Lachrymose

What brings a tear of joy to your eye?

The caption is misleading.

Lachrymose means given to weeping which I am not.

Everytime I want to cry, the pain becomes a tight knot inside my stomach and settles like a stone within reluctant to leave me in peace.

I can’t remember when I cried last.

Actually the problem lies with my lachrymal glands which have stopped secreting the liquid called tears. In this city’s dry and dusty weather and work demanding prolonged sitting on the computer are the reasons. Also, I used contact lenses for a decade which worked fine with me till I was based in a place with moist climate. As soon as I returned to my home town the lenses had to be dispensed off and I had to switch over to glasses. Reason – dryness of eyes which still continues. On the aside, lenses work the best in moisty eyes.

But surprisingly dryness suddenly turns into fountains as soon as I come across

A beautiful painting

A wistful song

A touching poem

A moving prose

A heartrending story

A tragic movie

A motivational speech

A patriotic oration

A cute little puppy

A newly born baby

A blushing bloom

A surprise gift

A sorrowful narration (the narrator can be anyone)

A funeral ceremony

Someone crying in my presence

I know all the situations do not fit into the prompt. I also don’t know if the moistened eyes are tears of joy. Of course, noone is gleefully tearful in a funeral unless he/ she hates the diseased beyond redemption and wishes him dead from the core of his/her being.

I also don’t understand the science of it. How come the glandular activity is suddenly over functional whereas the urge to cry is defeated on ‘normal’ occasions. I believe I can call it that – it’s normal to feel like crying.

I once had a colleague who could easily convert her eyes into running taps as and when required. I secretly felt it was a whole lot of melodrama. Anyhow…it served her purpose.

Coming back to my sporadic teary state I was told it runs in the family. My grandfather had a habit of sniffing and sobbing over passages of Shakespearean Tragedies which led my grandmother snigger and say, ” The man does not have any sympathy for humans around him but has so much concern for fictional characters.”

My father, who was the most introverted person, also had the same habit of going lachrymose over beautiful poetry and prose.

So did my aunt (father’s sister) who was a tartar in real life.

However, having rambled on so far, the last I recall my lachrymal glands became over active, nay functional, when Rinky came in my life. She was just forty five days old straight from Patiala packed in a puppy basket travelling the distance in a speeding bike straight on to my lap – a present from my elder sister who wanted to wrench me out of a state of self imposed mourning over Mr. Snow Boot who departed to doggy heaven unexpectedly , untimely.

My cheeks were flooded with saline water as I cuddled Rinky. She, of course, found a lot of solace in my plumpy arms being separated from her mother and siblings so early in life.

Those saline droplets were joyous tears or tearful joy or may be both. I don’t know. But those successfully initiated a rare phase of happiness and celebration in me life.

Unfortunately I have lost Rinky ‘s puppy pics. This one is from Pinterest very close to the real one.