Of men and memories

In the course of my academic career, there was a time when I was tired of reading all kinds of books. I, then, wanted to read people. Because a person’s story always appealed to me more than the one his mind makes.

Unlike a little girl, I always dreamt of talking to strange men in cramped coffee houses. Strange, lonely men, both scared and scarred. I couldn’t do it, firstly because I couldn’t step out of my comfort zone and secondly, the zone that society had set for me (I’ll surely do it though). Unable to read the stories of new, unknown men, I succeeded at perceiving a lot many of them in the men I already knew- young and old, shy and bold.

I hate to ask any man about his future plans just as much as he hates to answer it. I’d always want to know about his childhood when his 3-year old self stepped on his own shit and cried for the entire day (We all do that now as well) and the child who slept in some other woman’s arms and felt just as warm.

It appalls me to see how lonely boys make great, caring men and how some pampered kids grow up to be the most insecure beings. It pains me to see how some dads fail to say the three magical words of love to their children, yet put their whole life proving it. It saddens me to see how beautifully some broken men try to dress the wounds of their beloveds; the beauty of the scars of these men can totally beat any woman’s well-bosomed bust and well-waxed legs, trust me.

I want to know about the 7-year old kid who sat on the floor while the other kids made fun of him. I want to know about the 11-year old hosteller who couldn’t buy his favourite orange flavoured candy because his pocket-money fell short of 2 rupees. There is something so tragically beautiful about men who have, now, forgotten to cry but know exactly how to make you smile. The stories behind their tough tears are most attractive to me, if only I, as a woman, have the patience to let them unfold in layers.

I call myself a feminist. And that is why today, I choose to see the pain in the eyes of the sex opposite of mine. As a woman, let me tell you, some of us do not cry and some of us make excellent listeners, too. Tonight, dear men, you are free to cry.

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