It's a Man's World

By Arun J

No, this is not the ‘Man’s world’ as described by James Brown in his iconic song. This is the Man’s world that no one writes songs about, no one dares to look for, no one cares to turn around for. This is the Man’s world that is true for the men, for the fathers, and for the sons out there. This is a world that was ruled by men, built by men, and forged by men into the working masterpiece. This is a man’s world… as made by man himself.

You see them walking down the streets, in your homes, bathed in the good and bad. The abandoning father, the careless brother, the atrocious neighbour, the creepy stranger, the man from the aisle across the supermarket who looked at you for three whole seconds. It’s all men, the men in their cloaks of knives, drugs, and scrubs. There is another breed of men, the ones invisible to the eyes of the human. The ones that live their lives minding their own business, providing for whomever they want to protect, going to schools with their head down, going to jobs with their eyes out back. It’s all men… the good and the bad.

They were made to love blue, love the dirt, love the things that make you bleed. But they were never taught to love love itself, it’s a pity. Someday after years of lessons of how blue, black, and white is a man's colour, everyone wonders, “Why couldn’t it be pink, a rainbow, or colours that shine on the sunlight?” only to wear black again, as you go out to the east.

Somedays you just want to visit the park, breathe in the green air, the soothing laughters, be carefree and aloof. Then you remember, it’s not manly to do so, you must work in environments of grey, of black, and others where colours have faded to monochrome. “It’s a man’s duty to provide,” said the forefathers, who taught their kids, their grandkids, and their great-grandkids. “Why?” no one dared to ask, it was the command given by the manliest of men.

Somedays you just want to rest, you want to be afraid, be weak, and show how vulnerable you are. Finally thinking, “Now, someone will accept me for what I am, who I am,” imagining a life of small happiness, small victories, by the suburban roadside, in a small family of three.

Then you hear those words that make you feel out loud.

“A man is not loved unless he can provide,”

You think, “Damn. Even in modern times?” and you look around yourself, and find the worthless men all sad and alone. The sight is a mere ripple in the universe, manly lives are worth only that in the grand scheme of the multiverse.

“Be of service, you will be remembered. Be not, you will fade to black,” said the ones before you, taught you, conditioned you. You tried to resist, to fight back, to change the ways of men and gods. Then you looked around again, only to find the worthless men still sad and alone.

“Aren’t these signs enough?” you ask, fading back into a world lacking colour, of purpose, and devotion. “This is a man’s world, and it is all black, white, and grey all over,”

Yet, somedays you just want to be free, there are those lucky few who dare to dream. “I will change the world, I will be an artist, I will be the writer that makes you feel,” said them as a child to the world out loud.

“Bravo, my child! Bravo,” said the world back, while whispering aback, “Don’t worry, these delusions only last as a child,”

“But what of my dreams?” asked you to the ones that told these things, as you stand at the edge of a decision, of money, or of passion.

“A man’s duty is to provide. You must place yourself in a social status to be worth something. You won’t ever be anything by your passions. Your dreams will not put food on the table,” said them in a cold demeanor.

“Okay,” said the child whose dreams were crushed. “Okay,” said he who walked into another world of black and white.

Somedays you feel sad, overwhelmed, and diseased. You just want to cry some warm tears in your mother’s cheers. Then you are told,

“Man up! Do not cry. Boys aren’t supposed to. You must be strong,”

You wipe your wet eyes, your heaving breaths, and gloomy snots. You man up, you push through, fight another day to make it at night's end. But no man is strong enough, no man is hercules. They all cry at the end of the day, where no one but their pillows will be dear.

“At Least they won’t tell us to be a man,” you tell, as your bawling cries wet the fuzzy covers of the hard bedsheets.

No man is immune to this, they have all cried in places you have jeered. They have bawled, they have lost, they have died all over every single day. They have wondered so greatly very much, “If only someone only cared,”

No one did. No one cared. It’s a man’s world, and it’s black, white, and grey all over.

You wake up the next day forgetting last night’s weakness. You have to be strong, it’s another day in the grand wilderness. You walk down your grey and colourless roads in dread, thinking, “How will I survive, make it to this dull day’s end?”

And in your path you see finally some colour. A florist had opened her shop, it birthed roses, tulips, lilacs, and many others. Your grey world brightens a little as you see a little girl being bought those flowers and smiling. She smelt it so merrily, her joy spread abreast. Then you see just behind where a silly boy is staring at the very same, he looked to his father, who pulled him far beyond the florist’s way. Then you remember,

“The first flowers a man receive is at his funeral,”

Where they all say about his greatness, his service, and devotion. But none of them knew, he just wanted some flowers, to be cared for, to be loved, and to be cherished. It is too selfish to ask, this manly endeavour for a flower. “Oh that’s sweet,” says everyone who hears, then out back far away from your ears they utter, “What a man he is? He wants golden flowers,”

Then you see a pink child walking up to you, a flower in her hand, and innocence spread on her cheeks.

“Here you go, mister,” she extends her tiny arms with ease.

It makes you smile, cry, and dance all over. No one had said that, no one even cared. It’s always a child’s innocence, the unconditioned truth of this world. You take it from her arms, you hug her tightly and smile. This bundle of unspoilt joy, a lovely little human, still untouched by the world’s rules of dire.

“Get away from her, you creep!” shouted the woman unknown. Your hands fall, your smile explodes. “What do you think you’re doing to her?” asked she with a disgusting look on her face.

“What?” you wonder, and then look at all the eyes that stare. “You’re a man. Holding a child!” said their eyes. You look at the little girl’s, she said no such words.

Shamed, crucified, and maimed for showing love, you were ousted from her sights, your flowers fell right over. “You’re a man!” those words echoed in your ears.

Is it wrong to love a child? You wonder. They were the only ones who saw you as a creature, and not some Man! But NO! You’re not supposed to show a smile to the children, you might be a creep, a craven, a molester, or all the above. “I just wanted some flowers,” you may never tell. No one will believe, “It is not manly to do so,” they will all repeat.

It’s a man’s world and it’s black, white, and grey all over.

“Fuck this,” you yell, wanting to break free from these dreaded stereotypes. “I’m soft, I love to feel, I love a good romance, I love to be seen,” said you out loud to the world at large.

“Bravo! Bravo!” said them, and their modernity so grandly. “Ha! What a man? He couldn’t even be strong,” added them to everyone but you.

“Men aren’t supposed to feel, you are to be strong, and fight with such great complexion,” said our fathers.

“Bullshit!” you yelled back. “I do not want to be that kind of man,”

“Suit yourself then,” they finally accept. After maiming your skin with hundreds of leather red stripes.

“I am a man who’s different. I like to smile, to love, to see the colours all over,” you say as you cover your bruised body with peace. Then you read somewhere, written with grease,

“A man is only loved unless he can provide,”

“Bullshit,” you yell again. “There are ones who will accept me for who I am, who I want to be, who I dare to violate!” said you with daze.

Then you look around, it was only the manly men who got praised. You look further, and see with your eyes, the worthless men are still sad and lonely at best.

And you wonder, “I was so happy before, what happened?” and remember, you were five when those memories vanished, you were raised to be a man of sorts.

“It is only the brave men who can suffer through the embarrassment, shame, and prejudice. One day you will make it, look at me, I have,” said the great man in his thousand dollar suit and tie with grace.

“But what of the weak men? What of the ones that no one looks back to? What of us who just want a normal life?” you ask. They reply, “It is a man’s duty to be great someday,”

You go back to the pillow, to cry out at ease. But always remember, you must never be loud to alert another. “You’re a man, no one must see you cry!” is the commandment. “I am tired of this. I am tired of being a man,” said you to the world at large.

“Huh, he thinks he has it the hardest,” said them, shaming, and laughing at your dires. “There’s another who has it harder. He knows nothing about it, and he is a man, he says,” says them to my face, to my eyes, to my ears. “He thinks being denied love is so bad, not getting flowers is bad, not being seen is bad, being a little lonely is bad. Ha! What a selfish man! There are others who has it much harder,”

“Yes there are,” you reply. “But I am tired,”

“You’re a man. An oppressor of the weak and tired,” they fired.

“Yes I am… I am a man,” said you beyond their earshot. “I had enough,” said you to no one who cared.

Someday, far beyond that day of dire, they come to you. “You haven’t been of service!” they yelled. Little did they know you couldn’t hear. The noose around your neck had made you disappear.

“He was a good man. So kind and so great,” they retire. What was so great about me? No one ever told me, your ghost enquired.

And then you see the first flower being thrown at your funeral. Your eyes well up, your smiles widen out loud. “Thank you for the flowers,” you say to none, and re-utter, “It’s a man’s world, and it’s so beautiful to exist,”

By Arun J