My life was no different than any other boy. I was the same as what the society standardized as normal. I grew into a toddler and while trying to bite that hard toy, I got hurt. I cried but my mother comforted me. I grew into a kid. The child who wasn't sensible enough snatched my lunch, I cried but my teacher calmed me down. I grew into an adult and got into a fistfight. They beat me, threw stones at me. I was dripping in blood. I cried but my father strengthened me.
On that dark morning, I saw my mum lying in that deep dug wrapped in a silky white cloth, vanishing under the layers of sand. I cried but my uncle hugged me to be patient.
I got married to that beautiful lady who was devoted to her affection towards me but I kept torturing her. I twisted her arm, shouted at her, pushed her away and she would hit the ground. I bruised her and she still wouldn't leave me. I saw her crying but not a tear would affect me. My eyes were filled with rage. She had it enough and at last, left me.
I was alone, I cried but this time no one was there to say: “Boys are strong, they don't cry”. This mere sentence made my heart stoned and emotional-less. I became cold and weak.
Crying makes the emotions fallout and it makes the soul strong. Boys have a right to cry, it doesn't make them weak but they emerge into stronger beings and continue being impregnable.
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