Unshed Tears

Written By : Sanjay Shharma

“They say men don’t cry.” You hear it in every corner, every mohallas—that sharp, humiliating command: “Ladkiyon ki tarah mat ro!” It was never just a sentence; it was a heavy, rusty lock slammed onto the heart’s door, passed down with solemn pride. We are told it’s strength, but it’s a wound—an old, unstitched gash hidden beneath the starch of a public persona. It is the invisible shrapnel we carry, making every breath we take as men a little shallower.

We internalize this lie because somewhere, in some movie, a character declared: “Mard ko dard nahi hota.” (A man doesn't feel pain). This lie is precisely why we strive to behave that way. The reality is simple: “Mard ko bhi dard hota hai—jaise sabhi ko hota hai.” (A man also feels pain—ju st like everyone else does).

But here’s the truth I am sharing: I cry. 

Sometimes, I cry like a total fool. 

And I've realized that the real courage lies in allowing yourself to be silly with emotion. It's not for weakness; it’s for a raw, beautiful kindness, for the empathy that just breaks you open. A quiet melody, a scene of deep betrayal and reconciliation—like that gut punch in Rock On!!—it can just shatter my composure, made my cry like a river. I also remember how much I cried watching the movie K3G—the unexpected wave of emotion that floods you when a cultural film gives you permission to feel the pain of a broken family. Crying, apologizing—it feels like cleaning the soul, like rinsing the heart of the corrosive grime of ego. This is what makes me feel human.

And yet, the silence was perfect only once. When Babuji passed away, I stood rigid among the mourners. I couldn't let a tear fall, because he carried that same iron decree, the 'Mard hai ,luga nahi' lie, until his final breath. Later, though, alone in the quiet of his empty room, I wept. I wept not for my own pain, but just for him. For the lifetime of unshed tears he had carried—the grief trapped behind his tightly controlled face. That moment was my solitary rebellion, my final, rawest conversation with the father who taught me silence.

I search for this truth on my quiet terrace, my only kingdom of reflection. The air is heavy now, thick with more than just dinner spices—it’s the day's stale tension and the subtle scent of anxiety clinging to the old brick. I am currently fasting for Navratras—the intentional hunger sharpens my senses, and the physical emptiness echoes the emotional one. I hold a glass of chai.

The rain has stopped, but its impact is still there. The air is cool, pulling out that rich, damp scent of wet earth and crushed neem leaves—the melancholic ittar of a receding monsoon, a smell that hints at things washed clean but still heavy with memory.

My dog, a fuzzy, warm anchor, curls at my feet. I watch the liquid honesty in his eyes. I have seen him full of tears—tears of pain at the hospital, tears of unmistakable gratitude for kindness when he’s rescued a toy. That is the tragic difference: men cannot. This isn't biology; it is a cultural cruelty. The dog has the freedom to expel those stress hormones, to use that basic, healing function.

We are forced to reabsorb the poison, commanded to be a well, deep and stagnant, where emotion only breeds bitterness.

Yet, when I look at the men of my lineage—my family and elders—I see those terrifying stone faces. They are etched not with wisdom, but with the painful resolution of emotional denial. They carry their burdens not as grief, but as a thick, rough chaddar of simmering anger, sleeping with their jaws locked tight, the grinding sound of their teeth a silent confession.

The word “sorry” is missing, outlawed by a generation that valued iron more than air. This toxic inheritance is clear in films like K3G, where the father’s overwhelming, silent pride crushes the son.

Every Indian man carries a huge, invisible load, and it’s a constant war on every front: the paper-thin worry of the EMI slip that determines the family’s respectability; the grinding stress of the corporate ladder fuelled by the need to 'keep up with the gang'—making sure our cars, homes, and holidays match the social pressure of our peer group. Add to this the unending cycle of emotional and family responsibility we can never admit is too heavy. This late-night silence doesn't bring peace; it makes the weight scream.

So we swallow the tears and tell ourselves the mantra: “Chalo, aage badho.” The sorrows and apologies we never voice calcify inside us like forgotten debts.

The hypocrisy chafes: women are culturally allowed to share grief, but our only choice is silence or defensive anger. But the curse isn't gendered. I've met women, too, with stone faces—terrifyingly inaccessible. Their sadness hangs in rooms like choking smoke, heavy with unvoiced resentment. That emotional drought is universal.

In smaller families, boys miss the constant rehearsal of empathy. The language of feeling is forgotten. Recently, my elder son, 30, said: “I feel broken inside.” That hit me with the terror of recognizing my own failure. My younger son, still a teen, already throws out the “Abbu, you wouldn’t understand…”—it’s his pre-emptive armor, learned from watching me.

Our solitude is defined by the whisky glass clinking. Men whisper to the amber liquid what they cannot confess to a soul—the taste of cheap regret and expensive stress. The stark reality: Women have the Kitty Party—a cultural scapegoat, a scheduled escape hatch for shared woes. For us men, there is only the glass and the dark, only the solo, suffocating retreat.

The anxiety intensifies with Andropause—the gradual drop in testosterone. I am sure you do not know this; everyone knows menopause, but Andropause is a crisis ignored. And because men are raised with no tears, this hidden hormonal shift creates absolute havoc—irritability, deep self-doubt, and profound fatigue. They are told to be pillars, but their own hormones are dissolving the foundation.

This is the true cost of silence: the physical collapse. When the heart has no emotional outlet, the body finds a destructive physical one. The constant, unreleased pressure of the Mard ko dard nahi hota myth spikes blood pressure and floods the system with cortisol. This emotional compression is precisely why more men are succumbing to lifestyle disorders, collapsing in the gym, and suffering more heart attacks. The burden is literally killing us. Our hearts are not steel; they are tablas—delicate, capable of necessary trembling.

Looking ahead, let us all be sensitive to the fact that until and unless men open up, shed those tears, and release their emotions, their health—mental as well as physical—is fundamentally at stake. We must normalize counseling. The future of men’s health depends on professionals who can help us dismantle the toxic weight of silence.

It is time to step forward. We don't need to be cold, rigid mountains. We can be rivers—flowing, giving life, always renewing. Strength is in melting.

Tomorrow, commit to a small act of bravery. If you are troubled , say to a friend or brother or sister or wife : “Haan, mujhe bhi taklif hai.” 

Hug your brother. Let your heart pour out.

And if someone dares to repeat that tired old lie, “men don’t cry,” you will know the truth. You will remember the silent cost paid by your fathers, and you will answer with the simple, defiant force of your own humanity:

“The true measure of a man is not the tears he holds back, but the feeling he dares to set free.”

This is the redemption of the Unshed Tears: "Tu ghabrana nahi, teri masoom aankhon mein, ajeeb si nami hai." (O life, I am not angry, I am just surprised by the strange moisture in your innocent eyes.

(From the song: Tujhse Naraz Nahin Zindagi / Movie: Masoom)

About the Author

Sanjay Shharma is a seeker, storyteller, and observer of life who weaves timeless truths into everyday reflections. Drawing from the well of Indian wisdom and personal insight, his writings awaken remembrance—not of something new, but of what was always within. Through simplicity, stillness, and soulfulness, he invites us not to become more, but to remember who we already are.