(crying) At the movies

I was eight years old when my father took me to watch ‘Titanic’. I bawled like the child I was when Jack froze in the ocean and Rose screamed herself hoarse asking him to come back. (I always thought she was talking to him, not the rescue-boat.)

Then came an array of ridiculously cheesy Bollywood movies I now abhor, and I cried in the climax of every single one. Openly. I never cared about what people thought of the copious tears that flowed from my eyes at clichéd dialogue. I can still vividly hear the sniggers of the college-going kids in the back row as they pointed at me blowing my nose loudly during the mother-son reunion scene in K3G (along with every alternate scene in that movie). My mother shook her head lovingly in my direction as I cried over the deaths of protagonists in k-serials who would eventually be re-born.

Friends and family chided me playfully throughout my childhood about the involuntary nature and eagerness of my tear ducts. I responded by smiling shyly, because it was never something I was ashamed of. On the contrary, I think I even felt pride at the thought that only I could feel this way. These stories and the characters in them spoke to me like they did to no one else. I smiled like I knew some secret they didn't.

I have no memory of when things changed, but over time, I had stopped crying in cinema halls. Not even when Dobby died in HP7 (which had my eyes so wet while reading the book I had to close it for a full 10 minutes). I should've taken it as a sign of growing up, except I couldn't for one simple reason. I still cried when I was alone. At retirement plan commercials. Friends hugging on Friends. Lame proposals in sitcoms. Meredith’s wise words at the end of a GA episode. Patriotic songs. Relatable blog posts.  But always when I was alone. I remember crying at the coco cola happiness ad I watched alone on my computer, yet making it through ‘The Bucket List’ with dry eyes because I was watching it with my sister, and I was afraid she would laugh. And I was not ok with that. It stung to even think about it.

If it wasn't evident by my writing, I've recently embarked on a journey where I'm struggling to let go. Where I try not to bind myself within definitions of what I should be, and allow myself the right to feel without boundaries, and not be ashamed of it. Of the intensity of emotions over issues that seem laughable to the general population.

Today, I broke my Sunday tradition and picked a film for the afternoon that was less than 50 years old, finally watching Will Smith’s much appreciated ‘The Pursuit of Happyness.’ I'm glad I did. Though it didn't move mountains inside my heart, it still made me cry. After his endless struggle, when the poor black man finally gets the job, though predictable, I could not stop my tears despite my sister sitting next to me and my mother walking into the room at that exact moment. I didn't bother to hide what I felt, and my family had the good sense not to comment.

As the waterworks continued when the credits rolled, I realised I wasn't just crying for Chris Gardner. I had become so increasingly distrusting as a person that I did not even have faith in my own blood not to judge me. I had shut myself off from everyone around me, in fear, always the fear of being judged and humiliated for no greater crime than being myself. They were happy tears, for having found the courage to cry again.

Next weekend, I plan to watch ‘Wuthering Heights’ (1939). I don’t know if I will be brave enough to cry again. But today, whilst I am still unafraid, let me say this much - I cry at the movies. If you don’t see my tears, I'm still crying inside. And that’s ok.