If, while baba was beating me, I cried, he’d hit me again for crying.
“If you cry, you’ll get hit. Men don’t cry”, he’d tell me.
Whenever he beat me, my main concern was to not cry.
This went on until I grew up and no longer knew how to cry or sob.
I swallowed my tears.
I rarely tear up when I’m by myself, let alone around people.
When baba dies, I don’t know if I’ll be able to cry at his funeral.
It’s a terrible feeling: wanting to cry but not knowing how. Tears refusing to fall.
Your eyes become programmed to not tear up.