Tokyo souls on fire

In my twenties, I would board the Odakyu line train every day to get to the office where I worked in central Tokyo. People on trains in Japan are silent, which compensates for being mercilessly squashed between commuters. Many people check their phones while others read books that are covered in brown paper to maintain a modicum of privacy. Some sit neatly with their heads down dozing one more time before the long day kicks in. It's not uncommon for a commuter to snooze on your shoulder if you are lucky enough to get a seat. A polite nudge is required to fix the awkward moment when a drooping head slips helplessly into your personal space. ‘Sumimasen’ apologises the sleepy passenger. You might nod your head vaguely in acknowledgement.

One early morning, as my train pulled out of Shinjuku station for the second leg of my journey, a train on the tracks opposite was also starting out into the city. The two trains moved perilously close towards one another before veering off in different directions. I always remember the face of a man who was stood in the train car opposite. It was squashed against the glass window due to overcrowding. He would be stuck like that at least until the next station, open-mouthed and resigned to his undignified situation. This would happen day-in and day-out for the rest of his working life but, being in my twenties at the time, I could only observe this dilemma from a distance and feel sorry for him.

Taking in the view while moving at speed through the city is mesmerizing. The scale of Tokyo is immense and, for a young person, this represents irresistible adventure. In this city, you can sit on a train for one hour and you will still be in urban sprawl, it is so relentless in its size. Office buildings and department stores are erected within an inch of each other with no space to spare. Endless apartment blocks efficiently stack hundreds of residents on top of each other. Some of these blocks are small and have been squeezed in between giant towers that rise upwards and have futons hanging over their balconies to air. Office workers in black and white business attire scurry from stations to skyscrapers. In the summer, they wipe their sweaty faces with small towels, dismayed at the heat of the concrete jungle. The skyscrapers look on. They are built to sway in earthquakes and to look elegant on the skyline.

Trains are less crammed on weekends except at night when everyone dashes for the last train leaving Shibuya, Roppongi or other such area where the drinks are flowing and young people feel free to taste all kinds of possibilities. Sometimes my Japanese friends and I would bite the bullet and stay out until the first train home, around 5:00. We were tired from a night of drinking and the people who boarded the train to start their day at this hour seemed alien to us. It was important that one person stayed awake so we didn't sleep through our stops but watching the scenery race by in soft morning light tested your last reserves of energy. At one station I saw a businessman asleep on a bench; the release from work pressures too much to conclude in responsible drinking.

One Sunday I took a train out towards Yokohama to see a friend who lived there. At a small station along the way, a young woman boarded with a baby, sitting down on the seat opposite and holding the child in her arms. I remember the smile on her face because she was awe-struck. It must have been her baby because it could only be a mother's smile. She gazed at the baby with bright and searching eyes and the smile could not be suppressed. This was before I had children and I was captivated by her expression. I continued to sneak glances, hoping she wouldn't notice. That baby will be a teenager now, so perhaps the view from the train window is familiar and goes unnoticed.

When I was pregnant as a commuter, I carried a plastic bag in my pocket on the train just in case I became nauseous. I stood for a long time and warm bodies pressed against me as the train gently swayed on curving tracks. One time, I got off early at a station and ran straight to the toilets to be sick. I then quickly boarded again because there was a long way to go across the city and into the suburbs. As a new mother in Tokyo, I remember that the trains became increasingly hard work. Many Japanese women wore their babies in a kind of harness on front of their bodies which eliminated the need for pushchairs. I also used one, but the distances to see friends started to feel longer and more arduous. It was draining to stand with a baby strapped to your body, though baby was none the wiser as you showed her the view from the window. She was curious of her surroundings and cooed with delight. Other days she cried inconsolably and the passengers hung their heads.

Ten months after I had my daughter, I left Japan and went home to the UK but I continued to visit Tokyo from time to time. When I did go back the scenery seemed more overwhelming and built-up to the extent that it felt claustrophobic. As you pass through the metropolis, a sinking feeling can set in. Sometimes we fool ourselves into believing we are at the centre of something, but the sheer scale of Tokyo quickly sets you straight on this point. You are the commuter squashed in the train car being carried to the place where you must get to. You saw that man in your twenties but thought it impossible you would become like him. The baby on the train would be protected from this kind of truth for many years, because that's what mothers do. As you reach middle-age you understand the reality which Tokyo was always showing you.

A couple of years ago, I went to a conference in Odaiba, which is set away from the city by the bay. Once it finished, attendees were invited to board a bus which would take them to the heart of the city for a meal and drinks. I didn't want to go because I knew no one. I only wished I was at home with my family. Reluctantly, I boarded the bus and took a seat at the back next to a man who was from Singapore and worked in insurance. In my mind I committed myself to maintaining conversation about the conference until we made it to the venue. But as the bus drove into the city, we were both captivated by the magnificent night scenery. It silenced the conversation and we stared wide-eyed out of the window. The streets were illuminated by thousands of white and blue lights hanging along street lamps as well as at the entrances of skyscrapers. Light reflected off metal and we were bathed in blue light as our bus ran through the streets. I sensed the height of the skyscrapers and the scale of the city as it shined gloriously outward, upward and in all directions. I had lived in Tokyo for six years previously, but I didn't remember the night scenery being quite this breathtaking. As people exited buildings, they hailed taxis to take them for a night out with friends and chatted cheerily to one another. The prospect of the conference after-party had made me feel lonely, but now I felt an overwhelming sense of being home. I had missed this city.

Next time I go to Tokyo I'll drive through the city at night again. While I'm away, the people in the streets will carry on regardless; their heads down as they move towards their next destination.

?If you enjoyed this, you might like my short story ‘The Second Exit’.

https://www.dhirubhai.net/pulse/second-exit-lucy-kikuchi