Suffering Makes A Man

There is a lot that people don't understand about me, not just because I have complex ideas, but also because they've never experienced life the way I have. They haven't been in similar situations. By the time I finished my bachelor's, I had transformed into a full-blown extrovert. I spent more time outside my room than in it, even if I included sleeping time to it. My routine involved leaving around 8:30 in the morning and rarely returning before midnight. Most of my time was spent in other people's rooms, to the point where some of the rooms became my temporary napping spots in the afternoon. Life was chaotic for four straight years. Sleeping in different rooms became routine, and luckily, no one ever kicked me out. I had a large group of friends, or rather, I was part of several different groups. Each group taught me something different and had a unique vibe. Some were for having dinner together, others for joking around, and a few precious ones for cherishing true friendship. As an unaware kid, I had no idea how much my life was about to change. The number of interactions I had during those four years of college was probably equal to the rest of my life combined. I met, hung out, and ate with all sorts of people—some smart, some foolish, some sensitive, some obnoxious. It was a truly diverse group from all parts of the country and various social classes. As everyone says, college is often the best phase of one's life, and it was true for me as well.

Despite how much I enjoyed my bachelor's years and the countless interactions I had, life was about to throw me a curveball for which I was completely unprepared. A few things I didn't learn during my bachelor's were studying and solitude. These concepts were foreign to me. It was tough to focus on either when visiting ten different rooms every day was a ritual for me. In fact, it's hard to do anything when you are interacting with twenty-odd people every single day for seven days a week, for four years. Believe me, I'm not exaggerating—it was an overwhelming amount of social interaction. A lifetime's worth of interaction crammed into four years. But don't think I regret those moments; they were the moments when I was transforming from a kid to an adult. That was the time I forged the best friendships through my idiotic and wasteful actions. Now everything is changed, so much so, that I can't even identify my past self. All I have are fading memories of my younger careless self. It almost feels like a different life altogether. I often jokingly say that if my younger self sees me now, he will kick my ass. My younger self was one hell of a badass and unrefined dude. Now the badassery has been transformed into more of a wisdom, someone who is careful in new situations and good with words. Not kicking people's ass, but making them understand my point. I guess it comes with time, especially if you read a lot.

After the initial excitement of moving to the West wore off, reality hit me hard. With each passing moment, the realization grew stronger that I was far from home. It wasn't my first time moving away, but my bachelor's experience was different—I felt at home within days. It's been almost four years now, and I still hesitate to call this place home. But why? Because home is not just a place, it's a feeling. It's a sense of safety, a feeling of not worrying, a sense of freedom, a feeling of belongingness. The city I live in is quite safe, yet I'm always cautious on the road—not because something might happen, but because if something does happen, what would I do?

I've felt that panic and fear, like when my friend got sick. It's the internal assurance that you can manage things no matter how bad they get—that's home for me. There's truly no one here to take care of me in a bad situation, unlike back home or in college, where friends would sleep on the concrete floor of a hospital just to be with me and make me feel better. It's that emotional support that's missing, and that's exactly what home feels like—a comfortable mental space. Even back then, I knew my friend sleeping in the hospital wouldn't cure me faster, but I still owe him for all the efforts he made, no matter how significant or insignificant. What matters is the sincerity of those efforts.

The first few days in the West quickly became frightening, and COVID-19 added more misery to my already overwhelming situation. I had no internet, no contact, and no food. I couldn't even distinguish between vegetarian and non-vegetarian items. I basically survived on bananas and milk because everything else in the supermarket had Dutch labels that I couldn't translate. I couldn't even inform my parents that I had arrived safely. Only after using the supermarket's Wi-Fi could I notify them. This continued for about a week, and almost no one helped me, including many Indians. One even refused to share their Wi-Fi password on my first day, fearing I might misuse their network. That was a real bummer. The place was unusually quiet for me, so much so that I could feel my heartbeat just sitting around. For the first time in my life, I could hear my feet rubbing against the surface, almost like a needle breaking the pin-drop silence, every time I walked. Everything felt super loud and disorienting, the silence was deafening. This was something I had never experienced in India, even in the quietest of places. The double-paned windows here meant no sound penetrated my room.

To make matters worse, I ended up with one of the weirdest guys I've ever met in my life. The dude was practically insane, so I tried to limit my interactions as much as possible. Quickly, I joined an Indian group, and from there, life started stabilizing. I had almost nothing to do the entire day. We couldn't go out much because it was too cold and because of COVID. There was almost no space in the room to walk around. I slept on a couch for a year. That couch was the only thing I had—I slept on it, worked on it, and ate on it. Most days, I spent over 20 hours on that single couch. Just try to imagine how difficult it was to survive on a couch. It was a pretty small room for two people. Even though I lived there for a year, I don't think I could do it again. It was hard, really hard—no classes, no space to move, and no good friends. By the end of the year, I became extremely anxious about losing the little Indian gang I had become part of. For a few months, that was all I could think about—being alone in a foreign country, with my newly made friends possibly leaving for their jobs. I didn't even worry about my job or the courses I had failed. All I could think about was how I would live alone, truly alone. For an extroverted guy like me, that is the biggest nightmare, being alone.

Let's put this in perspective—what it truly means to be alone. Some of you might say that even in India, people don't meet every day or week, but it's different here. It's not just the lack of meetings that causes anxiety; it's about not having the option to meet. It's a psychological issue rather than the actual lack of interactions. The fact that I can't meet people even if I want to is what troubles me. Knowing that if I feel sad on a Thursday, I can't go anywhere, and in most cases, I can't even call people because they are all sleeping. Over time, you realize that even your old friends don't understand why you're feeling alone. It's something people don't grasp until they've experienced it.

Recently, I was in Bangalore, and my friends tried to show me the worst areas of Bangalore to dissuade me from moving back to India. They don't understand; they have a romanticized view of living in the West. It's not easy, by no means is it easy.

There have been countless uncomfortable nights when I wanted to call someone but couldn't. All those painful conversations I had with myself because I couldn't explain my feelings to anyone. Without work, most people here would go crazy in a week, but back home, you could literally spend years doing nothing. Just seeing people moving around is enough to lift your mood. You don't even need to talk to them; their presence alone can chase away the loneliness. 

Imagine being locked in a room with a small window and not seeing a human for three days, let alone a familiar person. Imagine not saying a word for three straight days. It's incredibly tough. You might think it's easy, but it's not—not saying a single word to anyone, not even asking for a glass of water. To make matters worse, the month-long rain and lack of sunshine lead to Vitamin D deficiency and even more depression. Vitamin D is not only needed for bones but also to prevent gloominess. Believe me, I have spent days without seeing a human despite living in the middle of the city. I have spent days not uttering a single word, day after day. It's tougher than most realize.

And you know, the sad part isn't the loneliness itself, but the fact that my friends and family don't understand it. It's not their fault; they simply don't realize that people might feel this way. When I talk about these things, it's like speaking to a dead tree. None of them have asked me how hard or easy it is to live here. They all presume it's a piece of cake and that it's all about traveling to the beautiful cities of Europe. Well, the cities are beautiful, but not enough to overcome the overarching sadness of this type of life.

Some might say, why don't I go out and meet new people and befriend them here? Believe me, I've tried—it's not that easy. My idea of friendship is vastly different from theirs, and it simply doesn't work for me. If I have to schedule an appointment or set up a meeting a week in advance, I can't call that friendship. That's not how I was brought up thinking about friendships. The concept of pulling someone's leg, teasing, and physical touch is completely missing from the interactions I have here. 

Let me give you a perspective on how my office looks: If you take out lunch and meetings, the number of words I speak to my colleagues in a day is less than five. We must enter the room, say hi to each other, and sit at our desks. We almost never talk, and even if we do, it's never more than five minutes (not including lunch breaks). No one takes chai or cigarette breaks. Everyone leaves the office at different times, and even if the difference is two minutes, no one waits for anyone. No one messages anyone outside office hours or on personal phones. It's vastly different from offices in India, where people talk to each other all day. I've been to the office many times where I'm the only one there. I'll sit straight for eight hours with no office boy, no security guard, literally no one to even say good morning or share a meal with.

After a few weeks of working here, I soon realized that I do more work in a day here than I did in three days in India. There are just no distractions. Everyone comes to the office to work, and that's it. We rarely share our personal lives, and it is extremely professional. We operate in a shared office space with at least half a dozen startups, and I think in the last three years, I only know the name of one other person from a different company.

So if it’s this hard, why am I living here, and how do people cope? Everyone has their own way—some people are comfortable being alone, but I wasn't one of them. Here are a few common observations: many immediately try to find a romantic partner, start drinking every weekend (sometimes even on weekdays), and travel as much as possible to both local pubs/clubs or other nearby countries. Of all the Indians I've met, every single one started looking for a partner within a few months. I get it—it’s really hard to pass time alone, especially if you're not passionate about anything else. I've seen people inviting their entire friend circle over every day, cooking for them when their partner went away for a few days. I've seen people drinking vodka for breakfast because they can't stand being alone. Guys hitting on random girls, trying to score, more for the missing intimacy than the sex—just someone to be with on the lonely, gloomy, rainy nights. I get it—it’s hard to do nothing and pass the time.

But what about me? I neither have a girlfriend nor do I frequent any cafes/pubs. Funny thing, I'm the only one not dating or looking for anyone from the entire group I formed in my first year here. So, the real question is, if there is so much loneliness and I'm not turning to alcohol or women to cope with boredom, how am I managing it, and more importantly, why am I even living here? Simply put, I was always a passionate guy who loves a challenge. Not that I haven't suffered in the process, but the reward is worth it. Even my hair has turned grey from all the overthinking I've been doing lately.

So, let’s first answer the why. The reason I'm here is twofold: firstly, I came to get the best education and then work for a good company where I could experience working with people different from me. Secondly, I truly believe that to grow, I need to go through hardships. Life is hard for me as well, no matter how passionate I am.

So, how do I manage, and how do I view this overall experience? Have I felt lonely on many nights? Yes. Have I felt that I should go back? Yes. But I've also experienced the good things about this place and thanked God for giving me this opportunity. I spent 1.5 years living with people from all walks of life, from 17 different nationalities. Even in my office, I'm the only Asian, probably in the entire coworking space. What makes life beautiful is not just the experience but the perspective on those experiences. Since coming here, I've given so much time to myself—analyzed my own flaws, talked to God, became good at guitar, and found an emotional connection with the divine. I've achieved way beyond what I ever imagined for myself, which helped me expand my vision and understand human relationships and actions in much more detail. I have broadened my perspective massively, creating a mental framework where I can find happiness in almost anything, no matter how small or insignificant it seems to others. 

I've gained appreciation and humility in my life for all the big and small things. I've become really calm. In a sense, I've truly grown into a wise man on the path of continuous learning, something most people can never understand or appreciate, let alone do. I start my days with lectures and end them with lectures. Every day, I try to find beauty in the process of discovery. My knowledge base has increased manyfold, and I've become a much more stable and wise man who has suffered the curse of loneliness and emerged as a strong, independent person capable of leading a good, moral life. I've developed a lot of good habits, be it taking care of my health, playing my guitar, writing blogs, or doing hard grinding work. Most of it wouldn't have been possible without the loneliness. 

There is something different when you walk in a forest aimlessly for three hours, the meaninglessness of life pans in front of you, and that's when you realize what truly is important to lead a good life, even if you believe that life is a random chance. I don't get startle by small things anymore, which drives others crazy. I find good in most things, and rarely do I feel hopeless or negative in my life. My life is full of happiness, faith, and learning. The environment here is conducive to growth, only if you can find your calling, otherwise, it becomes very tough to live here very quickly. 

I hope one day, I'll be able to share my experiences with someone special, the things I can notice, the things that make me joyous, the things that most people fail to notice, the nuances I can find, the capabilities I've unlocked and most importantly the understanding of human relationship, harmony, and universal love. I feel blessed to get a chance to expand my horizon, beyond the ordinary. Because the feeling of charting a different journey is worth all the trouble and satisfies like nothing else in this pretty much meaning less life. Our perspective gives the tag of happiness and sadness to events, and I can surely say that I'm content more than I'm happy.