Silicon Valley Strangers
The metro in my city is notorious for its inefficiency and lack of safety. But I would take that, over sitting in three hours of traffic, trying to fit my car into Tetris like contortions — each lane change, each exit, accompanied with fleeting moments of panic as I navigate the once-not-so-notorious-but-now-just-as-bad-as-LA-traffic.
The walls of the train cars are drab — think old oatmeal, spackled with the greys of fading graffiti, random paint splotches, and pock marks — remnants of desperate personnel trying to scrape ten year old gum off in a vain attempt to save what’s left of this sad wall. It’s not the color of that oatmeal, you know the type that makes you feel all warm and cozy inside with nodes of cinnamon and vanilla and wholesome oaty goodness. It’s the color of oatmeal that has no flavor, not even a pinch of salt, just little tiny oats floating in a bowl of lukewarm water turned a light grey from the microwave and steel appliances reflecting in your kitchen.
If you thought the walls were sad, the seats are a sight to behold. A sickly hospital green made of something that feels leather adjacent. More of a plastic excuse for leather. There are parts of the surface that are peeling off, giving way to little puffs of cotton emerging from the inside of the seat cushions. I’ve gotten into the habit of checking the seats before I sit on them, scared that the strong odor of day old urine might be emanating from this very seat. There are days when I step into the car and the smell of urine mixed with the sweat of a packed car makes me want to retch. I’ve gotten used to wearing turtlenecks more often, or sweaters with large baggy arms so I can use these extensions of my clothes to cover my nose when the smell gets too bad. Sometimes I get a seat, sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I listen to music. Other times I listen to the sound of beer bottles rolling around on the floor, clanking from side to side as the train lurches to a stop. Usually I fall asleep to the quiet hum of the train, the monotonous faceless voice announcing stops and that “doors are opening”. I must be a sight — clutching my bag for dear life.
When I first got this job, I dreaded the commute. In college, I hated using this train. I’d walk to the next town over if you let me, but I would not get on the train. The thought of having to use it every day was so scary I decided the best way to deal with it was to pack the thought into an airtight glass jar and bury it deep into the ground. I’d face it when the time came. Then the first day came. And I got on, wide eyed, alert, eyes peeled for signs of danger and signs of gross substances. I think I sat on the edge of my seat the whole time. Each day since, it gets easier. Perhaps I’ve become numb. Perhaps things get easier with habit, as one finds is true with most things in life.
But really, I think it gets easier because of the people.
There’s the old man dressed in a spiffy suit, complete with chestnut brogues and checkered socks. He has an old leather briefcase on his lap, something elegant in its wear and tear. He holds up a book about arms length away from his face. A pair of thin wired glasses teeter at the edge of his long nose. He peers through a magnifying glass, the thick concavity of the glass blurring what little I can see of the text. At first, I am amused at this figure holding up a magnifying glass — like a reincarnate of the illustrious Sherlock Holmes himself. It’s quite a contrast to the urban atmosphere of the train. As I watch the man lean into his book even more, I notice that he’s reading aloud to himself, quietly, so much so that if I hadn’t taken a second glance, I would’ve missed this little detail. You can see his lips forming the words he sees on the page, but no sound escapes the voice chamber. My amusement turns to admiration. I hope that one day, in my old age, I can live a life as content as his — reading, learning, and smiling.
There’s the mom with the stroller. One of those bulky kinds with the bonnet on top that folds over into a sort of crossover shelter between cave and cocoon. The mom looks exhausted, little rebellious wisps of hair falling on her face, desperate to escape the clutch of her ponytail. Her eyes are sunken, but she looks immensely happy. There’s a sort of glow on her face — you know, the kind solely reserved for mothers. I’m curious to know the source of her joy. I glance up one more time and realize the source — her daughter. She keeps looking at her daughter with this look of pure adoration. Like she’s a masterpiece of Michelangelo, an angel sent from the heavens. The mother’s lips can’t help curve into a smile, as she stares at this little human being she’s brought into the world. She absentmindedly curls her daughter’s ringlets in her finger, taps the cherubic doll nose and sit back, looking so simply and absolutely content. Nothing seems to phase her. She’s got her daughter, her daughter’s got her, and that’s all that matters.
There’s the woman with the black jacket. Sitting down, she looks about my height, perhaps even shorter. She stares at the couple in front of her. Watching him take her hand, watching him stroke the ball of her back, watching her smile into his eyes, watching her look out the window — her face flushed and glowing. Her eyes glisten. Occasionally they brim, the tears desperate to escape the barred walls of her eyes, eager to slide down her face, the built up feelings vying to come cascading down. But they never do. She is too good at holding them back. Is she holding back tears because she was reminded of someone or something? They say love hurts. Maybe that’s why she’s holding back tears- in remembrance of a love that pained her. But through the apparent sadness, there is a sort of subtle tenderness that graces her face — like she was looking into the past, watching a film about her life — the scene familiar, the closeness familiar, the breath familiar, the lingering touch of his finger familiar, the glow familiar, the invincibility one feels in love — all too familiar. So maybe love gave her something beautiful to cherish. Something only they knew. Something they had against the world, that was theirs and theirs only. Maybe that’s why she’s holding back tears — in remembrance of a love that was hers to own and know and run in her mind over and over until the past became reality and the reality became a mere fragment of her imagination, polished to perfection to remember this love that once, long ago, in a faraway land, seemed invincible.
It’s funny that I feel such intimate connections to these strangers. They do not know I exist, nor do they know that for a fleeting moment of the day, they held such a special place in my heart. They are unaware of the fact that they allow this slightly cynical millennial soul to glimpse the unedited and unfiltered nuances of human life. It’s funny, how this thing I dreaded so much has turned into one of the things I am most grateful for in life. It’s helped me become more mindful and present. For without these experiences, I would have continued to lead a life with shutters on — blinded and distracted from the world in front of me.
In the Silicon Valley, it is easy to forget humanity. It’s easy to forget that there is something beyond this tech bubble, something greater. We hold hour long conversations about how artificial intelligence will propel humankind to unbelievable heights, but we fail to see the homeless man sprawled across the back seat. We blindly move through life, driven by hype culture and the tech dream, fascinated by artificial intelligence and its implications. But what good is it if we fail to ignore a subset of our society that struggles to find the bare necessities of life. What good is a self-driving car if there’s a malnourished young single mother sitting on the train floor, unable to breastfeed her child. What good is all the pomp and circumstance around the latest iPhone and its camera, if we blatantly continue to ignore the immigrant father who works 80 hours a week at minimum wage, but still can’t afford to feed his family. As a silicon valley thoroughbred, I feel compelled to say that I’m not anti-tech. I’m not advocating that all tech is bad. Tech is amazing. Tech is no longer something that is an integral part of life — it is life. I know that better than anyone. But I wish we could bring all of society along in this pursuit of knowledge and advancement. As a society, we can’t stoop so slow as to justify progress while turning a blind eye to the vulnerable sections of our community. We can do better than that.
But it’s not one action or one decision that can change this trajectory. It needs to be grassroots. And we can start with a simple acknowledgement to a life outside our own individual bubble’s. Lifting our heads up from our screens. Finding some common strand of connection with the people you see on your daily commute. Yes, humans are complex. Yes, the human brain is complex. Yes, society is complex. But human emotion, no matter how complex, can be understood. You may not be able to verbalize it, you may not be able to touch it, but you can feel it. Look around, at the people around you, and feel the shared experiences. At the end of the day, we all came into this world in the same way, and we’ll all leave in the same way. Start with that, and soon you’ll see all the differences fall away. Who knows, you might have more in common than you think, with the old man sitting across from you on the train. And hopefully with these fleeting moments of connection we can learn to live a more integrated and present life, propelling all of humankind to greatness — not just the select few.
Originally published at https://www.meghanabhimarao.com on January 19, 2020.
