Men do Cry

It is like the first day in the hostel. Then it was fear to look into eyes and talk to an unknown, now it’s the fear of tears that may roll down. Yes, that is the same person with whom I shared the bed on the second day in the hostel. Yes, that is the same person with whom I stayed awake the whole night—studying. Yes, yes, yes, it is the same person on whom I wept, when my father died. But I don’t know, now I am afraid to talk looking straight into his eyes. Maybe because this is the last day we could stay together, maybe we cannot be this same way anymore.

 “This is not the end, we meet again and again,” yes, it is a firm promise that is generally made, but somewhere deep in we know, that may not happen.

The windowpane and tube-light that we broke, many fights and movies in the dark, everything seems to be stopping us. Many giggles and many more chuckles, every laugh to a very bad joke, each slap on the butt that ache, memories on each day we make, we don’t give a shit about the heaven in some nook.

The yanking sounds of the zips and the hurried packing went on silently. Maybe silence before the storm is true. Space around was dull and humid, the air stayed still. I felt like the time is moving but we stayed statue. It was sad to look at the empty room, no pillows to throw, no shoes to shoot.

The motivational quotes on the walls—though never motivated, the three lines on the door—acting wickets for every room game and uneven pencil scribblings too, look marvelously beautiful.

No buzzer played, no countdown clock shouted, but deep inside we knew its only one hour left to leave. Lunch with chicken was the most awaited thing in the hostel, but though we have a finely cooked meal in front, everyone appeared to be wanting something else.

Exempting the heart feelings, everything looked fine. An outsider would see it as every normal day, but finally, heart feelings matter. In not more than twenty minutes vehicles reach us, the heavy packings were brought down.

I felt we are strong, I thought we just slap hands in the air, crack a few same old jokes, and move on. But the scenario was different, hands were just lying pockets, legs were cemented at the very same place. Nobody made eye contact; faces were the only things left to notice in 360 degrees around. Eyes stared at the very same old floor; we have been witnessing for about the past four years. Maybe the floor too felt the weight of the heavy hearts.

The guy who slapped me why I was crying, is crying now. That guy who never uncurved his lips, is crying now. That guy who was called, ‘the angry young man, is crying now. That guy who survived six backlogs without a teardrop is crying now.

Hiding the red butt made by the birthday bumps, patiently listening to the same old breakup story for the infinitieth time, explaining the confusing derivation with all the patience was the only known ways for us to friendship.

But this day, at this very sharp moment, in the midth of this, my mind awakeningly shouted, “Men do cry.”

Thanks for the memories.

Dedicating to the hostel boys of Mechanical.