Many of you may not have heard about August Steinberg. He was one of the most
important playwrights of nineteenth century Europe.

His play 'The Father'- one of the 10 all time great plays in the world, has
been a memorable experience for me. I essayed the role of the doctor- Dr
Auster Mark in the play directed by Alok Chaterjee.

Alok, a very talented theatre person, got gold medal from the National School of Drama in 1988. He was the second actor to achieve the feat 19 years after Om Puri was awarded gold medal in the NSD.

First let me introduce in brief about the play. Then, I will equally briefly explain
the objective behind mentioning it. The play portrays the tragedy of a man and a woman struggling for possession of their 13-year-old daughter.

The father, a cavalry captain, is intellectual, a freethinker, a man of ideas. His wife is narrow, selfish and unscrupulous in her methods when her antagonism is wakened.

While the father's love is concerned with the development of the child, that of the
mother is interested mainly in possession of the child. Therefore, she
fights the man with every means at her command, even to the point of
instilling the poison of doubt into his mind by hints that he is not the
father of the child.

Not only does she seek to drive her husband mad but also through skillful intrigue she leads every one, including the Doctor to believe that he is actually
insane.

Finally even the old nurse is induced to betray him: she slips the
straitjacket over the Captain, adding the last touch to the treachery.
Robbed of his faith, broken in spirit and subdued, the Captain dies.

In one of the last scenes, the devastated Captain succumbs to his wife Laura’s
shenanigans and weeps inconsolably. The triumphant wife taints; You
are weeping? What kind of man
you are?

Captain
bursts out amid interminable sobs, & yes, I am weeping. Can't
the men weep? They feel pain like women when a needle in pierced through their skin?
Don't they agonise on being deprived of things so dear to them? The
soliloquy is very long. Its gist is that the manhood has nothing to
do with weeping.

Now let me explain the motive behind mentioning the play. But first of all, let me
clarify that the play has absolutely no bearing on my life or my family. It is just
one poser of the dying Captain that keeps haunting me;Why the men
can't weep?

As I am ageing, I feel the social milieu brings more and more pressure on me not
to weep. It is a mid- life crisis and not very typical one. Most of the
people of my age might be feeling that pressure. But perhaps they either
don't recognize it or, if recognize, don't confront the
question.

When I was young, I used to cry a lot. I strongly believe nothing is more effective
prescription for catharsis than weeping. We & means me and quite a
few friends like me-- would weep when listening Mehadi Hasan and Ghulam Ali,
reading Pablo Neruda immortal poetic tribute to poet Lorka or Amarkant's
novel & Sukha Patta, or reading Faiz Ahmed Faiz' nazms on Palestine child or Bertold
Brecht plays.

I even wept reading Semuel Beckett's play, Waiting for Godot,
which otherwise is seen as a (black) comedy evoking wry humour. Beneath
the comedy, the absurdity of the mankind is terrifying and
tearjerker too.

And mind you, the tears were not a lachrymose manifestation of a maudlin. The tears were a natural tribute to the great men whose ghazals, poetry, plays and novels
so very subliminally purged our hearts.

Most of those friends have outgrown the phase. They don't weep any more. Many even sneeringly laugh when recall the tearful tributes of the Salad
Days.

I am perhaps caught in the time warp, as far the idea of weeping is concern. The age and circumstances have combined to conspire against my longing for weeping.
Most of my colleagues at work place are at least 10 years younger to me.

They respect me but, obviously, can't share the emotional outpouring my sublime thoughts might betray. In the peer group, such ideas on literature, music or ideologies are seldom discussed.

If at all discussed, we often end up showing cynicism for the
system with utter disdain. We have over the years become
conditioned to talk, mostly, contemporary politics.

Oh, I have already typed out 750 words. So, I stop here. Much as I might want to write on this subject, I have to bear the readers time in mind. Don't I keep saying that brevity is the soul of good writing?