the other side of the phone. I choke up when eight-year-olds send me condolence notes.
I weep at the thought of my death; of leaving Udit behind. I weep a little more at the thought of his; leaving me behind.
Children well me up — in films, on traffic lights, in garbage dumps, in refugee camps, in hospitals attached to tubes and machines fighting for their lives. Broken, battered and bruised children who are victims of war, terrorism and state-corporate crime can leave me crying for hours.
As I have grown older, I cry more in rage than in sadness. In sadness, now, I can only hear my heart break—shatter, smash or just a crack.
It was the fifth day of reporting. I was in Kasaragod (Kerala) where two decades of endosulfan spraying over cashew plantations had left people with diseases and disabilities and where children, even years after aerial spraying had stopped, were being born with congenital deformities.
Day upon day of meeting families with bedridden, sick, very sick children finally got to me. Once back in my hotel room, I cried and cried and cried. I cried for the children. I cried for the apathy of the state.
I also cried in gratitude. Gratitude to God and to my parents for everything.
Yes. I cry in gratitude.
A couple of years later in Sri Lanka, I met a 30 year old kidney patient who was dependent on donations—he used to go home to home to collect from neighbours for his dialysis. He showed me the receipt book! He lived with his old mother. He could barely move. He had no job. His wife had left him. Before leaving his house, we gave all the cash we had on us so that he could manage dialysis the next day. He died within a few months.
We were shocked into silence and not a word was spoken during our drive back to Colombo. This hit home a little too close for me. Dad was a kidney patient too. Once back in the hotel, I cried for the 30 year old. I cried for my dad. I called up my mum and I cried, I howled. I thanked her for not leaving my dad. For keeping him alive. I then spoke to my dad, who by now was quite worried at the sound of his bawling child. I thanked him for being alive.
So yes, I continue to cry for the frivolous. But now I also cry in gratitude.
This post was written during the Ochre Sky Writing Circle workshop.
Thank You again, I didn’t realise the ‘crying list’ was this long.
Children.
Betaa
Tears of frustration
Tears of Rage
We have that in common. The list is long but then who doesn't need inner plumbing
That inner plumbing is perhaps the most vital yet most underrated function in the body. I am a crier too. I so resonate! To have someone whose chest you can cry into is an incredible comfort I am sure.