What’s “In syllabus” & What’s out? (Part 2)

Men don't cry!

Crying in public was just something I never did. Even crying in private was taboo. Growing up, I learned, as many boys did, that men don’t cry. Tears were a sure-shot sign of weakness, something to be hidden or suppressed.

Whether it was the playground or the workspace, crying was for the weak, and I was determined never to be seen that way. Even in the privacy of my own home, I would hold back tears during emotional films, convinced that keeping it all in check was the mark of strength. I remember boxing was compulsory for me in my school, which was the eighth standard. I was petrified, scared as shit to face the flurry of punches that better boxers than me flung out, but I don’t remember crying, though I know I badly wanted to. Life went on; I was uncomfortable when others cried in my presence. After a successful corporate career, I turned entrepreneur at age 43. At that point, if I felt vulnerable, I would just redouble my efforts. Making friends with my emotions was still far away for me!

Then came a moment that challenged everything I believed about emotions.

My company was growing fast, and we hired Sapna for our analytics team; she was a Mumbai University topper in statistics. Data analytics was still a new field, and finding good people wasn’t easy. So, when I heard that Sapna had resigned, I couldn’t just let her go. Her manager was set to take her exit interview, but I stepped in, determined to change her mind.

During the meeting, Sapna gave all the usual reasons—career growth and better opportunities—but none held water. I kept pushing, and then, out of nowhere, she broke down. Her head dropped onto the table, and she began crying—huge, uncontrollable sobs. I was the only one in the room, sitting in shock, completely at a loss for words. What do you do when someone cries in front of you like that? I had no idea. As a man, I had always been conditioned to hide my tears. I felt frozen, unsure how to react when faced with Sapna’s overwhelming emotion.

But I stayed, and I listened. Slowly, I asked Sapna what was going on. Through her tears, Sapna finally admitted the truth. She wasn’t leaving to boost her career—she was leaving because she felt like a traitor. Sapna felt deeply connected to the founder of her previous company and couldn’t shake the guilt of abandoning him. “He trusted me,” she sobbed, “and now it feels like I’m betraying him by being here as if I’m letting him down. I just can’t stand the thought of it.”

Sitting there, I couldn’t help but think about how I would have reacted if I were in her shoes. Crying wasn’t an option for me. I was raised to believe that men needed to be strong and that we couldn’t afford tears. I carried this belief into the workplace—keeping it professional and never showing cracks. You push through, you swallow the emotions, and you move on. That’s what I thought leaders did.

But Sapna’s tears showed me something different. They didn’t make her look weak or unprofessional. They revealed the depth of her emotional conflict—something I might have never seen if she had kept it bottled up like I would have. At that moment, I realized the power of crying, of letting go. It wasn’t about losing control but processing something too big to carry alone. And the weight of guilt and loyalty she was carrying would have crushed anyone. As Tom Lutz writes in Crying: The Natural and Cultural History of Tears, “We cry when we are overwhelmed—by sorrow, by joy, by beauty, by pain, by grief, by loss, by confusion. Tears are a reflection of the things that words alone cannot express.” Sapna’s tears were precisely that—an expression of something far more profound than any explanation could have offered.

I didn’t have any grand advice for her at that moment. I simply told her, “If that feeling of betrayal hurts you, follow your heart.” It felt like the only genuine response I could give, recognizing the emotional complexity of her situation. After the meeting, I returned to the busyness of running a growing company, unsure if anything would change.

A few days later, to my surprise, Sapna decided to stay. She never gave me a clear explanation, but her tears allowed her to process her feelings in a way that rational conversation never could. Sometimes, emotions need space to breathe before clarity can emerge. Sapna’s vulnerability led her to her own decision, and it was a powerful reminder for me. Leadership isn’t just about problem-solving or providing answers—it’s about being comfortable both with your emotions & those of others. It is about making friends with your emotions. 

As I reflect on this, I have never seen a man in my life cry—not my father, not any family friend, and none of my friends cried in front of me. Yet I saw men crying on screen. In Sacred Games, Saif Ali Khan’s character, Sartaj Singh, is a morally conflicted cop emotionally restrained and driven by duty. Yet we see him break down often and shed tears when he perceives the world as deeply flawed. In Dangal, Aamir Khan portrays Mahavir Singh Phogat as a strict, no-nonsense father. Yet, when his daughter wins the gold medal, his tears of pride define him in that moment—tears not of weakness but of strength.

I think of Lionel Messi as he stood on the podium to announce his departure from FC Barcelona; he was crying, overwhelmed by the moment of leaving his team after so many years. For a man who had become a legend in his field, in a macho sport, his tears made him human to me. They weren’t a sign of defeat but a sign of a deep connection—to the club, his memories, and the people who shaped his life. Messi’s vulnerability in that moment added layers to his legacy, showing us that men can actually cry & yet not be seen as weak.

It took me years to realize that vulnerability doesn’t undermine strength. Growing up believing that “men don’t cry” created a barrier I’m only beginning to dismantle. I’ve learned that crying, when it happens, isn’t a sign of weakness—it’s a sign that you’re human. It’s a way to release, to heal, to move forward.

Now, when I watch an emotional film and feel that familiar lump in my throat, I don’t resist it. I let the tears fall. I do it privately today, but who knows what tomorrow will bring!

Vulnerability, once “out of syllabus” for me, has become a lesson I’m still learning—a lesson that being in touch with your emotions can make you stronger, not weaker. I’m coming to embrace it in both life and leadership.