CRY, CRY, CRY Part-II: When I cried.

... Why the society has abandoned and criminalized that even GODS couldn’t resists???

An evening... kids were chanting “beat him”. The other half of the lot was screaming “break his nose...”. But in the spiritual zone of fist fighting, it was only me and him. The moment of singularity everything else blurred. We jumped on each other like two male pumas fighting for a female puma to establish their vigor.

Punch after punch, punt after punt, jolts and blows were exchanged. When the sky couldn’t take it anymore it threw us on the lap of mother earth. We fell like two angles proving to be the best servant of god in the kingdom of heaven and we continued to fight on the muddy mortal pavement.

The Perpetual exchange of power. Our pride and honor, the truthfulness of our words, our manhood was solely depended on this valiant encounter. The winner shall live with honor, a life of praise and worthiness shall embellish his future. The looser on the contrary shall be buried beneath the shame of defeat and shall walk guilty of the untrustworthiness with a badge of liar.

Yes, he got better of me after few minutes of fight which felt like eons but I didn’t gave up. Although the god of strength and the goddess of triumph about to abandon me, something unexpected happened. A strong but kind force separated us from further pulverization. They were the hands of sanity. They were the hands of a mother who would slap her own child to end the bloody bout of manly passion.

My eyes were mushy again, my weak legs were frozen, my body hurt from the violent act and veins were shooting to the moon. But I didn’t cried. She was scolding her own blood regardless the possibility that I could very much be the cause of the nonsense that was happening few moments ago. I saw her soft hands comforting and stroking gently her bruised son and the same time her motherly voice teaching and calming my adversary.

My neck was too stiff from the joust with her son. I couldn’t be able to saw above her arms. I couldn’t saw her face properly that’s why I can’t describe her. I don’t remember her face but she was tall and study and probably wearing short hair. That’s all I can remember and a vague image in my mind getting dingier with time.

During all this time I was clasping my teary outburst and preparing for some more fury which was to be coming from his mother. I strength my shield further to restrain the weak men’s expression. Then she turned to me and walked a few steps closer to me. Unexpectedly she spread her arms and invited me to her motherly embrace. “Come, its okay! Nobody will hurt you” she called me by her motherly articulation with a comforting smile.

This act of care and forgiveness exposed my flanks and made me vulnerable to express my graved feelings. I didn’t sob, I exploded into tears as I nestled with her and she gently but firmly wrapped her arms around me. There I was, a short boy pressed against the breasts of somebody else’s mother... weeping.

I let it all go. Now nothing was stopping my emotions to flow free. No embarrassment, no restriction, no prejudice, no preconceived opinions, no pride, no honor and no sadness.

And...

Cry, I cry and I cry like never before.

CRY, CRY, CRY Part-I: Thou shall not cry

Cry, I cry and I cry like never before.

I don’t remember when I’d first unleash the sobbing beast, probably when I was born. Or not because when I was born I was too weak to even breathe... but that’s another story. I‘ll tell it some other time.

I was in my age of innocence, busy in making others laugh while enjoying myself unintentionally. The self interest in this act came way late. I was good but not in a social sort of way. Shyness and slyness together were my apt virtue and was diversely vulnerable to both situational and mean abuses.

I always played strong and calm because my mother always told me that “son, don’t take part in any ruckus, don’t be in a fight, don’t be naughty, don’t be a bad boy”. So there I was trying not to be a bad boy. Pretending to be strong with a dreadful and fragile inlying.

Sometimes kids of my age and beyond inflicted misery on me but I remained strong, I didn’t cry. My voice was quivering and my veins were frenzied, my eyes were serous, my spirit is anemic but still... I didn’t cry.

The police, the civil force of scaffolding education were embarking there self-appointed feudal authority by all savage ways to make me like them. They did succeed I guess, not understanding my state of mind a bit, didn’t try to see through me what I was.

Withal I didn’t cry. My legs were defunct, my hairs were stiff, and a lagoon has separated my transparent vision from my eyes. But It didn’t broke into tears, maybe I wasn’t afraid, may be people saw me crying but in my reality I wasn’t.

I didn’t cry because we were always taught that weeping is for weak, miserable, pathetic and women. I don’t want to be called weak or pathetic. It was the fear of being derelict from the society ruled by alpha men.

I didn’t want to be strangulated by the embarrassment that would come after this act of pure expressiveness. Nor I wanted to be called by derogatory names. “A girl could do better then you” of course she can, if she is better she can. So what if she is from the presumptive weaker section of gender. “You are a disgrace, a coward” “what a pussy”. No I didn’t wanted to be identified by those phrases, nor did I want a badge of these ever humiliating qualities upon my chest.

‘For the love of my unknown, imaginary repute I won’t cry.’

Is crying that wrong???
One of the most natural displays of sadness and relief one can express.
Is it that bad???
Why didn’t they let me cry??? ...