A train ride that should have been unremarkable, I saw something that stayed in memory making me unsettled. The train carriage is ordinary with pale yellow, fluorescent lights flickering inside and its reflections on the window. Patterned blue seats. Grey flooring. Outside, a blur of buildings and trees moving fast. Nothing cinematic. Nothing glamorous. Just movement between one point of labour and another.
On my right in next row of seats, I
saw a man of around 30-32 years. It was around half past 6pm. He had rested his
knees against the seat in front, almost boyishly, as though claiming a small
pocket of comfort in a long day. His phone is held upright in his right hand
supported by his left hand—mid-air, as if suspended in purpose of scrolling. At
first glance, he looks engaged, looking something at his phone like anyone else
commuting home. But the angle of his head told me another story. His chin was tilted
downward. It was then I realised that his eyes were closed. He was not
scrolling, but he was asleep, fast asleep like a baby. But the phone remained
lifted, still mid-air, while his consciousness has slipped away. A thin line of
drool marked the moment his body had stopped negotiating with exhaustion. His
grip still holding the phone led me to think between effort and surrender, the
posture of productivity versus the reality of exhaustion. It was a powerful
contradiction.
That sight felt heavier than I care
to admit.
He did not slump dramatically, his
phone did not drop, his body did not oscillate like old clock whose pendulum moved
right and left, he did not jerk like most people do when a train stops for a
station. In fact, I felt like his body has overridden etiquette, posture, and
even self-awareness. The grip on the phone suggests habit—constant connection,
constant responsiveness. Even in sleep, the device stays upright, as though he
must remain available as though he still needs to be engaged. To work. To
reply. To check messages from home and friends. To calculate time differences.
To maintain presence in two worlds at once. Even in his sleep, he appeared to
be ‘functioning’.
Beside him, another passenger sits
upright, composed, absorbed in his own screen. The contrast is subtle but
telling. One body contained and regulated, the other folded inward,
survival-oriented carrying invisible weights.
For me, that moment was not
incidental. It felt intimate, almost confrontational. What I witnessed in that
carriage was not just a tired commuter; it was a condensed metaphor of a life
lived abroad. It emitted the architecture of our life because it mirrored a
collective pattern. Many of us abroad live in suspension—between currencies,
between expectations, between identities. We remain upright, productive,
responsive. We hold responsibilities mid-air. We rarely allow ourselves to
fully let go. Even rest is partial, negotiated, provisional.
Then some voices echoed, familiar
voices from back home: “You earn in dollars, live carefree lives. Life must be
comfortable.” I looked at this person and reflected, maybe the logic behind that
equation was simple and seductive, simple and so persistent that it has become
common sense and understanding – migration equals comfort, distance equals
freedom, foreign currency equals a moral indicator of success.
But what if the glitter is simply
lighting, and not gold?? What if this romanticisation is insurmountable?
There was no glamour there. No
skyline. No filtered café moment. No curated proof of success. Yet this is the
most honest and pure reality: a young adult, probably in the prime of life, so
tired that sleep interrupts mid-scroll, halts, and disrupted route because of
sharp bends and corners. The common assumption collapses in the face of this reality.
The ‘dollars’ does not measure fatigue. It does not account for the long
physical struggles and the psychological strain of proving oneself daily.
What I found especially poignant
and deeply personal is that this extreme exhaustion will likely remain private.
When he calls his parents, he will sit upright and smile most probably. He may
not mention the awkward moment when his body shut down in public transport. Not
because he is deceptive and feels guilty of not being strong enough, but
because he is protecting them. To admit struggle feels like betrayal. And, so,
the narrative is polished. Exhaustion is edited out. Drool does not even make
it to the timeline. His conscience understands that worry travels faster than currency
which we all chase. He knows that his parents cannot intervene from afar. So,
he withholds the evidence of strain. That smile on video calls are done while
swallowing tiredness and homesickness.
But that restraint should not be
interpreted as proof of comfort because his body knows and tells the truth.
That man’s sleep was not leisure, it was collapse!
Just like any other migrants, he
may have posted images curated and filtered in social platforms with the
tendency to flatter flat migrant life into visually appealing economy of
success and autonomy. Of course, these representation function as symbolic capital
which reassure families and friends and sustain transnational pride. These
images have perfected the aesthetics of migration. A skyline at dusk. A neatly
plated brunch. A clean road. A weekend trip. A beer glass. A smiling selfie in front of recognisable
landmarks. These images travel back home, however stripped of context. No one
posts the double shifts. The unpaid internships. The unapologetic colleagues. The
casual contracts. The overcrowded and overpriced rentals. Professional degrees
often downgraded into survival jobs. The visa anxiety. The quiet loneliness of
coming home to usually an empty room. No one uploads a picture of themselves
falling asleep upright on a train because their body cannot negotiate another
hour of wakefulness. The glamour attached to abroad life is sustained by
selective seeing from the majority.
Observers often READ those events
or pictures, and confirm that “everything is gold.” But observers also have a
responsibility—to read beyond the surface, to question easy assumptions, to
recognise that adulthood includes silent endurance. But that young man disrupts
that illusion. It shows that behind the polished posts and reassuring calls,
there is often a body negotiating limits, testing endurance and resilience, and
living the cost of aspiration. It accounts for the human underside of global
mobility. The phone held mid-air becomes symbolic.
To those who says and insists that “all
that glitter is gold”, I would argue that the glitter that dazzles is often a
lighting, angled and timed. Gold, if it exists at all, is forged under pressure
and sustained by necessity. This “chill life” is frequently an aesthetic, not a
condition. The glittering narrative suggests abundance. But the lived reality
is frequently austerity.
Years can pass in this suspended
mode. One tells oneself: “After I get permanent status.” “After I clear debt.”
“After I support my parents.” “After I stabilise.” Desire is always
future-oriented. Gratification is postponed. Even joy is conditional. To admit
that years are passing in struggle feels almost disloyal to the very project
one embarks upon.
The man on the train, phone
suspended mid-air, reveals something unfiltered and symbolic. Aspiration
suspended. Connection sustained. Labour ongoing.
And the cost of that choice is not
always visible in photographs, but it is etched in posture, in fatigue, in the
way sleep arrives without permission while the phone remains suspended—still
held, still responsible, even in surrender.
