An invisible cost, an unspoken strength

Around us, everywhere, are people very much visible who invisibly carry a lot more than we ever see or can. Most times it is heavy, it is about everything, every little nuance, every little detail. But the magic lies in the part where they master the art of ensuring that the weight never casts its shadow for anyone else. They tend to steady things before they scatter and fall apart, calm the tremors before they cause cracks, create warmth before it begins to freeze, soften what could overwhelm, provide even before one can begin to imagine. And when the weight starts its way to reach us, they take that too, gently, almost instinctively, like it was always theirs to bear. And with time, instinct becomes habit, and habit, lifestyle. We rely on the ease they create, rarely pausing to think about all that was there, and theirs to bear, all the things they turned down, all the thorns they took in so all we could see was the rose and its soft petals. But what

might it mean to be the one who never puts anything down, to be almost everyone’s first thought even before the dark starts to set in?

Do we notice them when they start blurring or just disappear? There is absolutely no dramatic breaking point, no loud unravelling, but a stillness, a defeating quiet. The quiet in the way they stop explaining, expressing, asking, reaching and sometimes even talking. And then, one day, what remains and exists is a version of them we have so dearly learnt to rely on but never fully learnt to know. Their faces write a different story; multiple parallel lines on their forehead above the seemingly joining brows speak a completely different one.

They mostly wake up before everyone else does. Not because they have to, as a necessity or a rule, but because it is easier that way. It is quiet — the house and them on the inside, and the world outside. There are no expectations just yet, no one asks for anything, no mental to-do lists, no instant schedule. For a few minutes, with elbows on their knees, sitting at the edge of the bed, they stare. At nothing in particular. Their mind holds a hundred different thoughts, a hundred different tasks, yet is as calm as their heart beating in rhythm. They don’t call it exhaustion, don’t call it anything. By the time the house starts to set in motion, they already are in theirs. Tea is made, newspapers turned through thoroughly and folded, now just loosely. Their face settles into something dependable, something that does not worry anyone, something that just is. They have perfected that face.

They listen more than they ever speak. They nod at the perfect moments, smile at the right ones. When asked how they are, there is always a generous ‘I’m fine’. And with a consistency that the question stops meaning anything. They are good at being fine; they are perfect at it.

Work calls them efficient, reliable, prompt, punctual and honest. The kind of person people trust with utmost responsibility. The kind that does not complain, tremble or falter, and never breaks. They are considered to be ‘strong’, ‘can handle it’, ‘not like others’, ‘shall go out of the way’, ‘can adjust’ —and all meant as praise.

What we do not quite realise is that it is also a sentence. A statement, almost a fact.

Because there is a thick white shroud upon the concept of them also sometimes ‘not being strong’, ‘cannot handle it’, ‘are like others’, ‘will not go out of the way’, and simply ‘cannot adjust’. This entire phenomenon has almost become alien. But there are moments. Moments — small, invisible moments - when something slips. They sit in their car a little longer, re-read the same text without replying, the same page of the morning newspaper, stare at nothing in particular as they wake up, their elbows well rested on their knees and palms on their forehead. And when a thought begins to take shape, a first word occurs for the reply through the mind, something else, something unusual is felt through their brain and heart. Their rhythm distorted, a feeling. A reality — ‘I am tired.’ They jolt themselves, snap back into the moment and dissolve that thought before it tries to reach their lips and echo in their ears.

They do not know where such sentences and thoughts and feelings are supposed to go. There never was a space for the same, from mostly no one.

Back home, they are needed. Intentionally, unintentionally, timely, untimely, prepared or unprepared. They are needed. A leaking tap, a torn shoe, an unplastered wall, sudden hospital runs, a school fee, savings, investments, insurances, or just a silent tension at the dinner table. They absorb it all, not because they want to but because this is what they always do. No reason, no explanation, no justification. Hold, contain, continue. Repeat.

There might have been a time, long ago, when they tried to speak. And now, they might not even remember what exactly was said. All they may remember is the aftermath — the silence, the quick dismissal.

The subtle shift in how people looked at them, a drooping glance, not harsh, not loud. Just unfamiliar. It was as if vulnerability was a language they weren’t supposed to be fluent in, a format they weren’t supposed to learn. And that, they learnt. Quickly. So did we.

We habituated ourselves and learnt who to go to for solutions and not stories. For strength, not softness. For truth? No. For stability. Quietly absorbing and admiring the version of them that did not trouble us, a version that always had a way out, a version that was comfortable to us. Eventually and unintentionally, teaching them that was the only version of them known, the only version that was supposedly welcomed.

And so they carried. Carried the worry of not being enough, a shaking fear of failing people who rely on them, the quiet comparison they admit to, that ‘just being there’ might also sometimes be ‘just be there?’

The nights when sleep does not come easily, neither the tears, nor a whisper of help. They still don’t cry or call out. Not because they can’t, but because somewhere along the way, a lot of us convinced them without a word that if they did, something essential about them would be lost, something unmovable would scatter.

I have seen this person up close. Closer than most. You have too.I have seen them sit in silences that were never empty, rather full of words and sentences that could not be said, of emotions that could not be expressed, of softness that could not make it through. I have seen them turn away from certain conversations, the way they so fluently do it. And not because they don’t feel, but because they feel too much and nowhere close do they find it safe to place it.

Years have gone by misunderstanding them. I always thought that silence was distance, restraint, indifference. I never knew, nor do I even today, what it feels like to hold an entire life together without letting it spill, even for a nanosecond. I could not understand that love sometimes, for some people, is synonymous with responsibility. For all the things they never received, they made sure I never lacked.

They never spoke about that either.You have seen this person too, known them, loved them, depended on them, expected from them. And you have even been them.

They are not a character. They are made of real flesh and bone. They are our first call when things seem to fall apart, because they don’t fall apart. They seem to never need what they so easily and abundantly give.

When looked at honestly and closely, we look at conditioning and not just a personality. A way that takes shape with time, a reward for holding on tight, an invisible frown, discouragement for breaking, a trust for immeasurable strength. And rarely a space for anything that goes beyond these.

Unfortunately, it is learnt slowly, in latency. It is not natural. Now, though, perhaps it might be clearer who this has mostly been about. Your father, your brother, your friend, your husband or you.

And as we talk, yet again and honestly, we must try to learn how rarely mental health is talked about with an inclination towards men. Their mental health does not suffer in silence. It does, in their silence that we reward, in expectations dolled up as admiration, in their strength we demand but never question, in the discomfort we feel when they try to sound overwhelmed, uncertain, human.

It was not meant to be like this. But it is.So if you are reading this as a man, a human, you are allowed to be more than what is made survivable for you. You are allowed to be tired, to not have answers, to say you need help, even if your voice shakes when you say it. You are allowed to take up emotional space, a little break, unapologetically. Not as a luxury. But as a right.

And if no one has told you this before, your worth was never meant to be measured by how much you can carry without breaking, the weight you bore so others don’t, the silences that yearned to be heard.

And if you are reading this as someone who loves a man, is with them, around them, ask them again how they are. And this time maybe, wait. Wait for them to answer, form words and sentences and give voice to them. And most importantly, while you wait, try to build a safe, sensitive space that makes room for an answer that is not “I’m fine.” Unusual, untraditional. Thrive with it.

Let it be messy. Let it be scattered. Let it be incomplete. Let it be uncomfortable. Let it not make sense. Stay anyway.And to the man I biologically call my father, fondly and lovingly, Papa, from whom I get my name and my life’s blood.I see you. I always have. Not just for what you did. But for what it must have cost you.

For all the words you swallowed so I could speak freely. For all the burdens you carried so I could feel light. For the thorns you took so I don’t bleed.And to all the papas and partners and brothers and grandpas, and every man who makes it look easier than it really is.

Silence may have been what was expected of you. Maybe you never found the words. Maybe no one ever made space for them.But that space exists, it is safe, it is yours.A letter to all men, and to everyone who holds them close - may you find places where you are not just relied on, but embraced, not just strong, but safe.

Mythri Tewary writes about the complexities of human experience, to explore the spaces between what is felt and what is said, to try and understand the quiet, often overlooked parts of being human. This piece is one small attempt at understanding one of them.

(Mythri Tewary writes about the complexities of human experience, to explore the spaces between what is felt and what is said, to try and understand the quiet, often overlooked parts of being human)