May I Cry?
It was another ordinary evening in the life of Arjun Mehta—a man known for his calm strength, his leadership, and his quiet smile. The lights of his office floor still glowed past sunset, and the sound of keyboards filled the air. Two hundred employees looked up to him as their guiding force—a man who never wavered, never broke down, and never let his emotions overpower his duties.
To everyone around him, Arjun was the definition of success. A caring husband, a responsible father, and a respected businessman. Yet, as the elevator doors closed behind him that night, the silence inside echoed a question that kept haunting him for years—“May I cry?”
His driver greeted him with a polite “Good evening, sir.” Arjun nodded, lost in thought. The city lights flashed past the car window like memories—some bright, some blurred. It had been four years since his father passed away. Four long years since that comforting hand had rested on his shoulder, saying, “You’ll do well, my son. I trust you.”
Arjun missed those words more than anything.
His father, Raghunath Mehta, had been a simple man. A school teacher who believed in honesty, hard work, and love. He never had much money, but he had immense warmth. Every night, when Arjun was a child, his father would tell him stories—not of kings or warriors, but of kindness and courage. “A man is not known by his strength,” his father used to say, “but by his heart.”
Those words had built Arjun’s life.
He reached home late that night. His son, Aarav, was already asleep, his small hand still clutching a toy car. Arjun smiled faintly and sat beside him. The child’s face reminded him so much of his father—it was the same innocent calm, the same way of breathing softly as if at peace with the world.
Arjun whispered, “You know, your Dadaji would have loved you the most, Aarav.” His voice trembled.
His wife, Mira, walked in quietly. “You’re thinking of Papa again, aren’t you?” she said softly.
He nodded. “It’s been four years, Mira. Everyone says time heals, but it doesn’t. It only hides the wound beneath the smile.”
She sat beside him, holding his hand. “You’ve taken care of everyone—your mother, me, the company, even your father’s old school charity. You’ve done everything he wanted.”
Arjun gave a faint smile. “Yes. But sometimes I just want to cry. Not because I’m weak, but because I still love him so much.”
Mira didn’t reply. She just rested her head on his shoulder. The room was silent except for the slow ticking of the wall clock.
Later that night, when everyone slept, Arjun stepped into the balcony. The cool wind brushed against his face. The stars seemed to whisper stories of old days. He looked up and whispered, “Papa, are you there? Do you see me?”
He remembered that last morning in the hospital—his father’s hand cold but firm. “Don’t cry, Arjun,” his father had said with a weak smile. “Be strong. You have a family to lead.”
And Arjun had obeyed. He didn’t cry even when the doctor declared the end. He didn’t cry at the funeral. He stood tall, managing everything, comforting everyone, fulfilling every ritual. Everyone said, “Look how strong he is.”
But inside, something broke and never healed again.
Now, after all these years, his strength had turned into silence. His eyes carried unseen tears that he never allowed to fall. He was afraid—afraid that once he began crying, he might not stop.
The next morning, Arjun went to his father’s old house, which now stood mostly empty. Dust covered the wooden furniture, and the faint smell of old books lingered. He opened the cupboard where his father kept his diary. Inside was an envelope addressed to him.
He opened it with trembling hands.
“My dear Arjun,
If you are reading this, it means I have gone ahead in the journey of life. Don’t be sad, my son. You have always been my pride. You have done everything I ever dreamed for you. But remember—never let the world’s idea of strength make you forget your own heart. Cry when you need to. Cry not out of sorrow, but out of love. Because tears are not weakness, they are memories melting into blessings.”
Arjun closed his eyes. The handwriting was shaky but filled with warmth. He could almost hear his father’s voice saying those words.
He sat on the old chair where his father used to sit and began to weep. Slowly at first, then freely, like rain after a long drought. The walls seemed to listen silently, the way his father once did.
For the first time in years, he allowed himself to cry—not as a son who lost his father, not as a man burdened with duties, but as a child missing the person who taught him how to live.
He cried for the times he couldn’t say “I love you.”
He cried for the dreams his father couldn’t see come true.
He cried for the advice he still wanted to seek.
And he cried for the silence that had replaced laughter at their dinner table.
When his tears finally stopped, he felt lighter, almost peaceful.
He looked around the room. The morning sun entered through the window and fell on his father’s framed photo. Arjun smiled faintly and said, “Papa, thank you. I think I understand now.”
On his way back, he stopped by the school his father once taught at. The children were playing, laughing, shouting—free from all worries. He donated new books in his father’s name, just like every year, but this time, his eyes didn’t hide. They glistened with pride and love.
At night, as he tucked Aarav into bed, his son sleepily asked, “Papa, why are you smiling?”
Arjun kissed his forehead. “Because I met Dadaji today—in my heart.”
The child smiled and drifted into dreams.
Mira, standing by the door, saw a softness in Arjun’s eyes she hadn’t seen in years. “You look peaceful,” she whispered.
He nodded. “I cried today.”
She smiled. “And?”
He looked at her, eyes moist yet calm. “And it felt right.”
For the first time, Arjun realised that tears do not make a man smaller—they make him more human. Strength is not only in holding back emotions but also in embracing them.
He still missed his father, and he always would. But now, he no longer feared his tears. They were not signs of pain anymore—they were proof of love that never fades.
As he stood near the window, watching the stars twinkle, he whispered one last time, “Papa… may I cry?”
And somewhere in the silence of the night, he felt a gentle voice reply—
“Yes, my son. You may.”
– End –
