If you ever feel bored in Delhi, do not waste money on a movie. Just take the Metro during peak hours. Riding the Delhi Metro is less about transport and more about theatre. Each train is a moving stage, and every passenger has already rehearsed their part. It is India’s most affordable live reality show—unscripted, unedited, and sometimes, unintentionally comic.
Step into a coach, and you are greeted by a scene straight out of a sociological documentary. Youngsters, mostly college-going, have a curious fondness for squatting on the floor—especially in that sacred patch of space between two compartments. There they sit, knees bent, backs slouched, their eyes riveted to the glowing screens of their phones. Fingers dart furiously, as if transmitting national secrets, utterly oblivious to the fact that several hundred commuters are stepping over their heads. Around them, the crowd sways, curses, and trips, but members of the Generation Z remain unshaken, absorbed in battles only they understand. If an earthquake were to strike, they would probably continue typing, pausing only to adjust their earphones.
Inside the compartment, meanwhile, the soundscape is impressive. Hardly anyone speaks to a fellow passenger, but everyone talks into their phones. Lovers whisper loudly, as if secrecy is best achieved by announcing it to seventy strangers. Wives scold efficiently, rationing their words like monthly LPG cylinders. Lawyers argue persuasively, convinced that their client’s fate depends on the decibel level. And service technicians announce cheerfully that they are “just one stop away” – a statement with about the same reliability as weather forecasts in June.
Somewhere in the corner, a music aficionado is blaring Kishore Kumar at full volume, generously ensuring that everyone within a five-foot radius also partakes. If one could block out the rest and follow a single conversation for long enough, it would provide the entire storyline of a Hindi blockbuster serial, complete with plot twists, betrayals, and reconciliations. Close your eyes and focus on one voice (a yogi’s concentration is required), and you can practically write the script for a daily soap.
During off-peak hours, the Metro occasionally transforms into a picnic spot. I have stumbled upon families spreading out on the floor, little children running about with Coke and chips, while mothers unpack papri chaat and launch into animated discussions on the latest in fashion and jewellery. Fellow passengers look on with a mixture of admiration, envy, and mild despair. Those who cannot join in watch wistfully, silently wishing the family would mistake them for a long-lost relative and extend an invitation.
What is striking is not the noise or the food, but the acceptance. Nobody really objects. The Metro, for all its glass, polish, and pre-recorded admonitions, is still a railway—and railways in India have always been less about rules and more about rituals. We have inherited an unspoken understanding from Indian Railways: platforms are for waiting, compartments for eating, and berths for quarrelling. The Metro has merely added air-conditioning and sliding doors.
Every now and then, the loudspeaker interrupts with a gentle plea: Please do not sit on the floor, please avoid loud phone calls, please refrain from eating. The requests hover in the air, unheeded, like a teacher’s weary instructions to a class that knows the bell will ring anyway. Even the security staff, after years of repetition, have perfected the art of resignation. They stride through coaches with the air of men who know their warnings will evaporate long before they reach the intended ears.
There is also the drama of the rush itself. At every interchange station, the choreography intensifies. People inside refuse to move, people outside refuse to wait, and both groups collide with the force of armies defending sacred ground. Yet, within seconds, everyone somehow rearranges themselves like pieces in a living jigsaw puzzle. That is the real miracle of Delhi Metro: the ability to compress thirty people into a space designed for ten, without violating the laws of physics—or perhaps by rewriting them.
The small absurdities keep the ride entertaining. Someone invariably stumbles into the “women only” coach and is corrected with the sternness of a moral lesson. Another commuter insists on standing immovably at the exact centre of the doorway, a human pillar around whom others attempt delicate evasions. Once, caught between the incoming and outgoing streams, I was spun around twice like the revolving gate of an old hotel before being ejected at the last moment.
Thus, the Metro glides on – announcements ignored, dramas unfolding, families feasting, phones buzzing, and boys squatting on the floor between compartments. So next time you board the Delhi Metro, do not frown. Just grab a seat or at least a pole to cling to, and enjoy the free show. Who knows? If you listen closely, you might just land the plot for the next big TV serial – working title: “One Stop Away.”