There is a lot to cry about these days, especially in today’s world of death, destruction and devastation. And there can be tears in extreme joy, too. It takes someone either very strong or very insensitive to not cry when they see pictures of a baby dead in its weeping father’s hands, an old woman pleading for municipal workers not to destroy her shanty, a child begging to be spared from another beating…or even a mother sobbing at being reunited with a lost daughter, a father being given his newborn baby, a beauty queen winning her international title (however trivial that may sound in contrast).
For me, the working principle is, weep and I weep with you. It has never failed to happen. If someone in front of me, be it on television, film, real life or even just a book starts crying, pressure builds behind my eyes, them wells and flows over my face as salty tears. It is inevitable that, when I watch a news clip on television, where people are mourning, I mourn, too. A few nights ago I was watching a wildlife show when the host found the body of a grown tiger he had been tracking since it was a cub; he cried, his team cried and, of course, I cried. It was a magnificent beast and deserved to live because of its beauty, if nothing else. Last week, an office colleague lost her dog to sudden and severe illness and, as she wept, my eyes filled, too.
And sometimes the tears are for myself, not merely resonant. Two nights ago I was watching a television serial, one of those that helped me decide my career ambition of being a ‘bad lady’. The woman who was last seen, in my memory, shooting her son, who later died in what is now known not to be an accident, was killed when paid assassins shot at the man who was not her son but looked like him and even briefly impersonated him in the family. There was no blood this time, but a cliffhanger last week when bullets flew in slow motion towards the lady and her not-son…then cut to the credits. This week, she managed her nine-minute deathbed sequence – refined to a veritable art in Hindi movies of some years ago – and much weeping ensued. Even as her family bawled, so did I; as her daughter-in-law wept her anguish, I did mine, missing my mother, wanting her back with me. And, as her other son and the non-son together lit her funeral pyre, I relived that numbing morning when I saw my mother’s body go up in flames.
And I wept.
Meanwhile, our new kitten played at my feet, rolling on her back on the carpet, her fat little tummy up and out in the air for me to tickle and her tiny bottle brush tail puffed and raised in excitement. She bounced on all four of her tiny feet, running in circles around the clear plastic pouf, squeaking and growling in her madcat joie de vivre. Every now and then she clambered into my lap, using it as a kind of fortress from which to strategise and then attack the length of satin ribbon that was her tormentor and target. She explored my toes, pounced on the ball of newspaper she chased and then shot under my long skirts to roll on my feet to take a brief nap. As she played, her fur ruffled, her eyes wide, her ears alert, her pleasure was all mine. She had me rolling on the carpet with her, my giggles matching her chirps and rumblings. And there were tears in my eyes, this time of laughter, of fun, of the sheer joy that the little orange furball was bringing into our house.
Which is a good way to cry.
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