My father has not been able to get out of bed for over two months,” lamented Jagdish Sanghvi, as his 90-year-old dad lay helplessly on a stretcher that jutted obliquely into my consulting room. In the tenth decade of life, the old man had a full mop of dishevelled silver hair and a perfectly curetted face that wrinkled every time he winced in pain at attempts to adjust his recumbent posture. “He had a fall eight weeks ago and has been unable to walk since then,” continued Jagdish amidst short ragged breadths and heaving sobs. I let him talk, handing him tissue and placing a glass of water on the table.

I have never been uncomfortable watching men cry. I, too, have cried. It’s a natural expression of grief across ages and sexes. Why should stoic men be exempt from expressing? Jagdish must have been in his mid-60s and was unable to comprehend how his completely independent father, while remaining cognitively crisp, was reduced to frail dependency within a few weeks, physically worn out from the pain in his mid-back.