According to Indian culture, a person gets hiccups when they are being remembered. When my uncle first told me about this, the overthinking child I was, I immediately adopted the most depressing elaboration I could – that whenever I didn’t have the hiccups, I wasn’t being remembered and for a vast majority of my time, no one was thinking or caring about me. Now, just slightly more optimistic, I wonder if it’s a special kind of remembrance that induces the silly, uncontrollable reflex we have given an onomatopoetic name to – a remembrance at once unanticipated but expectable, lingering but with a sudden end, simple but mysterious.
Over the past month, I have had the privilege to visit a variety of cities in 3 different continents. I spent only a small amount of time in each place and yet the time was sufficient for me to receive an impression of every place that I could call distinctly my own. Buildings and scenery, scents, foods, dirt and stone, music and sounds, I was exposed to it all and I internalized as much as I could. I found countless differences that make each place unique and infinitely special. But I also found several things that startlingly transferred from place to place during my travels. The most powerful of these constants is reflected in the individuals I will describe here.
As I describe and remember these characters in my August(an) story, I am intimately aware that they will probably never know that I am talking about them. They have touched me though they will probably forget about me. But perhaps this is the exact kind of curious remembrance that gives birth to hiccups. Perhaps it is only when strangers think about us that the curious mechanism drives itself to the forefront of our attention and makes us look foolish for some time before subsiding and then permanently leaving our worries. The remembered’s heart becomes so tickled by this stranger’s remembrance that the heart has no choice but to drive its laughter upward, the real reason for its delight forever to remain hidden from both sides.
In Chicago, he was found on the edge of the lake near the Planetarium, the city to his left and the horizon to his right. He stuck out from the rest of the people who turned their eyes to the left to watch yet another sunset tuck Chicago in for the night. He had his eyes on the horizon beyond the endless lake to the right, where the sky was changing colors every few minutes. His gaze betrayed his emotions – he was crying.
But there was more to him. By staying to himself and looking directly away from the crowd, he stuck out. He exuded a desperation to be noticed, at once trying to keep to himself to let others enjoy the moment and also cry out for help. He sat as if he wanted to be small but chose to focus his attention on the vastness before him, as if he was unsure if his tears meant anything to the world if he had to compete with things like Lake Michigan. But most of all, there was an excitement about him. Much like riding a bike without the training wheels for the first time, amidst all of the fear and anxiety, there was a genuine astonishment and relief of something uncertain moving from possibility to reality. The boy was crying, yes, but the boy had also discovered, or maybe rediscovered, that he could cry, and in an effort to crystallize this conclusion he looked at his reflection in the lake which was exactly when you saw him and he did something that burned him into your memory forever –
Bhopal is known in India as the city of lakes. It wraps around the largest lake in India and is surrounded by more lakes still on its outskirts. The capital of UP, it is still a smaller city, though it has grown much since I visited it last.
On my visit to Bhopal, we went to what I can only describe as a big dirt field right next to a short, grassy peninsula-hill on top of which is a building that we learned people do yoga in. Cows and buffalos dominated the flat area right before the hill, though the closer you got to the water, the more quiet and serene it became, with rock formations shrouding you from the rest of the hill. I chose to explore one of these rock foundations myself and was somewhat startled to find a man at the end. He was sitting on some kind of sheet, so I assumed he had been there or intended to be for a good amount of time.
I didn’t notice much about him, but I followed his gaze and immediately understood why he had come to this place and why he stayed despite the heat and humidity. Between our hill and the right section of the big dirt field was a shallow stream of water that was essentially untouched… save for around seven buffalos swimming in the water. I had never seen such lazy group bathing before – they showed no intention of splashing each other or even getting a good rinse. They simply swam, sometimes separated, sometimes together, and went about whatever business they intended to accomplish in the water.
They looked so calm together in the water. I wonder whether the man initially intended to do yoga and then found this instead. I wonder if he decided that if it was people stressing him out, then maybe it didn’t make as much sense to go to other people to relax. I wonder if he wanted to join the buffalos in the water, or if he was happy to sit and observe, participating as much as he thought an outsider had the right to.
In Hyderabad, I was interacting with more people that I had at any other point during my trip. I suppose that’s what Model UN does to you. And Indian Model UN is different – it is driven by different motives and metrics, the expectations and educational underpinnings are more varied, and the people working for the conference themselves have different standards that they measure themselves to.
But one thing that remained constant was the drive to be involved that everyone demonstrated. Whether in debate or as a member of the host team, everyone wanted to be important and wanted to be recognized for their work. Unfortunately, non-recognition is built into the delegate experience – several delegates that had outstanding performances could not be recognized because of the way Model UN works. However, I had never experienced non-recognition on any side other than the delegate side, and seeing so in India piqued my interest.
Perhaps it was because the job description was transcended at first and personal relationships were developed with several people. Perhaps it was the rate of follow up. Perhaps it was none of these things and something just seemed off. But this sort of out-of-place fervor made me think a lot about what could drive some people to go above and beyond not just the amount that they do, but also in the way that they do.
Ultimately, I think there existed a deep desire to belong, to feel important, to be included. And this is what struck me, because I tried to think about this like an economist would – on the margin. In this situation, it is uncertain whether your work will be valued. So how hard do you work before you decide you’re working too hard to try to be noticed? It seems as though you haven’t begun to think this way, though I’m wondering if you’ve thought about it too.
I wonder if you’ll ever find the point when you feel like you’re working too hard based on how much your work is appreciated. I wonder what you’ll do when that happens. But most of all, I wonder what it will feel like – do you think you’ll feel liberated, empowered, more confident and independent? Or do you feel like you’ll be worried about this happening again, that this is a problem on your end and not theirs, that somehow you really aren’t as valuable as you think you are?
In Amritsar, we had a driver that went above and beyond in his role for us by our standards – he walked us to several of our destinations once the car could go no further, stayed even when we didn’t need him, and always gave us good advice. At one point during the trip, as if he needed to explain his kindness for risk of otherwise appearing disingenuous, he called us his family, and I felt it a little bit when he said it. His eyes were so bright – how could you not think this stranger could do something so wondrous as adopting a group of college students after looking into them?
But something about the way he said it stays with me now. We learned during the trip that he has a daughter and a family of his own. I’m a skeptic by nature, so I find it unlikely that he could compare his daughter to a group of foreigners, most of who didn’t even speak a language he could understand. But his sincerity had to be stemming from somewhere – his eyes were drawing their power from something internal.
I think that he saw us, these carefree kids that were exploring new sights and new scenery, and he saw what he wanted for his family. He saw the possibility of exploration, of going to a good school and doing good things, of visiting places where people don’t look like you. I’m not completely certain about his spending power, but I doubt that he’s been too far outside of Punjab, let alone outside of India. I think he genuinely wants better for his children, and he saw the opportunity for that in us.
I spent a decent amount of time in India and had several experiences that deeply humbled me and reminded me of my privilege in so many circumstances of life. But I never expected the most powerful example to come from a person that did everything for us simply because maybe if we could have all of the things that he saw we had, his children could, too.
In Budapest, there is a smallish section of town that comes alive when it’s dark. It reminded me a lot of Brazil – lots of music and dancing and people in circles enjoying the night. There was a little rectangular pool in the middle of where we were sitting. Here, I saw a boy who was sitting by himself.
He was wearing a black t-shirt and green shorts. He checked his phone, sent a text, and then put his phone away. He looked around at no one in particular and then steadied his gaze for a few seconds. He pulled out a cigarette, lit it, continued looking in the same place as he took a few pulls. He had a glass next to him, picked it up and drank a little bit, put it down and then took another pull.
I don’t know what it was about the boy that caught my attention. Here he was, in the place where you could meet anyone from around the world, strike up a conversation about anything, dance to the beat of live drums, and all he looked for was isolation. He saw everyone and looked at no one in particular. He looked to distract himself, but also kept to himself as if he wasn’t ready to share whatever it was that occupied his attention. He was lonely in a place where company was given readily, quiet where you could be as loud as you liked, far where everyone and everything was so close.
I wonder if he was thinking about the future as he sat there. I wonder if he thought about people or places or positions as he smoked his cigarette, if he was playing scenarios in his head as he sipped his drink. I wonder if he cared about his current situation at all, the anomaly in a crowd fully committed to living in the moment.
I wonder if he was worried about disappointing his parents. I wonder if he was deeply concerned about whether a decision he made recently was the right one. I wonder if he was wondering if he’d ever get there, if he’d ever figure it out, if he had given up on waiting for his work to pay off.
