Title: My Unforgettable Journey in the Delhi Metro
7 Years—One Metro—Different Vibes
Chandan Giri
I dedicate this book first and foremost to my parents—for believing in me when I didn’t believe in myself. Thank you, Maa and Papa, for teaching me the value of simplicity, truth, and hard work. I will be indebted for the next seven births.
“A moving train, a million minds, and a journey within.” “In the rush of compartments and chaos, I didn’t just travel the city—I traveled through human nature.”
Contents
Preface
Acknowledgments
Introduction: The Train That Changed Me
Chapter 1: 7 Years. One Metro. A Thousand Thoughts.
Chapter 2: The Unseen Teachers
Chapter 3: People on the Move: A Study of Behaviors
Chapter 4: The Quarrel Culture: Fighting Without a Cause
Chapter 5: The Viral Circus: Where Attention Meets Foolishness
Chapter 6: The Silent Observers
Chapter 7: Kindness Still Exists—Just Harder to Spot
Chapter 8: Delhi Metro as a Mirror of Society
Chapter 9: Life Lessons from a Moving Train
Chapter 10: Delhi Metro Rules—Written by Authority, Broken by Commuters
Chapter 11: Values in a Changing World—A Glimpse Through the Delhi Metro
Chapter 12: Alone Together — The Paradox of Social Media
Chapter 13: The Disappearing Line Between Real and Fake
Chapter 14: What You’re Seeking Might Be Sitting Next to You
Chapter 15: No Space, Still We Race
Chapter 16: A Smile Missing in Millions: What the Metro Reveals About Us
Chapter 17: My Final Station—What Delhi Metro Taught Me.
Conclusion: Life Is Also a Metro
Preface
Why I Wrote This Book
I wrote this book because I couldn’t hold back what I was observing every single day in the Delhi Metro. For the last seven years, I have been more than just a commuter—I’ve been a silent observer of human life in motion. I saw patterns. I saw beauty. I saw chaos. I saw people rush in and out, yet rarely live in the moment. I saw smiles disappear, energy fade, love suppressed, silence misunderstood, and potential wasted. I couldn’t ignore it. I started taking notes—not just on paper, but in my heart. This book was never a plan; it was a feeling that kept growing in me. I wrote it because I believe someone, somewhere, will see their own story here and feel a little less alone, a little more aware, and a little more human.
What You Can Expect from This Book
This is not a rulebook. This is not a collection of Metro complaints or a city’s flaws. This is a collection of truths—my truths, and maybe yours too. Through this book, you will walk with me through crowded compartments, observe people you’ve probably never looked at, and think thoughts you’ve ignored for too long. I will talk about energy, time, behavior, emotions, ego, kindness, silence, relationships, and the beautiful chaos that lives inside a daily metro ride. You’ll see how people eat, sit, stand, rush, talk, judge, ignore, and feel. You’ll question the little habits you’ve never thought twice about. This book will not give you big promises—it will simply hold up a mirror to life as we live it when we think no one’s watching. And maybe, just maybe, it will remind you that we can choose to live a little more consciously, kindly, and wisely—even inside a moving train.
Introduction
Seven years. That’s how long I’ve been traveling in the Delhi Metro—every day, every season, every mood. Seven years of routine rides that somehow became anything but routine. What began as a simple mode of transportation slowly turned into a sacred space of transformation. It became my classroom, my temple, my battlefield, and my sanctuary. The Delhi Metro became my second home.
You might think it’s just a train. A place to stand, sit, or sleep with a thousand strangers. But to me, it’s more than a steel machine moving on electric tracks. It’s a moving mirror of society, a quiet observer of humanity, and a teacher whispering life’s greatest lessons through the rush of crowds and the silence between stations.
In these air-conditioned compartments, I saw the heat of people’s emotions. On these steel seats, I watched invisible wars being fought behind tired eyes. I saw joy when old friends met unexpectedly. I saw pain when someone wiped tears quietly in the corner. I saw kindness in strangers who offered a seat. And I saw coldness in people who pretended not to notice the pregnant woman standing next to them.
We live in a world where we’re always rushing—from one place to another, from one goal to the next. But the Delhi Metro slowed me down in a way I never expected. When I started observing—not just looking, but really observing—I began to realize: this train carries more than people. It carries dreams. It carries worries. It carries stories.
There was the man who took the same train at 8:10 AM, always reading the same tattered book. There was the girl who painted on her tablet during the ride, as if she was trying to color her way out of a grey life. There were the elderly couples holding hands in silence, teaching me that love doesn’t always need words. And then, of course, there were the ones who spoke loudly into their phones, announcing their entire life to the compartment—as if the Metro was also their stage.
Public spaces like the Delhi Metro don’t just move bodies—they move minds. They show you slices of the world you wouldn’t otherwise see. In your home, you choose your company. In your office, you choose your goals. But in the Metro, you don’t get to choose. You’re placed beside strangers—different castes, classes, religions, genders, and attitudes. And in that shared discomfort, something magical happens: you grow.
You grow in patience when someone leans too close.
You grow in empathy when someone looks lost or broken.
You grow in self-awareness when you notice your own reaction to things.
You grow in discipline when you start respecting small written rules.
You grow in silence, even amidst the noise.
Our ancient scriptures, the Vedas and Upanishads, taught that wisdom lies not just in scriptures but in daily life. Tat Tvam Asi—"Thou art that"—teaches us that everything outside is a reflection of what lies within. The Metro gave me that mirror. It showed me my anger when people pushed, my pride when I got a seat, my compassion when someone stumbled, and my indifference when I chose to scroll instead of smile. It made me confront parts of myself I had ignored for years.
And slowly, stop by stop, I changed.
This book is not just about the Delhi Metro. It’s about the human experience through the Delhi Metro. It’s about what happens when you start paying attention—to your environment, to people, and to yourself. It’s about the invisible threads that connect us all—even when we pretend to be disconnected behind screens and earbuds.
You see, the train is a symbol of life itself. Every station is a phase. Some people enter—friends, teachers, lovers. Some people exit—failures, regrets, heartbreaks. But you keep moving. And while moving, you either sleep through the ride—or awaken to the beauty of the journey.
I chose to awaken.
And this book is my offering to you—so that maybe, just maybe, on your next Metro ride, you too might look up from your phone and notice the world happening around you.
Each chapter in this book is a reflection, not a lecture. A story, not a sermon. A moment, not a monument. It’s an invitation to pause, reflect, and see the wisdom hiding in ordinary places. Whether it’s the way people break rules, the way strangers avoid eye contact, or the way silence sometimes screams louder than words—everything carries a message if we listen carefully.
I don’t claim to be a guru. I’m not enlightened. I’m just someone who started paying attention. And what I found—between Rajiv Chowk and HUDA City Centre, between silence and crowd, between routine and revelation—was a version of myself I never knew existed.
This book is for every tired soul who thinks their daily commute is a waste of time.
This book is for every young dreamer lost in screens, waiting for a real connection.
This book is for every person who has ever felt alone, even in a crowd.
This book is for you.
Because whether you ride the Delhi Metro or walk a different path, life is full of stations. And this book is your reminder that even a ride meant to go from Point A to Point B can take you deep within.
So welcome aboard.
Hold the handrail of awareness.
Watch your step at the edge of ego.
Listen not just to announcements, but to life whispering between the doors.
Your journey begins now.
Chapter 1: 7 Years. One Metro. A Thousand Thoughts
There’s something profound about traveling in silence, surrounded by noise. For the last seven years, the Delhi Metro has been more than just a mode of transport for me—it has been a moving monastery, a chaotic classroom, and at times, a reflective retreat. It is strange how something so mechanical, so mundane, can hold within it the pulse of an entire city, the reflections of a thousand souls, and the hidden lessons of life, if only we choose to observe deeply.
When I first stepped into the metro, I was just another commuter. I was in a rush like everyone else, carrying the invisible weight of my worries, expectations, and to-do lists. In those initial days, I paid attention only to the beeping sound of the closing doors, the announcements of stations, and the countdown of time ticking away. But slowly, without realizing it, the metro began to transform me. My focus shifted from destinations to the journey itself. I began to look at people, truly look—into their eyes, their body language, their silence, and their impatience. I began to notice the unspoken stories floating in the air. And I began to learn.
Let me share something crucial with you that I have learned from the Bhagavad Gita. In the Bhagavad Gita, Lord Krishna says to Arjuna, “Uddhared ātmanātmānaṁ nātmānam avasādayet...” which means, "Elevate yourself through the power of your own mind; do not degrade yourself." This verse started making real sense to me when I was standing in a crowded coach, shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers, and yet finding myself in deep internal dialogues. The chaos outside began to contrast with the calm I started developing inside. And in this contrast, I found clarity.
Every day, I saw the same hustle. People running for seats, fighting for space, pushing through doors before they fully opened. Some pretended to sleep to avoid offering a seat to those who needed it more. Others acted busy to avoid eye contact. Some would stare at their phones for the entire ride, not because they were really interested, but because they didn’t want to be present. I used to be like them. But something shifted. The metro slowed me down—not physically, but mentally.
I started recognizing that this wasn’t just a train; it was a moving mirror of our society. In ancient Indian philosophy, especially in Advaita Vedanta, the idea of the world being a maya (illusion) isn't about denying the physical reality but realizing the deeper truth that lies beneath appearances. The metro, with its thousands of bodies and limited space, forced people to show their true selves. You can’t fake patience when someone’s elbow is jabbing into your ribs. You can’t hide your manners when a tired old woman is standing beside you. You can’t conceal your nature when your personal space is invaded every day.
In these tight spaces, I learned that discomfort reveals character. And observation sharpens understanding. When a man pushes his way in before others have exited, you learn he hasn’t mastered tapasya—the discipline of waiting. When a young boy gives up his seat without being asked, you recognize seva bhav—the spirit of service. When a girl politely requests space without aggression, you see sattva guna—purity, balance, and wisdom. These aren’t just moral acts; these are the very virtues ancient sages wanted us to cultivate to live meaningful lives.
The Upanishads teach us, “As is the mind, so is the man.” Our actions are direct reflections of the thoughts we carry, and the metro is a real-time display of that truth. A man lost in anger over a trivial footstep—he is not angry at the person, but a prisoner of his unresolved emotions. A woman screaming because someone brushed past her—perhaps she has been unheard too many times in her life. I began to see beyond the act. I began to ask, What pain lies behind this impatience? What wound hides beneath this ego?
The greatest transformation in me came when I stopped reacting and started reflecting. I once saw two men almost fight over a seat. It was intense—raised voices, cursing, and threats. But then, just as things were about to escalate, one of them suddenly stepped back and said, “Aap baith jao bhai, aaj mood nahi kharab karna.” (You sit down, brother; I don’t want to ruin my mood today.) That one line felt like wisdom distilled in chaos. That was vairagya—detachment in practice. He walked away, not because he was weak, but because he was strong enough to value his peace more than his ego.
That moment stayed with me. We often think self-help means books, courses, or seminars. But sometimes, it's in the metro, in the way we respond to the little things. Self-help isn’t about changing our lives overnight. It’s about changing how we think during daily challenges. I learned patience not by reading scriptures but by standing in the same coach where people tested my limits. I learned compassion not through theory, but by seeing a stranger help another climb the escalator. I understood the value of silence not in meditation halls but in the quiet corners of a crowded train, where I simply watched the city move.
In the Ramayana, when Lord Rama goes into exile, he embraces the forest as his home. He doesn’t resist it. Similarly, I stopped resisting the metro. I embraced it. I let it become my guru. I let it teach me what schools never did—how to be calm in a crowd, how to observe without judging, how to reflect without reacting, and most importantly, how to transform everyday travel into spiritual practice.
We think that we need to escape from the world to find peace. But true peace is not found in isolation. It’s found when you can remain untouched by the noise around you. Delhi Metro taught me that. It taught me that wisdom doesn’t only lie in ancient texts—it’s alive in everyday life, hiding between the stops, living between the rush. If you look closely, every coach becomes a story, every person becomes a teacher, and every journey becomes a meditation.
I also began to understand my own weaknesses more clearly. I used to get irritated easily. If someone stepped on my shoe, I’d react. If someone pushed too hard, I’d scowl. But one day, I saw a man who had lost a leg balancing himself with grace and calmness, despite the push and pull around him. I felt ashamed. I realized that my anger was not strength—it was a lack of perspective. Strength is when you remain gentle in discomfort. That’s what he taught me. That’s what the metro taught me. And that’s what I hope to pass on to you.
As the Rigveda says, “Let noble thoughts come to us from every side.” I began to see nobility in the mundane. I saw wisdom in motion. I saw learning in silence. Over seven years, the Delhi Metro didn’t just take me across the city. It took me deep within myself. And what I discovered there was far more valuable than any destination.
You might ask, “Is this just about the metro?” No, my friend. It’s about life. It’s about how we live, how we observe, how we react, and how we evolve. Life is a journey with many stations. People will come and go. Some will hurt you, some will help you. But your job is not to control them. Your job is to understand yourself in relation to them. That’s the essence of self-help. That’s the foundation of spiritual growth. And sometimes, all it takes to discover it is a metro ride.
And yet, the real transformation didn’t happen in the noise—it happened in the pauses. The moments when the train stopped between stations, the sudden stillness when power cut for a few seconds, or the hush when everyone was lost in their own headphones and no announcement echoed. In those fleeting silences, I began hearing my own thoughts more clearly. The Delhi Metro didn’t just teach me about the city’s rhythm; it revealed the rhythm of my mind—its chaos, its insecurities, its unfulfilled desires.
I once stood beside an old man in the metro, his clothes simple, his hands calloused from years of labor. He didn’t speak a word during the 25-minute journey, but his eyes were wide open, staring out at the underground darkness beyond the window. At one point, I gently asked him, Sir, “Do you travel this route often?” He looked at me and simply said, “Every day. I don’t look at the people. I look at the silence in their eyes. They speak more truth than mouths ever can.” That moment struck me like lightning. He had discovered a secret I had only just begun to uncover: that people hide universes behind blank faces.
There’s something uniquely Indian about the way we carry pain without uttering a sound. In the Mahabharata, Karna never revealed his internal torment even when the world saw him as powerful. We do the same. In the metro, I saw young students laugh with their friends while their fingers fidgeted nervously over admit cards. I saw middle-aged women argue over seats but carry the fatigue of ten lifetimes in their spines. I saw fathers checking their phones for messages that never came, pretending to scroll, pretending to be fine.
And then there was the absurdity—the rising trend of people filming themselves in the metro: dancing, posing, doing challenges, recording “emotional content,” some even fake crying for views. We’ve turned our sacred journey into a stage where performance matters more than presence. I once witnessed a girl rehearse the same smiling entry into the train three times until she got the perfect reel. At that moment, I realized something tragic—most of us are no longer living our lives; we’re curating them. We're more concerned about how our life looks online than how it actually feels within.
We are becoming strangers to our own authenticity. We wear filters on our faces and build masks in our minds. And yet, the metro remains brutally honest. You can’t fake calmness when someone’s bag is pressing against your chest. You can’t fake confidence when you’re struggling to balance yourself as the train jerks. You can’t fake connection when everyone around you is lost in their digital cocoon. In this hyper-real world, the metro gave me a taste of rawness—of being human without edits.
One day, during a ride home, I closed my eyes and thought, “What if the Delhi Metro was a living being?” I imagined it whispering to me: I am your teacher of tolerance. Your mentor in mindfulness. Your mirror of madness. And I smiled. Because I understood that this journey had not just taken me through tunnels and bridges, but through layers of my ego, pride, impatience, and apathy.
I remembered a line from the Ashtavakra Gita: “You are not the body nor the mind. You are the pure witness of all things.” And in that witness mode, I began to stop identifying with the frustration, the anger, or even the joy. I simply began observing. And in that state of observation, I found what the sages found in forests, what yogis found in caves: a taste of nirvikalpa—pure, thoughtless presence.
The more I observed, the more I realized how different people operate with different mental operating systems. The mindset of a person entering the metro can often reveal how they approach life. Those who rush and push usually operate from scarcity. Those who wait and let others pass first usually carry abundance within. Those who offer seats without being asked possess the wealth of empathy. And those who fight over small things carry inner wars they’ve never resolved. The metro reveals this—not through lectures, but through real-time theater.
I saw a child once give his balloon to a crying stranger’s kid. No phone recorded it. No one clapped. But it was one of the purest acts of kindness I’ve ever seen. At that moment, I thought: maybe this world still has hope. Maybe this city, this metro, these journeys—still have soul.
The Delhi Metro taught me that not every lesson needs a classroom. Some of the deepest teachings come when you least expect them—in the blink of a stranger’s eye, in the smile of a quiet man, in the refusal to argue when provoked. In the ancient world, learning was oral, observational, and experiential. Gurukuls didn’t focus only on books; they focused on life. The metro became my modern-day Gurukul—where I was both the student and the subject.
And so, seven years passed—not in a blur, but in vivid fragments of truth. Each station became a milestone, each train became a temple, and each crowd became a mirror. I didn’t just ride the metro. I rode into myself. And what I found there was both uncomfortable and beautiful: a raw human trying to understand other raw humans. A mind unlearning what society taught and a heart finally listening to its own rhythm.
I still travel on the metro. I still stand, sit, watch, and listen. But now, every ride feels like a new scripture, and every person, a verse worth reading. I no longer seek escape from the crowd—I seek understanding within it. Because the greatest self-help lesson I’ve ever received didn’t come from a bestseller or a guru. It came from the simple act of being present—in a place where the world never stops moving.
And perhaps that’s where real wisdom begins.
In the next chapter, I will take you on a journey of unseen teachers that I met in my life during travel in Delhi Metro.
Chapter 2: The Unseen Teachers
Not all teachers carry books, wear spectacles, or stand behind podiums. Some wear tattered shirts, some carry office bags, some are dressed in corporate suits, and others in school uniforms. Some speak with their eyes; others teach with their silence. In the last seven years of my Delhi Metro journey, I’ve met thousands of these teachers. Not in the conventional way. Most of them didn’t even know they were teaching me. But that’s the beauty of life—its greatest lessons often come from those who are unaware they’re giving any.
I began noticing them not from the beginning, but after a few years when my eyes stopped seeking entertainment and started seeking meaning. I stopped using my phone while traveling and started observing people. I didn’t know then, but I was stepping into a form of living meditation—mindful travel. I realized that every human carries a story, and every story carries a lesson, and these lessons are hidden in their behavior, expressions, actions, and energy. Some days, one quiet glance would speak volumes. On other days, a loud voice would teach me the futility of noise.
I once saw a blind man enter the train at Rajiv Chowk. He had a cane, a soft smile, and calmness that would shame a monk. People hesitated at first, unsure how to help him. But then, a young man stood up, held his hand gently, and asked, “Where are you going, uncle?” The blind man replied, “Wherever this metro takes me, I’ve learned to reach safely.” It was such a simple answer, yet it shook something inside me. Trust. Faith. Acceptance. This man had no sight, but he had insight. By hearing this, I remember the quote of Helen Keller; she once said, The only thing worse than being blind is having sight but no vision. He had surrendered control not out of helplessness but from deep inner peace. And the young man who helped him—he reminded me of what we often forget in our competitive lives: we rise not by stepping on others but by lifting them up.
Another teacher I remember vividly was a woman in her late 60s. She was selling pens at the metro station. A few passengers frowned, and some turned their heads, but she kept selling pens with dignity. I asked her, “Maa ji, why do you do this every day?” She smiled, “Beta, I didn’t retire from life. I just stopped getting a salary.” That line became a life mantra for me. Retirement is not the end of work; it’s the beginning of self-work. She taught me that survival can be spiritual when done with grace. The world often judges people by their job titles, but wisdom doesn’t come wearing a uniform—it comes wrapped in resilience.
And then there was a child—probably 8 or 9—who boarded the train with his father. The child was hyper and curious, asking questions about the speed, the stations, and the buttons. His father, instead of getting irritated, patiently answered every query. At one point, the child asked, “Papa, how does the train move without petrol?” And the father replied, “Because some things move not by fuel, but by faith and planning.” That sentence stayed with me. Isn't that how life works too? Sometimes, we wait for perfect conditions, for an external push, for motivation. But real movement comes from internal planning and quiet faith. That father became a teacher, not just to his son, but to a silent stranger like me.
One of my most powerful unseen teachers, however, was a group of laborers. They boarded the train at Dwarka after a long day, their clothes soaked in dust, faces tired but eyes lively. They cracked jokes in Bihari, passed peanuts around, and laughed without holding back. People around them looked uncomfortable. Some changed seats. Some covered their noses. But I chose to stay near them. I listened. And I felt something rare—raw joy. They had nothing, yet they had everything. Their happiness wasn’t a reaction; it was a choice. That day, I understood something profound: dignity isn’t in what you wear; it’s in how you carry yourself. These laborers, judged by many as ‘low class,’ taught me the highest class of living—unfiltered happiness.
As I kept observing, I began decoding people like a student decoding scriptures. Each person became a verse. Each behavior is a metaphor. Each conflict is a parable.
I remember a particular day at Central Secretariat station. A young man brushed past an old man to grab the last seat. The old man didn’t say a word, just stood silently holding the pole. A few stations later, the young man got up and offered his seat. “Sorry, Uncle, I realized I was wrong,” he said. The old man simply smiled and said, “A seat will last you 10 minutes. Realization will last you a lifetime.” That line is forever etched in my heart. The old man didn’t scold, didn’t shame. He waited. He taught. He forgave. That’s the power of quiet maturity.
In the Bhagavad Gita, Lord Krishna says, “One who is equal to friend and foe, who is balanced in honor and dishonor, is dear to me.” I saw this divine balance in countless unknown co-passengers. In the boy who stood up for a pregnant woman without anyone asking. In the girl who stood alone at night but radiated such calm courage that no one dared disturb her. In the transgender woman who blessed a child and received a genuine smile in return. These people were practicing the Gita without quoting it.
Some of the most profound lessons came from silence. I sat once beside a man who seemed extremely anxious. He kept tapping his foot, checking his phone. I didn’t ask him anything. But as the journey continued, I noticed him breathing deeper. When I got off, he looked at me and said, “Thanks for not asking. Your silence helped.” And I thought—sometimes, our presence can heal more than our advice. That man reminded me of the ancient Indian principle of maun sadhana—the practice of silence, where healing doesn’t happen through words but through energy.
Delhi Metro is also a strange school of patience. You are tested in crowds, in delays, in missed trains, and in sudden stops. But your reactions teach you more than the events. I remember missing a train once and cursing under my breath. Beside me, an old Sikh man chuckled and said, “Beta, if a train can leave without you, it’s not your train. Wait for yours.” That wisdom! That clarity! We apply it in metaphors but rarely in moments. Since then, I’ve applied his advice to jobs, relationships, and goals. If it leaves without you, it was never meant for you. Simple. Sacred. True.
I must mention one more unseen teacher—the woman who cried silently in a corner. No one noticed. She wasn’t wailing. Just tears, quietly sliding down her cheeks. I sat diagonally opposite and watched her. Not out of curiosity, but compassion. I didn’t ask. But when she got up to leave, she looked at me once. Just once. And I saw strength. Sometimes, breaking down is not weakness—it is a declaration of inner strength. She reminded me of the verse from the Rigveda: “Let my mind be filled with noble thoughts from all directions.” Noble thoughts come from noble observations. And in that moment, I vowed to never judge anyone’s tears again.
The unseen teachers of Delhi Metro have shaped me more than school teachers ever did. Because they taught not from authority, but from authenticity. They didn’t need attention. They needed only one student—me. And maybe someone like you, reading this now. If you open your heart and close your phone for a while, you will see them too. They are everywhere—in the frustrated man who doesn’t scream but controls his anger. In the girl who gives up her seat without waiting for appreciation. In the couple that laughs without needing social media. In the solo traveler who reads a book instead of scrolling endlessly. They are in the mother calming her crying baby. In the father holding his daughter’s hand tightly during the rush. In the voice of the announcer reminding everyone to be careful, patient, and present.
The Delhi Metro is a moving city, a traveling temple, and a running mirror. And in its coaches, I've found saints, sages, wanderers, warriors, poets, performers, and prophets—all hiding behind ordinary faces. They don’t ask for attention, but they deserve your awareness. They don’t seek applause, but they deserve your respect. Because they are teaching the most important subject of all—how to be human.
In our rush to reach destinations, we forget to absorb the journey. But when you start looking at people not as strangers but as possible teachers, life opens up in ways you never imagined. These seven years of travel have not only connected me with a city but also with consciousness. And the ones who helped me rise in that consciousness were never celebrities, influencers, or motivational speakers. They were ordinary people—extraordinary souls in disguise.
So, the next time you step into a metro or any public space, remember: someone around you might be your next teacher. But to receive the lesson, you must be present. You must observe. You must honor the invisible wisdom that travels silently around you. Because the greatest universities are not made of bricks, they are made of moments. And the greatest teachers don’t have names; they leave behind impressions.
These are the Unseen Teachers. They are everywhere. And they are waiting—for you to notice.
Chapter 3: People on the Move: A Study of Behaviors
There is something poetic about movement. The way people board the metro with urgency, as if their entire life depends on those few seconds. The way their feet shuffle, shoulders push, and minds race—even before the train starts moving. I began noticing that the metro wasn't just a public transport system; it was a flowing river of human energy, carrying emotions, thoughts, dreams, frustrations, expectations, and identities—all in one carriage. People are not just moving physically—they're carrying invisible baggage. And if you pay attention, you can almost hear their inner worlds whispering through their gestures.
Each day on the metro, I encountered dozens of mini-worlds, colliding yet trying not to touch. A man talking loudly on his phone wasn’t just being rude—he was trying to feel heard in a life where he often went unnoticed. A girl staring outside the window wasn’t lost—she was probably imagining a life beyond her office routine. The middle-aged woman holding her tiffin tightly close to her wasn’t obsessed with hygiene—maybe she just found dignity in taking care of her family with her own hands. These people weren’t just bodies in motion. They were stories on a silent march.
One morning, during peak office hours, I stood between two men. One wore a well-tailored suit, smelled of cologne, and was glued to his phone. The other wore a faded shirt, held a plastic file, and kept checking the notes in his hand nervously. Two very different energies. One polished and composed. The other is anxious and hopeful. I imagined their days—one heading to a boardroom, the other possibly to a job interview that could change his life. What fascinated me wasn’t their contrast—but how the metro equalized them. In that train, there were no CEOs or job seekers, only co-passengers. The metro, in its essence, is the ultimate teacher of humility. It treats everyone the same. It doesn’t slow down for money or status.
I often saw quarrels erupt out of nowhere—over a pushed shoulder, an untaken step back, or a small delay in standing up for someone. And in those quarrels, I saw more than anger—I saw accumulated stress. People didn’t fight because of a metro seat. They fought because of unspoken pain, failed dreams, toxic workplaces, suffocating families, loveless relationships, or unresolved trauma. The metro was simply the final straw, the place where their suppressed volcano finally erupted. And I realized something very crucial—we don’t live in an angry world; we live in a deeply hurt one. People are not rude by nature; they are tired. They are disappointed. They are misunderstood.
I remember a young woman yelling at an old man for accidentally brushing her hand. The entire coach went silent. The old man didn’t say anything, didn’t argue. He just looked down. Later, when she got off, a lady next to him asked, “Why didn’t you say anything?” He softly replied, “She must be dealing with something bigger than this moment.” That reply hit me harder than the entire incident. It was the kind of compassion that requires years of self-work. That man wasn’t weak; he was wise. He knew the art of absorbing chaos without becoming chaotic.
Then there was a college boy I saw crying silently near the metro door. He had earbuds in, his phone screen was cracked, and his backpack slumped forward. No one asked him anything. Maybe out of hesitation, maybe out of indifference. But his tears told a story I couldn’t ignore. As I got off the train, I lightly tapped his shoulder and said, “It gets better.” He didn’t say anything. But the way his eyes locked with mine, I knew he heard it. That’s the thing about humans—we're all trying to be strong, but sometimes, we need someone to remind us that vulnerability is not weakness. That moment became one of the most sacred memories of my metro journeys. I have also felt the sadness, the worries, and the depression, and sometimes I cried in the metro too, like others, but without disturbing anyone. I believe that it's normal to do so; after all, we are human beings, and we are emotional creatures, so there is no harm in crying, feeling low, depressed, or worried sometimes, but we must also remember that we shouldn't let our emotions control us; rather, we must control them most of the time and sometimes let the emotions flow without stopping.
In ancient Indian texts, especially the Upanishads, there’s a concept called Antar-Yatra—the inner journey. And I believe the Delhi Metro becomes that metaphorical vehicle for many. While people are moving physically across stations, there is another journey happening inside them. People are thinking about love, about loss, about ambition, about revenge, about forgiveness, about escape, and about survival. No one is really just ‘going to work.’ They’re carrying a thousand untold journeys within them. And sometimes, you can feel those silent journeys more than their visible destination.
There were days I saw joy—people laughing at memes, children playing with their parents, lovers stealing glances, and old couples holding hands like it's still their first date. And there were days I saw deep sadness—jobless youth checking rejected emails, exhausted mothers breastfeeding while standing, and a man who seemed to have not slept in days leaning on the door with eyes half shut. Each of them taught me something about the human condition. That we’re all just trying. No matter how strong we appear, we’re all trying to keep our stories from collapsing. And in this trying, our behaviors become complex, layered, and unpredictable.
Once, a foreign tourist got lost in the metro. He looked confused, trying to read the Hindi signs. A young boy stepped forward and offered help, walking him through the interchange. When they got off, the tourist said, “You saved me today,” and the boy replied, “We save each other every day; we just don’t notice.” What a profound reply. In the metro, we save people from getting crushed. From getting lost. From falling asleep and missing their station. From despair. We smile at strangers. We offer seats. We share earbuds. We give direction. These micro-actions—though small—are lifelines. They are emotional CPR.
You might be wondering what CPR means here. Normally, CPR stands for cardiopulmonary resuscitation, a life-saving medical procedure used in emergencies like a heart attack.
But here, I wrote it:
"These micro-actions—though small—are lifelines. They are emotional CPR."
I meant CPR as an emotional resuscitation—a metaphor for small acts of kindness that revive someone’s spirit, just like CPR revives the body.
For example:
These little gestures breathe life back into someone’s tired soul, especially in a busy and overwhelming environment like the Delhi Metro.
One of the most puzzling aspects of human behavior I noticed in the Delhi Metro was this obsession with ‘viral moments.’ People would start recording fights, awkward incidents, lovers kissing, or someone dancing—just to share it online. The metro, which should’ve been a sanctuary of shared respect, often turned into a stage for mockery. There was a girl who was dancing in an empty metro one evening. She wasn’t disturbing anyone. Just headphones on, lost in her rhythm. Someone secretly recorded her and posted it. It went viral. And instead of celebration, she received ridicule. Comments about her dress, her body, and her moves. It broke something in me. Why are we so desperate to capture people’s private moments and put them on public trial? Are we really that bored or that broken? I know you may be thinking that the Delhi Metro isn't a private place, so people shouldn't dance, sing, make reels, or do anything else. I agree with you here, but dancing, singing, and making reels isn't bad at all, but doing bad things is bad, and then we must raise our voices. But if someone isn't harming us, then it's our maturity that we should not record their privacy.
The same mentor that gave me lessons on compassion also showed me how disconnected we've become. We stare at our screens more than we acknowledge people. We capture more than we connect. And that’s the paradox—among thousands, we feel more alone than ever. The crowd doesn't heal us; it drowns us. I saw people faint, and no one noticed. I saw women being stared at, and no one intervened. I saw a lost child crying, and most people just walked away, avoiding involvement. But I also saw the opposite—strangers uniting to help someone, voices raising for the voiceless, and people forming human chains to stop stampedes. That’s the beauty and tragedy of the Delhi Metro. It shows both the best and worst of us—sometimes in the same journey.
One late evening, I met a man who was carrying a small temple bell. I asked if he was returning from a temple. He said no, he sells bells for a living. But he also believes the sound of bells purifies energy. So he rings them before he starts his day. “Buri soch door hoti hai isse,” he said. That statement stayed with me. Everyone on the move carries something. Some carry laptops. Some carry water bottles. Some carry temple bells. And some carry invisible scars. The behavior we see is just the tip. The real iceberg is hidden underneath.
After years of observing, I’ve come to believe that behavior is not fixed. It’s fluid. People are different versions of themselves depending on time, space, and energy. The same man who gives his seat today may shout tomorrow. The woman who ignores you today might save your child’s life someday. We are not static beings. We are shifting mosaics of mood, memory, and movement. That’s why judgment is such a dangerous shortcut—it robs people of their right to evolve.
In our ancient traditions, the journey was always considered sacred. Pilgrimages, processions, and parikramas—movement had spiritual significance. Because movement changes energy. It changes thoughts. It transforms behavior. Delhi Metro, in a way, continues that ancient tradition in a modern avatar. It's not just carrying bodies. It's shaking energies. Shaping mindsets. Showing mirrors. And in doing so, it's revealing the depth of who we really are.
People on the move are not just commuters—they are dreamers, healers, victims, rebels, poets, lovers, and seekers. Some are running away from something. Some are running towards something. Some are just floating in the in-between. But all are teaching you something—if you’re ready to receive.
And so, as I continue to travel, I continue to learn. Not just about others, but about myself. Because every behavior I notice in them, I sometimes find in me. Their anger, their silence, their joy, their fear, their love, and their indifference—it’s all part of the human kaleidoscope. And slowly, I’ve stopped labeling people as good or bad, polite or rude. I’ve started seeing them as just… human. And that, perhaps, is the greatest wisdom the metro has given me.
People on the move are not random. They are revelations. And if you observe with awareness, you will not just reach your station—you will reach yourself.
Chapter 4: The Quarrel Culture: Fighting Without a Cause
There is a strange energy that flows through crowded spaces. It moves like an invisible force, weaving itself into conversations, glances, silences, and sudden eruptions. Nowhere is this force more palpable than in the tightly packed compartments of the Delhi Metro. As I stood watching hundreds of faces every day, I began to realize something troubling, yet deeply human—people quarrel not always because something went wrong, but often because everything inside them has remained unresolved for too long.
In the beginning, I used to be surprised by how easily conflicts erupted over the pettiest of reasons. A mere foot accidentally touching another, someone leaning too close, a slightly loud ringtone, or a backpack brushing against someone’s arm—suddenly, two or more individuals would be exchanging loud words, their faces tensed, eyes sharp, voices rising. Strangers jumping in, some trying to escalate, some trying to de-escalate. A wave of chaos moving like a wildfire through an otherwise silent crowd. But the more I observed, the more I understood: these weren’t fights about space—they were cries for emotional space. People didn’t want to be right; they wanted to be heard.
In our ancient Indian wisdom, the Bhagavad Gita speaks of the mind as both a friend and an enemy. A person who has not mastered their mind is a slave to their impulses. What I saw every day in these micro-wars of the metro were people whose minds were overflowing—too many thoughts, frustrations, desires, regrets, unspoken words, all looking for a crack to escape. And when there is no sacred pause, no silence within, the tiniest external stimulus becomes the trigger. The quarrel becomes a vent, a valve to release inner pressure.
Delhi Metro, in its design, brings us close—physically close. But emotionally, we remain miles apart. We avoid eye contact, we pretend to be busy on our phones, and we wear our earphones like armor. Yet, our nervous systems are colliding. We are constantly brushing past energies that are tired, angry, anxious, and broken. And without realizing it, we absorb it. A person shouts at another, and suddenly the whole coach feels heavier, tighter. The energy shifts. People carry that tension with them, pass it on further, and the chain continues.
One day, I witnessed a fight that began with a misunderstanding over reserved seats. A young girl accused an older man of being disrespectful. The older man retaliated with equal fury. A woman intervened and was then insulted by both. Within seconds, the atmosphere was charged. But I looked closely—none of them were really fighting about the seat. They were all carrying invisible backstories. The young girl’s shirt was crumpled; maybe she hadn’t slept. The older man’s eyes were red; maybe he had just come from a hospital. The woman’s voice was trembling; maybe she was already on edge from something else. And there they were, three hurting souls clashing in public because the world hadn’t given them space to breathe in private.
We must understand, quarreling isn’t always about ego. Often, it’s about accumulated helplessness. In Vedic philosophy, there is a term called "klesha"—mental afflictions. Among them is "asmita" or false identification—thinking we are our status, our labels, our reputation. So, when someone brushes us the wrong way, we feel as if our entire identity has been attacked. We don’t see it as an event—we see it as humiliation. And humiliation invites anger. Anger invites reaction. Reaction invites regret.
But what if we paused? What if we trained ourselves, as the yogis did, to observe the gap between stimulus and response? One deep breath. One moment of compassion. One step back. We would save ourselves and others from unnecessary storms.
I remember a specific incident. A man wearing formal shoes accidentally stepped on a young girl’s foot. She shouted at him, calling him names. Instead of shouting back, the man simply folded his hands and said, "I am truly sorry, beta. It was my mistake." Her face changed instantly. She didn’t expect an apology. She expected an argument. When she received humility, her anger had nowhere to go. That’s the thing about anger—it feeds on resistance. Remove the resistance, and it dissolves.
Many people in the metro are walking time bombs. Their homes are stressful, their jobs are thankless, and their relationships are fragile. They are surviving, not thriving. And the metro, rather than being a vehicle of peace, becomes a battlefield of unresolved emotions. But here’s the deeper problem—when we normalize such behavior, we start believing that aggression is strength. We start mistaking loudness for power.
But ancient Indian culture celebrates silence as power. The rishis spoke less and observed more. They understood that energy must be channeled, not exploded. The real war is not between two angry individuals on a train. The real war is within—between our higher self and our lower impulses.
In the metro, I also noticed a trend of performative aggression. Some people quarrel just to show dominance. They want to prove they won’t be disrespected. They want others to fear them. But this too is born from deep insecurity. A person who is truly secure doesn’t need to bark. A lion doesn’t roar for attention. It knows its strength. True power is always silent.
Another dimension of quarrel culture is digital. Now, when people fight in public, there are phones capturing it. Videos go viral. And suddenly, a private moment of anger becomes public entertainment. But what we fail to understand is that this encourages more performance, more drama. We are creating a culture where people behave worse because they know they are being watched. We are not solving the problem; we are celebrating it.
I once saw two men arguing. Someone started recording. One of them noticed and immediately became more aggressive, as if putting on a show. Later, he even asked for the video to be sent to him. It broke my heart. We are turning pain into performance. And in doing so, we are losing our basic empathy.
But despite all this, there is hope. I have also seen strangers apologizing after fights. I’ve seen people offering water to someone who just argued with them. I’ve seen silent tears followed by silent nods of understanding. It’s not that people are bad. It’s that they are wounded. And wounded people bleed on those who didn’t hurt them.
On 3rd April, an incident unfolded in the Blue Line of the Delhi Metro that quickly caught the eye of social media. A man was seated on a general, unreserved seat when a woman approached and ordered him to vacate it. The man, perhaps tired or simply exercising his equal right to that seat, initially resisted. A brief argument ensued, not heated but uncomfortable. What turned this moment into a spectacle was the woman’s threat: “If you don’t leave this seat, I’ll make your video viral.”
Suddenly, it was no longer about the seat. It became a power play. A few bystanders—some men, some women—began siding with her, not necessarily out of principle, but possibly out of fear, social pressure, or blind solidarity. Eventually, the man, sensing the escalating situation and the risk of public shaming, got up and gave away his seat.
The video went viral, as expected. And as usual, social media became divided. Some people praised the woman, claiming she was merely asking for her rights. But the more discerning minds saw something deeper, something disturbing. They didn’t just see a man vacating a seat—they saw a man being subtly blackmailed in the name of “viral threats,” a man stripped of dignity not through words but through the looming sword of public humiliation.
What was most glaring in this situation was not who was right or wrong. It was the absence of basic human decency. If the woman had genuinely needed the seat, could she not have simply asked politely? Could the same request, framed with humility, not have achieved the same outcome, perhaps even with gratitude exchanged on both sides?
We often talk about gender sensitivity, equality, rights, and justice. But how often do we talk about values—the foundational quality that decides how we choose to exercise those rights? In the Delhi Metro, there are already dedicated coaches reserved exclusively for women. Additionally, every coach includes reserved seats for ladies. These measures are more than generous; they are essential for ensuring safety and respect. Yet, when that framework is stretched further—not by need, but by entitlement, not by request, but by demand—we begin to question: what kind of culture are we building?
Are we creating a world where every disagreement becomes a performance, a chance to go viral, to collect likes and views at the cost of someone’s dignity? Have we become so desensitized that public shaming is now an acceptable tool for negotiation?
There’s another side to this, one that rarely gets spoken about. The man. What if he had a bad day at work? What if he was mentally drained or physically unwell? What if he had just faced rejection, loss, or heartbreak? He may have simply wanted a quiet ride home. Yet, in a few minutes, he was villainized—not for harming anyone, but for being seated. Just because he was a man.
This isn’t just a conversation about gender. It’s a conversation about morality. About how we treat one another in public spaces. About how we choose to communicate. The tragedy is that our so-called “educated society” often confuses literacy with wisdom. We may have degrees, jobs, positions, and branded clothing—but if we lack empathy, patience, humility, and restraint, then we’re not truly educated. We’re just literate fools.
What we witnessed on the Blue Line was not empowerment. It was a misuse of influence. And it revealed a growing tendency in modern society: to resort to threats instead of conversations, to demand instead of request, to record instead of reflect. We are creating a generation not of thinkers, but of reactors. Not of humans, but of performers—constantly performing outrage, constantly looking for the next opportunity to feel superior by making someone else feel small.
There is something profoundly animalistic in this behavior—not the innocent kind found in nature, but the territorial, aggressive, power-hungry kind. We’re beginning to bark louder, bite faster, and justify it as justice. But true justice is silent. It doesn’t need threats. It doesn’t need an audience.
If this is what modernity looks like—where videos go viral before voices are even heard, where seats become battlegrounds, and where threats carry more weight than values—then we must urgently pause. Not because the world is ending, but because our humanity is.
Let us not become wild animals in branded clothes. Let us not trade kindness for dominance. Let us not forget that wisdom is not in the loudest voice but in the most graceful silence. Let us become humans again—real, thinking, feeling, patient humans.
That man didn’t lose his seat. We all lost something in that moment—our civility. And it’s time we start asking ourselves: what are we willing to trade for a little power? Because if it costs our dignity, it’s not worth the seat.
The real healing doesn’t come from avoiding conflict. It comes from understanding its roots. If we can train ourselves to see beyond behavior, to look at the pain behind the punch, the fear behind the frown, and the sadness behind the shout—we will slowly heal our spaces.
In the end, the Delhi Metro has taught me this—quarrels are not the disease. They are symptoms. The disease is disconnection. From our inner self. From others. From silence. From empathy. The medicine is awareness. When we bring awareness, we bring healing. When we bring healing, we bring peace. I will talk more in-depth about viral culture in the Delhi Metro in the next chapter.
The culture of fighting without a cause is not natural. It is learned. And anything learned can be unlearned. We just need to begin with one moment of pause. One act of compassion. One silent breath in the middle of noise. That’s where true transformation begins.
Chapter 5: The Viral Circus: Where Attention Meets Foolishness
The Delhi Metro is not just a mode of transportation anymore. It has turned into a live stage, an unending performance space, where the actors are ordinary people, the audience is social media, and the reward is attention. A new trend has silently crept into our everyday lives: a trend where foolishness becomes content, where arguments are rehearsed and fights are framed for the perfect camera angle, where being loud is confused with being right, and where attention is more important than truth. Welcome to the viral circus.
There was a time when people would travel in silence, read a book, talk to each other, or simply look out the window and think. Today, phones are ready, cameras are rolling, and people are searching for something to go viral. An accidental nudge, an unoffered seat, or even a slight delay in the train can be turned into the next "content moment." The trend has transformed into a stage where everyone wants to be a star, even if the performance is devoid of sense.
What is most dangerous about this new culture is not just its popularity but the fact that it rewards the worst of human behavior. A man and woman have a personal disagreement—it’s filmed. Someone is speaking too loudly—it’s filmed. A person is dancing or behaving oddly not with anyone, but with themselves—it’s filmed. And not just filmed, but edited, captioned, and uploaded with hashtags meant to provoke reactions and invite judgment from strangers who know nothing of the context. We don’t just share the moment anymore; we shape it, distort it, and exaggerate it for impact.
It’s important to understand why this is happening. In ancient Indian wisdom, there’s a concept called "Maya," the illusion of the world that distracts the soul from its true path. The viral culture is a new form of Maya. It presents itself as harmless entertainment, but slowly and surely, it detaches people from reality. We are no longer experiencing life; we are curating it. We are not living; we are performing. The true essence of the self, the "Atman," is getting buried under filters, fake expressions, and meaningless outrage.
In our scriptures, there’s also a concept of "Dharma," the righteous path, the duty one must uphold to live a noble life. Where is Dharma when people record a fight instead of stopping it? Where is Dharma when we clap at someone's public humiliation instead of feeling compassion? Where is Dharma when we prioritize clicks over character?
Let us look closer at some of these viral acts that occur often in the Metro. A boy and a girl are talking: instantly someone sees them negatively and records it, calls it shameful, and uploads it. But why? Are they harming anyone? Isn’t love natural? Another day, a girl scolds a man for standing too close—even if it wasn’t intentional. Maybe the train was crowded; maybe he didn't even notice. But the video is uploaded with a tagline: "Pervert caught in public." His reputation? Gone. His truth? Never known. His side? Never heard. One video, one perspective, one angle—and we destroy lives for entertainment. All these things I am telling you here, aren’t they true in the Delhi Metro? It’s not my fictional observation. What I have observed in the Delhi Metro, I have written about it.
We are becoming a society that celebrates punishment without trial, accusations without evidence, and judgments without facts. This is not justice; this is madness. Ancient Indian culture believed deeply in listening to all sides. Even Lord Rama, before waging war against Ravana, sent messages of peace, gave chances, and respected diplomacy. Even Krishna, before the battle of Kurukshetra, tried peaceful resolution. But here we are, jumping to conclusions, hurling insults, feeding our egos—all for a few thousand views.
Some people argue, "What’s the harm in filming? It’s the truth." But that’s the half-truth. Because what’s filmed is often filtered. What’s captured is not always complete. And what’s presented is always positioned to favor the person filming it. It’s never neutral. It’s never whole. The camera doesn’t lie, but the one holding it often does.
Let’s talk about intention. Intention is what separates a saint from a sinner, a teacher from a manipulator, and a leader from a tyrant. If your intention behind filming something is to humiliate, to gain views, or to enjoy someone’s misery—you are not doing a social service. You are feeding your own hollowness. You are covering your insecurities by turning others into jokes. And no matter how viral your content gets, you’ll remain poor in spirit.
In the ancient text Bhagavad Gita, Krishna says, "Karmanye Vadhikaraste Ma Phaleshu Kadachana"—you have the right to perform your duty, but not the fruits of your actions. What does this mean in the context of viral culture? It means we should act from a place of duty, not for reward. But what do most people do today? They act not out of duty or truth or value—they act only for the reward. The fruit. The claps. The virality.
Imagine a young student who witnesses a fight in the metro. She’s scared. She wants to help, but instead, she sees everyone recording. She too pulls out her phone, not because she wants to, but because she doesn’t want to be the odd one out. That’s what this circus does—it sucks people into its foolishness, into its noise, into its shallowness. And once you’re in, it’s hard to come out. Because it feels powerful to go viral. It feels good to be talked about. But it's empty.
This circus is not limited to one city or one metro line. It is growing like a disease. Today, it’s in the Delhi Metro. Tomorrow, it’ll be in your college, your workplace, your home. The desire to record over, to shout over, to speak over, and to accuse over understanding—it is spreading. And the only antidote is awareness.
We must remember that attention is not always respect. That being known is not the same as being valued. Those views don’t equal virtue. We must raise our children to value character over clout. We must teach our youth that true power lies not in going viral but in staying wise.
We must become humans again. Humans who observe more than they react. Who thinks before they record? Who helps before they judge? Who cares more about being kind than being seen?
Let the Delhi Metro be a symbol again—not of chaos, but of co-existence. Let it be a place where people learn patience, respect space, and protect dignity. Let the stage return to silence, the camera be kept aside, and the focus shift from going viral to growing wise.
Because if we continue down this path, we’ll not just lose our privacy; we’ll lose our peace. We’ll not just damage others; we’ll hollow ourselves. The circus may entertain for a moment, but the cost we pay is lifelong.
Don’t be a clown in this circus. Be the sage who walks quietly among the noise, untouched, undisturbed, and unshakeable. Because in a world chasing attention, stillness is the highest rebellion.
And the truth is: foolishness can be famous, but only wisdom is eternal.
Chapter 6: The Silent Observers
The Delhi Metro, as chaotic as it often seems, holds a unique kind of serenity in the spaces that go unnoticed—within the eyes of those who choose not to shout, not to argue, not to record, not to react. These are the silent observers. I’ve seen them. I’ve felt their presence. Over the last seven years, as I moved through the veins of this massive network of moving compartments, I came to understand that the real stories don’t always belong to those who are loud, aggressive, or viral—they belong to the quiet ones.
They are the people who sit by the window and look outside, not because the view is interesting, but because their mind is traveling somewhere else—into memories, into pain, into hope. They are the ones who listen more than they speak, who watch the world unfold like a sacred drama, knowing they’re a part of it, yet not needing to perform in it.
I remember a specific day. It was around 6:30 PM. I had boarded the metro from Rajiv Chowk. The coach was packed, as usual. People were pushing, arguing, and some were even recording random nonsense. But in a corner, next to the door, stood an old man. He didn’t move, didn’t complain, didn’t even shift his posture. His eyes were fixed—not on any person, not on the chaos—but on the floor. Not defeated, just distant. He wasn’t judging anyone. He wasn’t interested in the viral drama that some college kids were loudly narrating in the background. He simply stood there like a monk in a noisy monastery. Calm. Untouched. Present.
I kept watching him for some time. And then it struck me—this is a silent observer. One of the rarest people in this madness who has chosen awareness over attention. Who probably knows the foolishness of reacting and instead chooses the wisdom of simply witnessing?
Over the years, I began noticing more of them. A mother quietly holding her child's hand, watching the crowd push and pull but choosing to be patient. A young man carrying a tiffin and a worn-out bag, eyes tired, is probably returning from work, ignoring a group filming a video for Instagram reels. A girl with earphones in but no music playing, just pretending to listen so she could avoid small talk, silently absorbing every moment around her like a sponge.
These silent observers don’t go viral. They don’t make headlines. But they carry something deeper. They carry the weight of understanding. And that understanding is a product of stillness. In a time where everyone is talking, tweeting, commenting, and reacting, being silent is a rare form of rebellion. A wise rebellion.
In the Bhagavad Gita, Krishna says to Arjuna, “One who is able to withdraw the senses from their objects, as the tortoise draws its limbs within the shell, is firmly fixed in perfect consciousness.” These observers are like that tortoise. They have withdrawn from the urge to react, to prove, to perform. And that is why they are the ones who understand the true nature of human behavior.
You see, when you’re not trying to win an argument or prove a point, you can see both sides. When you’re not rushing to speak, you actually listen. And when you listen, you learn. Most people in the Metro are just passing time, burning energy, chasing likes. But the silent observers—they are absorbing. They are the keepers of truth.
One evening, around 7 PM on the Blue Line, I saw a man of 40 years of age get slapped by a young boy because of some nonsense arguments. The boy started to fight with the man, and some people said, "It's okay, Bhai Sahab Bhul Jaye Ise" (forget it, brother). The man didn’t say anything. He turned off his phone and stood silently, visibly shaken. Everyone looked away; some murmured, some smiled awkwardly. But I noticed a woman in the corner seat. She didn’t film, didn’t interfere, but her eyes said everything. Compassion. Pain. And strength.
This world doesn’t acknowledge such moments. But they exist. And they’re powerful. The silent observers understand that kindness is not always loud and that dignity is often defended in silence.
Sometimes I wonder what the world would look like if we were all a little more like them. Not indifferent. Not numb. But just more conscious, more thoughtful, more inward. I’ve realized that the Metro itself is like a mirror. It reflects society in motion. And if you look long enough, you begin to see not just people—but patterns. Patterns of behavior, emotion, insecurity, need, and pride. And amidst all these patterns, the silent observers are like sacred breaks. They interrupt the noise. Not by opposing it, but by being completely unaffected by it.
Their strength lies in their stillness. In the Upanishads, there is a verse: “Yato vacho nivartante aprapya manasa saha”—where words return, having not attained the Truth, which is beyond the reach of the mind. That is the silence I’m talking about. A silence so full, so vast, so wise that words become unnecessary.
There is also a moral power in their silence. I once saw a young couple get into an argument. Words were flying, blame was being thrown, and people were watching like it was a reality show. But just two feet away from them sat a man meditating. Yes, meditating from within. Eyes open, spine straight, not a single muscle moving. It was unreal. In the middle of all that tension, he was simply… still. That image has stayed with me for years. I often think of him when I find myself disturbed by small things. If he could meditate in that noise, I can surely find peace in my life’s small battles.
The truth is, the world is not designed for observers. It’s designed for performers. You are rewarded for reacting, shouting, marketing, and displaying. But you are transformed when you learn to observe. Observation is where wisdom begins. When you start observing your thoughts, your reactions, and your ego—something changes. You begin to see life as it is, not as you’ve been told it is.
Delhi Metro taught me that lesson in the most unexpected ways. I started as just another passenger, irritated by delays, suffocated by crowds. But as I started observing—really observing—I began to see the deeper currents. I saw people struggling, not with traffic, but with life. I saw boys pretending to be confident but hiding their insecurities. I saw girls putting on headphones, not because they love music, but because they’re tired of being watched. I saw elderly people smiling for no reason, probably grateful just to be alive.
And above all, I saw those quiet ones. Those who said nothing but noticed everything.
They remind me that real power is not in how loud you can be but in how deep you can go. And to go deep, you have to be silent. Not just externally, but internally. No judgment. No interpretation. Just presence. Just being.
That is the power of the silent observer.
The Delhi Metro is a chaotic space, but within that chaos lies a hidden order. The silent observers are the invisible threads holding it together. They’re not trying to fix the world. They’re simply watching it with eyes that see beyond the surface. And that, I believe, is the first step toward wisdom.
You don’t always need to speak to make an impact. Sometimes, your silence becomes the loudest statement. In a world where everyone wants to be seen, choose instead to see. In a world where everyone wants to be heard, choose instead to listen. And in a world that’s obsessed with making noise, be the one who finds music in the quiet.
That’s what I’ve learned from the Delhi Metro. And more than anything else, I’ve learned it from those who never said a word. The silent observers. The true masters of awareness. The living sages of everyday life.
Chapter 7: Kindness Still Exists—Just Harder to Spot
In the ever-humming belly of the Delhi Metro, amid the jostling shoulders, the hurried steps, the loud phone calls, and the mindless scrolling, there exists a forgotten truth: kindness is still alive. It has not vanished. It has not bowed down to modern apathy. It has simply gone undercover. It no longer screams for attention, it doesn’t wear a badge, and it refuses to go viral. But it breathes. And if you look close enough, it still glows like a tiny diya on a stormy night.
Over the last seven years of my life traveling across the endless lines of the Delhi Metro, I have seen all shades of humanity. I have seen quarrels that made no sense, people pushing each other over nothing, pretentious influencers recording tasteless content, and aggression born out of sheer frustration. But I have also seen something more rare—a smile offered at the right moment, a hand extended toward a stranger, a seat offered silently, and eyes that said, “It’s okay, take your time.”
The problem is not that kindness has vanished. The problem is that we have trained ourselves to look for entertainment, drama, and scandal. We don’t notice a person picking up someone else’s fallen wallet, but we click instantly when someone starts shouting. We don’t share the video of a young man guiding an elderly lady to the escalator, but we flood comments when someone throws a tantrum in public. What we choose to highlight reveals who we are becoming. But there is still hope.
One summer afternoon, I boarded the metro at Noida Sector 15. The heat outside was unforgiving. Inside, the AC barely made a difference. As usual, the coach was packed. People looked drained. I found a small space near the door and stood there quietly. At the next station, a disabled man walked in with a bag, trying to navigate through the crowd. Most people didn’t move; some looked annoyed. But then, a young woman, maybe in her early twenties, stood up from her reserved seat and gently offered her seat to the man. Without saying a word, she offered him the seat. The moment lasted barely a minute, and then the train moved on. But that minute carried more humanity than a hundred debates on social media.
I kept thinking about that girl. She didn’t do it for attention. She didn’t even look around to see if someone noticed. That’s when I realized something beautiful: real kindness doesn’t need an audience.
There was another time when I was feeling particularly low. Work had been tough. My energy was drained, and life felt heavy. I was on the Blue Line, going home. I leaned against the side rail, lost in thought. Just then, a man beside me opened his bag and offered me a pack of biscuits. I looked at him, confused. He smiled and said, “You look tired, bhai. Have something.” I didn’t know him. He didn’t know me. But in that moment, he saw me—not as just another passenger, but as a fellow human being.
Kindness isn’t always grand. Sometimes it’s in the smallest gestures. A stranger holding your bag for a second while you adjust your shoes. A commuter waking you up gently so you don’t miss your station. A little kid smiling at you without a reason. These moments don’t trend. They don’t get likes. But they stay with you. They become proof that humanity hasn’t completely drowned.
I remember reading a line in an old Indian scripture: "Paropakaram idam shariram"—This" body is meant for the service of others. We have forgotten that. We now use our bodies to push through crowds, to fight for seats, to scroll through fake lives online. But every once in a while, someone reminds us of our true purpose.
There was a time I saw a middle-aged man fall on the stairs of the metro exit. People walked past him like he was invisible. Some even looked irritated. But then, a young delivery boy, clearly in a hurry, dropped his bag and rushed to help him. He didn’t ask for anything. He didn’t wait for applause. He just helped, smiled, and left. That incident never left me. I followed him for a while and noticed how effortlessly he was kind. For him, it was just natural.
It makes me think: what has made us so resistant to kindness? Is it fear of being judged? Is it ego? Is it the belief that no one else will be kind to us, so why bother? Or is it just that we’ve forgotten how to be human?
But there’s a deeper truth. Every act of kindness I witnessed, every single one, came from someone who was not trying to show off. It came from people who had probably suffered, who had seen pain, and who understood what it felt like to not be seen, not be helped. There’s a silent tribe of people in this city who carry light within them. They walk among us. They don’t lecture. They don’t tweet quotes. They just do what is right when no one is watching.
In Delhi Metro, kindness comes in moments. Moments that are quiet but powerful. A person tapping your shoulder to return your wallet. Someone stopping a door from closing because you’re running late. A stranger gives you water when you’re feeling dizzy. These are the new-age saints. Not in robes. Not in temples. But in jeans, uniforms, and office wear. Living their dharma, not preaching it.
It is easy to believe that the world has turned cold. But that’s only because warmth is now subtle. We must train our eyes and hearts to see it. Like spotting a lotus in muddy water. Kindness is not gone. It’s just quieter now. And that’s okay. Real strength is often silent.
I’ve also come to understand that sometimes, the kindest thing you can do is to not react with anger. To let someone go ahead of you. To not shout back. To give someone the benefit of the doubt. In the words of the Mahabharata: "Ahimsa paramo dharmah"—non-violence is the highest dharma. In today’s context, even emotional non-violence is a form of kindness.
Not every story of kindness has an ending. Some acts are seeds. They stay in the hearts of the receivers and grow into trees. Maybe the man I gave my seat to will offer his seat to someone else tomorrow. Maybe the woman who saw a kind act will believe in goodness again. These ripples matter.
I wish the world could see what I have seen. I wish cameras would capture those quiet heroes. But maybe it’s better that they don’t. Maybe some stories are sacred because they are not public. Maybe kindness is most powerful when it’s anonymous.
So if you’re ever on the Delhi Metro, or anywhere really, and you feel the weight of cynicism pulling you down, just look around. Not at the noise, not at the chaos, but in between the cracks. You will see it—a small act, a gentle smile, a helping hand. You will realize that kindness is not dead. It’s just waiting to be noticed.
In a world obsessed with what is wrong, be someone who sees what is right. Be the one who doesn’t need a reason to be kind. Because kindness, in its purest form, is not a reaction—it’s a way of being. And if we can rediscover that, even in crowded trains and noisy stations, then maybe, just maybe, we still have hope.
The Delhi Metro has taught me many things. But above all, it has taught me this: that kindness still exists—just harder to spot. But once you learn how to see it, you will start seeing it everywhere. And maybe then, you’ll become one too.
Chapter 8: Delhi Metro as a Mirror of Society
Every day when I walk into the Delhi Metro, I feel like I'm stepping onto the stage of a grand play. Each coach, each platform, each interchange station feels like a scene. Some scenes are full of laughter, some of anger, others soaked in silence, and many wrapped in indifference. If anyone wants to understand the real, raw, and unfiltered India, they need not read a thousand books or attend a thousand seminars—they just need to travel on the Delhi Metro. It offers an everyday trailer of our society, culture, manners, habits, and values, and perhaps more honestly than any academic analysis ever could.
The moment the doors open, you see a flood of personalities. From the highly sophisticated corporate executive glued to his AirPods and business calls, to the young college student grooving silently to beats, to the exhausted laborer returning from a 12-hour shift, to the rural family staring in amazement at the escalators, everything blends into one rhythm. It’s a rhythm not always in harmony, but it’s our rhythm. And in that chaos, in those glances and interactions, the soul of Indian society reveals itself.
What strikes me most is the tension between urban sophistication and rural humility. Sophistication, unfortunately, is often mistaken for superiority. I’ve seen city dwellers with polished accents and branded attire treating rural commuters like outsiders—as if the right to travel on the metro comes with a dress code or vocabulary. And yet, many of these rural passengers carry a deep, rare humility. They might not know how to swipe a metrocard or stand on the right side of the escalator, but they offer you a seat when they see you're tired. They smile back when you smile at them. Their behavior is wrapped in values passed down through generations—something that sometimes feels absent in the so-called educated urban culture.
I remember observing a family from a village, clearly unfamiliar with metro rules. They were confused about the token system and accidentally entered the wrong gate. Instead of helping them, a young man shouted at them, calling them illiterate and careless. But just a few minutes later, I saw the same family helping an elderly man who had tripped. They lifted him up, offered water, and waited with him until he was okay. That moment shattered the illusion that education always leads to wisdom. Because wisdom, I've learned, often travels silently, without degrees.
In the Delhi Metro, we see the class divide playing out not in speeches but in actions. The reserved seats, the standing zones, and the first coach for women—all reflect both our attempt to create order and the lingering chaos we carry within. Some people respect the rules like sacred codes. Others break them like it's a game. And some people just stand and observe, unsure of where they belong.
The behavior inside the metro can sometimes be baffling. On one end, you see someone pushing past people just to grab a seat, not caring if they step on someone’s foot. On the other, you witness a young boy offering his seat to a lady with a child. These acts, however small, reflect two faces of the same society. We are both the problem and the solution. The Delhi Metro just holds a mirror.
What’s even more intriguing is the cultural divide you notice—not just in language or attire, but in mindset. There are people for whom everything is a transaction. They speak only when needed, look only when required, and stand like statues. And then there are those for whom every journey is an opportunity to connect—they smile, they initiate conversations, they observe life around them.
I once met an old man in his 70s on the Yellow Line. He sat beside me and began talking about his days as a teacher. His insights into life were profound. He said, “Beta, metro mein “सिर्फ लोग नहीं चढ़ते, सोच भी चढ़ती है। कोई सोचता है बस सीट मिल जाए, कोई सोचता है कि इंसान मिल जाए।"
.” (“It’s not just people who board the metro —thoughts do too. Some only think of getting a seat, while others hope to meet a good human.”) He was right. Everyone brings their thoughts, worries, dreams, and memories into those moving coaches. Some carry ambition, some carry burdens, and some just carry time.
There is also the rising trend of people filming others. A woman dancing on a moving train goes viral. A couple hugging becomes a meme. A heated argument gets thousands of likes. But almost nobody talks about the quiet person reading a book, the student revising notes before an exam, or the father carrying his sleeping child. Our attention gravitates towards the noisy, the absurd, and the controversial. And this says a lot about our collective mindset. We are moving towards a society where foolishness is rewarded and humility is ignored.
And yet, the Delhi Metro also offers hope. It is the one place where a millionaire and a mason may stand side by side, holding the same pole for balance. It is where a CEO and a student might exchange a smile. Where a fashion influencer and a religious devotee may sit across from each other without speaking a word but still acknowledge each other’s presence. The Metro teaches us that we all move together. Time may divide us outside, but the train unites us inside.
Every now and then, I notice a strange but beautiful thing: people learning without realizing it. A young man is helping an old woman with the escalator. A girl is explaining the route to a confused foreign tourist. A group of college students giving way to foreigners. These silent actions speak louder than any speech on unity or empathy. The metro doesn’t just take you from point A to B. It quietly transforms you—if you’re willing to observe.
Yet, it also forces us to reflect on how fast we are losing the culture of manners and decency. How often do people greet each other with a smile now? How many say "thank you" when someone makes way for them? In the race of modern life, we have forgotten simple courtesies. We ignore the old man standing, avoid eye contact with the crying child, and scroll endlessly on our phones, shutting off the world around us.
The Delhi Metro, in that sense, becomes a moral test every single day. You might have degrees, skills, and a job—but can you be kind when no one is watching? Can you respect someone even when society has taught you to judge them? Can you give your seat without thinking of applause?
Delhi Metro shows the contradiction of India—rapid development without mental evolution. We build apps but forget to build values. We install CCTV but forget to install self-discipline. We raise salaries but lower patience. We celebrate freedom but forget responsibility. It’s a place where you can see the best and worst of our country in one trip. "And don’t get me wrong—I’m not judging anyone. What I’m trying to say is that I’ve simply observed these things while traveling in the Delhi Metro. And if you’re someone who commutes daily, I’m sure you’ve noticed and experienced them too."
And if one truly wants to see where India is headed, they must see the metro at peak hours. That’s when the true character is revealed. Not when the train is empty and comfortable, but when it’s packed, sweaty, and noisy. How people behave in discomfort says more about them than how they behave in ease.
I remember a young girl once scolded a man for misbehaving with a woman. She didn’t care about the crowd, about who was watching—she stood up. And others followed. That day, I felt proud. I felt hopeful. Because amidst all the chaos, the real India still breathes. You just have to look closer.
In the end, the Delhi Metro is not just public transport. It is a public teacher. It teaches you about patience, humility, tolerance, and observation. It is a mirror—sometimes dirty, sometimes clean—but always real. It doesn’t flatter you. It reflects you.
So, the next time you enter a metro coach, don’t just see it as a journey. See it as a chance to understand your society, your people, and perhaps, yourself. Because in the end, the metro doesn’t just take you places. It shows you who you really are.
In the next chapter, I will share with you unforgettable life lessons that I have learned from the moving train—Delhi Metro.
Chapter 9: Life Lessons from a Moving Train
Every morning, as I entered the doors of the Delhi Metro, I wasn’t just stepping into a train—I was entering a classroom of life. And like any meaningful classroom, the lessons weren’t handed down from a teacher at the front of the room, but rather whispered from every corner, from every passenger, from every moment that passed between one station and another. We often overlook the silent teachings of our environment, but the Metro, if you are willing to listen and observe, speaks in an ancient tongue that echoes the wisdom of our rishis and saints. These aren’t new lessons. They are as old as time—truths embedded deep in the human experience, only wrapped in the steel body of a modern train.
The first lesson that comes to you is Patience. In a city like Delhi, where people are always in a rush, where traffic honks become part of your heartbeat, and schedules control your every move, waiting becomes a form of pain. But inside the metro, you are forced to wait. You cannot ask the train to hurry. You cannot demand the station to come sooner. You cannot make the crowd disappear. You wait—silently or restlessly, but you wait. And slowly, you begin to realize that waiting is not weakness; it’s strength. It is the calm before any storm, the pause before the answer. It is like the patience Arjuna had to learn on the battlefield, as Lord Krishna explained the Bhagavad Gita to him. Without patience, action becomes impulsive, and wisdom gets clouded. The Metro teaches you this, one station at a time. The impatient get frustrated, but those who surrender to the rhythm of the journey begin to understand the secret joy of waiting—it is when your mind becomes quiet and your ego takes a step back.
Standing inside a moving train without support is not just about keeping your body upright. It is a test of your Balance. And balance, in the deeper sense, is a spiritual virtue. Ancient yogis spoke of balance not just in terms of asanas or physical postures but as an inner equilibrium between desires and duties, between the material and the spiritual. When the train jerks or takes a turn, and you still manage to keep yourself from falling, you are practicing dharma in motion. You learn to shift your weight, adjust your feet, and focus your attention. Isn’t that what life demands of us too? Life will never give us a steady platform. It will shake us, throw unexpected turns at us, and sometimes stop abruptly. But if we can find our center and keep our footing, we remain unbroken. In that moment, we are no less than a yogi in meditation, balanced between breath and silence, movement and stillness.
Then comes the lesson of Respect. The Metro is full of strangers—people you don’t know, people you may never see again, and yet, you are forced to share space with them. You inhale their breath, feel their elbows, and accidentally touch their bags. There is no room for personal bubbles, and yet, every day millions travel together with an unspoken code. An older man finds space beside a student; a woman adjusts her purse to make room for another; someone offers a seat without words. These are not acts of kindness alone—they are acts of mutual respect. The Upanishads teach us that the Divine resides in every being—Tat Tvam Asi—it is a profound Sanskrit phrase from the Upanishads which means "You are that." In simple terms, it means that you are not separate from the universe, from truth, or from the divine — you are that ultimate reality. The same energy, consciousness, or truth that exists in the entire universe also exists within you.
To understand it better, think of a wave in the ocean. The wave may appear separate, but it is nothing but the ocean in motion. Just like that, you may see yourself as a separate person in the Delhi Metro, but in essence, you are part of it like the universal whole. Another example is a ray of sunlight — it may look small, but it carries the essence of the mighty sun. Or consider a clay pot — it may have a shape, a name, a use, but at its core, it is just clay. In the same way, we all have names, forms, and roles in the Delhi Metro and life, but our true essence is the same as the source of all creation.
In daily life, when you feel lost, unworthy, or weak, remember this: Tat Tvam Asi — You are that. You are not limited. You are not powerless. You are connected to the ultimate source of strength, wisdom, and truth. This realization can change how you see yourself and the world around you.
If we can remember this truth even in the most crowded places, we would stop judging people by their clothes, smell, or expression. The Metro strips us of our social status. It doesn’t matter if you are a CEO or a clerk, if you are rich or just surviving—when the coach is full, you all stand equal. And in that equality, there lies the beauty of respect. It’s not demanded; it’s offered.
One of the most practical yet powerful lessons the Metro teaches is Adaptability. The seat you planned to occupy might already be taken. The route you follow might suddenly get delayed. The crowd might force you to stand when you’re exhausted. But you learn to adjust. You shift your foot, you turn your shoulder, you squeeze in, you find a way. Life is no different. Rigidity breaks us. Adaptability strengthens us. The ancient scriptures speak of Jeevan Mukti—freedom while living. This freedom doesn’t come from controlling everything but from letting go of the need to control. Like water taking the shape of its container, we too must learn to mold ourselves according to time, place, and circumstance. In the Metro, this is not a choice; it’s a necessity. And those who accept it early find their journey smoother.
I’ve observed so many faces in the Metro—some tensed, some sleepy, some radiant with hope, and others lost in worry. The Metro becomes a mirror of society, and in that mirror, we also see our own face. It reflects who we are, how we react, how we behave under pressure, and how we show courtesy when no one is watching. These small gestures—giving way at the gate, helping a child climb, standing without a seat without grumbling—are like invisible badges of character. No one praises you, no one rewards you. But the act itself becomes a reward. It’s what our scriptures call Seva—selfless service. Not always grand, not always visible, but powerful nonetheless.
Once I saw a disabled man board the train with a stick. As soon as he entered, he whispered, "Can someone help me find a seat?" And before I could move, two people jumped to help him. One held his hand, the other cleared a space. They didn’t ask for his story. They didn’t record a video. They just helped. At that moment, I remembered a verse from the Rig Veda—"Sangachhadhvam samvadadhvam sam vo manamsi janatam"—let us move together, speak together, and let our minds be in harmony. The Metro doesn’t just teach you movement; it teaches you harmony. In such a tight, enclosed space, we survive not because we dominate but because we cooperate.
Life is not too different from this crowded compartment. We think we’re all going somewhere separately, but in truth, we are on a shared journey. Our destinations may differ, but our experiences intersect. What we give to others—patience, kindness, balance, and respect—is what creates a meaningful journey. We don’t remember every ride, but we remember the moments that moved us. That one stranger who smiled at you when you were having a bad day. That child who made you laugh. That moment of unexpected kindness. These moments are not random—they are the real currency of human connection.
There’s also a kind of spiritual practice in just watching. Being an observer without judgment, just like the Sakshi Bhava taught in Vedantic philosophy—the witness consciousness. To see without getting entangled. To observe your irritation when someone bumps into you. To watch your thoughts when the train is delayed. To catch your impulses when someone behaves rudely. The Metro, my friend, is a daily meditation disguised as a public transport system. You just have to ride it with awareness.
In seven years of traveling, I have changed. I no longer see the Metro as just a way to get to work. I see it as a living book—one where every person is a page, every day a chapter, and every ride a verse in a sacred poem of life. I’ve come to understand that true education doesn’t always come from schools or universities. Sometimes, it comes from observing a mother feed her child in the corner seat. Sometimes, it comes from watching a group of tired workers laugh at a silly joke. Sometimes, it comes from standing silently, squeezed in a crowd, and still managing to feel peace inside.
When our ancient sages spoke of life as Maya—an illusion, they didn’t mean that nothing is real. They meant that we often get lost in appearances and forget the deeper truths. In the Metro, where everyone appears different, the truth is that we are all the same—trying to reach somewhere, trying to stay balanced, trying to remain kind despite everything. And maybe, that is the real enlightenment. Not glowing in a cave, but glowing with humanity amidst chaos.
I remember the Buddha’s definition of enlightenment—being fully in the moment. Not escaping life, but embracing it as it is, and bringing presence, peace, and compassion into it. And what better place to practice that than in the crowded silence, shared glances, and small kindnesses of the Metro? In that sense, every station is not just a stop, but a spiritual checkpoint.
The Buddha’s definition of enlightenment is simple yet profound. It’s not about escaping the world or sitting in silence far away from society. It’s about understanding life as it is, letting go of unnecessary desires, and being fully present in each moment—with awareness, peace, and compassion. And honestly, I have felt this truth while traveling in the Delhi Metro. In those crowded compartments, where every person is rushing somewhere, I learned that enlightenment isn't just found in solitude—it’s found in everyday moments. It’s in offering your seat to someone in need, in staying calm when the train is packed, in sharing a smile with a stranger, or in simply standing still amidst the noise. The Metro taught me that we don’t need to glow in caves; we can glow with humanity in chaos. Just like the Buddha said—true happiness and freedom begin when we’re fully present. And in that sense, every Metro ride became more than a journey—it became a practice of mindfulness and a path to inner peace.
The train moves. So do we. And every station is a reminder that no moment is forever. We get on. We travel. We get off. But if we can pick up even one lesson from the journey, then the ride was worth it. That is what life is—a long, shared Metro ride with infinite chances to grow, to change, to be better.
So tomorrow, when you step into the Metro again, don’t just ride it. Read it. Feel it. Learn from it. Because hidden in those noisy compartments and silent faces are the greatest lessons you’ll ever need.
Chapter 10: Delhi Metro Rules—Written by Authority, Broken by Commuters
In the mechanical rhythm of daily commutes through the arteries of the Delhi Metro, a silent choreography unfolds. People pour into stations with tired eyes and hurried steps, bound by time and routine. Amidst this rush, a set of rules is omnipresent—painted boldly on walls, printed on placards, and gently echoed through automated announcements. These aren't the dictations of an unseen autocrat; they are carefully designed gestures of civic sense and shared responsibility. Yet, ironically, while these rules are everywhere, they are treated as invisible.
You walk into any Metro station in Delhi, and the scene is eerily familiar. Instructions in the Metro like "Please offer your seat to someone who needs it more than you do" shine in fluorescent ink, but are dimmed by social apathy. The walls wear these messages like tattoos of wisdom, but they seem more faithful to them than the humans who read them. The result? A theater of contradiction where rules exist, but empathy has exited the stage.
Look closely, and you'll see elderly citizens standing silently, their hands trembling as they hold onto the metal pole for balance. You'll spot mothers cradling infants, shifting their weight from one foot to another, or differently-abled individuals struggling to steady themselves amidst the chaos. All this while a row of perfectly healthy passengers sit comfortably, eyes fixed on their phones, ears sealed with earbuds, minds tuned out from the world around them. A digital scroll, a YouTube video, or a mindless reel seems to take precedence over a real, living human in need.
This isn’t just about seats. It’s about the erosion of something deeper—shared humanity. We are fast becoming a society where convenience overshadows compassion, where being physically present doesn't always mean being socially aware. A Metro seat, once a symbol of rest, now seems to have evolved into a personal throne—guarded, defended, and often surrendered only when confronted.
But where is this sense of entitlement rooted? Perhaps in a culture of growing individualism where the self expands and the collective shrinks. Or perhaps, it is the result of a digital age that has numbed our sensory antennae, making us indifferent to the presence of pain unless it flashes on a screen. But can this truly be the world we want to build?
Our ancient ethos had a different story to tell. The idea of "Atithi Devo Bhava"—the guest is divine—is not just about guests in our homes, but about strangers we cross paths with in public spaces. Every fellow traveler is an atithi in our shared journey. To offer a seat is not merely to yield a cushion; it is to honor their presence, to acknowledge their fatigue, to respect their right to dignity.
What would it cost us to raise our eyes from our screens and scan the compartment for someone more deserving of our spot? What would it cost to be a little more aware, a little more kind? Just one small act—a gentle tap on the shoulder, a smile, and a gesture that says, “Please, have my seat”—could restore faith in a world where humanity is not just preached, but practiced.
Let us not become people who wait for a rule to be enforced to do the right thing. Let us choose to follow them not because we fear a fine or a reprimand, but because we believe in the value they uphold. The real rule is unspoken: "Be human." And this, perhaps, is the one most worthy of obeying.
So the next time you're in a crowded Metro, pause. Look up. Look around. You might just find someone who needs your seat more than you do. And in that small moment of selflessness, you’ll find something rare—the quiet satisfaction of living with awareness, grace, and goodness.
Now let me share another rule that, while not broken by everyone, is still deliberately ignored by a noticeable few in the Delhi Metro. This isn't a made-up story or an exaggerated claim—it’s a fact I’ve personally observed over my 7 years of commuting through the Metro’s corridors. And if you're someone who travels daily on this network, I’m sure you’ve noticed it too.
The Door Closes, But Awareness Rarely Opens
“Kindly do not obstruct the doors while closing.” This isn’t a complicated instruction. It’s simple, clear, and even repeated in two languages—through printed signs, flashing LEDs, and courteous announcements. And yet, in the daily hustle of the Delhi Metro, it is one of the most ignored rules I’ve seen in my seven years of commuting across this city’s lifelines.
You don’t need to look far to see the irony unfold. As the warning beeps sound and the doors begin to slide in, a hand suddenly stretches out, a foot jams forward, or worse, an entire body shoves in at the last moment—halting the mechanism, delaying the train, frustrating everyone inside. It’s as if the urgency of one overrides the patience of a hundred others. And it happens over and over, like a ritual of chaos performed at every station.
I have personally witnessed this hundreds of times—people treating the closing doors as some sort of challenge to conquer, rather than a safety mechanism to respect. I’ve seen students squeeze in recklessly, office-goers forcefully wedge themselves in, and even elderly men attempt to delay the inevitable with outstretched bags, hands, or even legs. At that moment, nothing seems to matter—not the rule, not the voice of reason, not even the glaring faces of fellow passengers.
But this act is not just a momentary inconvenience. It reflects a deeper disregard—not just for rules, but for shared space, time, and safety. When someone obstructs the door, the train is delayed. The entire schedule gets disrupted. But more importantly, it endangers lives. Doors are not built for human resistance; they are built for motion, not negotiation. A second’s hesitation can lead to serious injury—not only to the one forcing their way in but to others who get caught in the ripple effect.
And yet, people do it. Repeatedly. Thoughtlessly. Almost proudly.
In the Bhagavad Gita, Lord Krishna speaks of “Yogah karmasu kaushalam”—Yoga is skill in action. It is not just about the act itself, but the consciousness behind the act. Skill is not always about speed or success—it is often about timing, discipline, and presence. And in this context, the skill lies in knowing when to wait, and when to stop.
In truth, the Delhi Metro offers us countless such moments—small opportunities to practice mindfulness in motion. Obstructing a door seems trivial, but it reveals a larger problem: a society increasingly driven by impulse, where impatience is mistaken for urgency and entitlement is disguised as need. We are so afraid of missing the train that we forget—we might also be missing our growth.
Yes, the Metro gets crowded. And yes, during peak hours, the urgency is real. But even then, awareness must remain our guide. If a train is packed, wait for the next one. It’s just two minutes away. That wait may seem long to the body, but it disciplines the mind. And that discipline—repeated over time—builds patience, awareness, and respect.
In quieter hours, when there is no real need to push or rush, our choices become even more important. These moments test our values. Will we follow the rule because someone is watching, or will we follow it because we care about the principle behind it? This is where self-discipline—niyama in the yogic path—truly begins.
The rules printed in the Metro are not about control. They are invitations to refine ourselves. Not for the system, but for the self. When you choose not to obstruct the door, you are not just making the train run smoother. You are building the rarest quality of all—inner responsibility.
After all, transformation is not found in grand temples or philosophies. It is found in small acts done with quiet integrity. Respecting a closing door may seem insignificant. But it’s those insignificant acts—repeated silently—that define our character.
Let the doors close. Let the train go. But don’t let the moment of growth pass you by.
Let your maturity be visible not in how fast you catch the train, but in how gracefully you miss it—with patience in your heart, and awareness in your action.
“Please let the passengers get down first.”
The rule is announced through speakers, and even politely reinforced by fellow commuters. It’s a simple instruction rooted in logic—let people exit so others can enter. And yet, in my 7 years of daily travel on the Delhi Metro, I’ve consistently observed how often this basic principle is ignored. A section of people—small but impactful—pushes forward the moment the doors open, trying to rush inside even before the passengers stepping out have had a chance to move.
This behavior may seem trivial, but its consequences are real: unnecessary arguments, collisions, chaos, and occasionally, even physical scuffles. In a system designed for efficiency, this lack of order breaks the very rhythm of movement. It’s not just about being in a hurry—it’s about disrespecting flow, ignoring presence, and erasing empathy.
In Indian philosophy, especially as echoed in the Bhagavad Gita, there is an emphasis on dharma—not just duty, but the right conduct appropriate to time, place, and role. When we board a Metro, our first dharma is to make space for others. It's a small act of surrender: to wait, to hold back, to give way. Yet we resist. Why? Because the modern mind, addicted to urgency, sees waiting as weakness. But waiting is not weakness—it is wisdom. It is control. It is grace.
The irony is, many of these same people who push and shove in public spaces are kind and thoughtful in private life. So why the switch? Because in anonymity, we believe our actions don’t count. We forget that our behavior in crowds reveals who we are without the mask. In Sanskrit, there's a beautiful word—samyama—meaning self-restraint. It is not imposed from the outside; it comes from within. To wait your turn, to respect the invisible order, is samyama in action.
Some argue that the Metro is too crowded, that one must push or be left behind. And yes, during peak hours, the pressure is immense. But even then, the problem is not space—it’s mindset. I’ve seen disciplined queues on packed platforms, seen people step aside even in a rush. It's not impossible. It just requires intention. And off-peak hours? There’s no excuse. When there’s space, silence, and time, and yet people still rush in before others exit, it’s a clear sign—not of urgency, but of unconsciousness.
Ancient Indian teachings remind us that mastery begins with the smallest habits. Yoga, for instance, doesn’t start with headstands—it begins with breath, with attention, with waiting. If you cannot stand back for ten seconds and let someone exit, how will you stand firm in life when real challenges demand patience and presence?
This one rule—“Let others get down before you get in”—is not just Metro etiquette. It’s a life principle. It teaches humility: the world does not revolve around you. It teaches timing: there’s a right moment for everything. It teaches balance: that movement is not just forward, but rhythmic. And above all, it teaches respect—not just for others, but for the system, the journey, and yourself.
We often seek spiritual growth in temples, books, and gurus. But I believe some of life’s deepest lessons are written on the walls of the Metro. They’re in how you stand, how you speak, how you step aside. To honor this rule is to say: I see you. I acknowledge your right to move before I do. And that small gesture? It transforms a public commute into a spiritual practice.
So next time the Metro doors open, don’t rush. Breathe. Wait. Let them exit. And step in not just as a passenger—but as a person of awareness, presence, and quiet power.
“Please do not lean on the gates.” Leaning on the gate is the temptation of every tired soul. But that gate is not designed for comfort. It’s a boundary of function, not leisure. The act of leaning symbolizes our attitude toward responsibility. Instead of standing tall, we collapse onto systems designed to keep us upright. In the Ramayana, Lord Hanuman never leaned on his destiny; he leaped, he flew, and he carried mountains. Our spiritual ancestry is built upon those who stood up in discomfort. Leaning, physically or mentally, is surrendering to laziness.
“Please do not litter.” Yet wrappers, cups, and food leftovers find their way into corners. The moment we treat public spaces as personal dustbins, we declare war on community living. The ancient Indian practice of Seva teaches us that caring for shared spaces is a sacred act. To pick up litter is not below us—it is above us, an act of nobility. But who will pick up the wrapper if everyone thinks it’s someone else’s job? The day we stop saying “it’s not mine” and start saying “this is mine too,” we return to the roots of Dharma.
Have you ever noticed how the simple act of eating inside a Metro coach can shift the entire atmosphere? The smell of food, the crinkle of wrappers, or the sound of someone munching—these small things, though harmless in intention, often disrupt the shared space we all rely on for a peaceful journey.
This isn’t about judging anyone. It’s just a gentle invitation to reflect.
Our Metro rides usually last no more than an hour or two. Is it truly necessary to eat during this short window? Could we perhaps wait until we reach our destination, or step out for a quick break if hunger insists? The idea isn’t to restrict; it’s to choose wisely. We all know hunger doesn’t knock politely. It comes when it pleases. But what we do in response—that's a matter of mindful choice.
Historically, in our culture, food was always treated with reverence. Whether during yajnas (sacred offerings) or simple family meals, food had its time, its space, and its sanctity. It wasn’t something to be consumed on the go, without attention, or without respect for the surroundings.
This small Metro rule isn’t just about avoiding spills or keeping coaches clean. It’s about collective consideration. It’s about saying: “I see you, my fellow passenger, and I care enough to respect our shared space.”
Of course, there will always be exceptions—emergencies, medical needs, or unavoidable delays. Life is unpredictable. But when something becomes a daily habit rather than a rare necessity, it’s worth pausing and asking: “Am I doing this out of need, or just out of habit?”
This reflection isn’t about being right or wrong. It’s about being wise. And wisdom, as I’ve come to understand it, isn’t about knowing more—it’s about choosing better.
So, if you’re someone who travels in the Delhi Metro often, I invite you to join me in seeing the ride not just as a commute but as a small community moment. A time to be present. A time to choose respect over routine.
Another rule that silently screams from every coach wall, often ignored like background noise, is, “Please do not sit on seats reserved for senior citizens and differently-abled individuals.” These seats are marked with clear signage. Often they carry not just symbols but pictures—an elderly man with a stick, a wheelchair-bound person, a walking stick. The message is gentle, even dignified. It doesn’t beg. It doesn’t threaten. It simply reminds us to be human. And yet, nearly 20% of commuters treat it as a suggestion, not a sacred commitment. People—young, healthy, fully capable—settle into these seats without a second thought, burying their heads in phones, pretending not to see the fragile figure standing before them.
In ancient India, elders were not just respected—they were revered. The Shatapatha Brahmana says, “A society that honors its elders prospers in both wisdom and fortune.” In fact, one of the most cherished values of the Vedic way of life was Seva—service without expectation. Offering your seat to someone older or weaker is not a favor. It’s Seva. It’s the bare minimum expression of your humanity. And when we fail even in this, we must ask ourselves—what have we really become? What are we rushing for if we cannot slow down enough to offer someone our seat?
Similarly, the rule “Do not sit on seats reserved for ladies” is plastered across the Metro, both in English and Hindi. It’s as visible as daylight. Yet around 7% of people, mostly men, choose to ignore it. Some pretend not to notice the signage. Some argue. Some feel entitled. Some wait until they are asked—embarrassed into decency. But if decency requires a prompt, is it really decency?
Let us not forget, in Indian culture, Nari has always been symbolic of Shakti—power, dignity, grace, and care. And yet, that same culture today often forgets to extend the smallest of courtesies to women in public life. The irony bleeds like an open wound. Reserving seats for women isn’t about superiority. It’s about safety, support, and balance in a still-unequal world. Offering your seat voluntarily is not about giving up something—it’s about giving back something. It’s about recognizing that strength sometimes lies in making space.
And then there is the rule every Delhi Metro traveler knows, yet many pretend not to: “This coach is reserved for ladies.” It’s not a vague suggestion. It is written clearly, multiple times, in bold letters, in different languages, even accompanied by audible announcements. And yet, 10% of men still enter these coaches, some casually, some defiantly, as if it’s their right to go anywhere without boundary. And when asked to leave, they argue, justify, resist, or sometimes simply laugh.
But crossing that boundary isn’t just about violating a rule—it’s about violating trust. It’s about turning a space designed for comfort into one of caution. Ancient scriptures often speak of Maryada—a sacred boundary. Lord Rama is called Maryada Purushottama—the one who never overstepped rightful boundaries, no matter how painful the restraint. A gentleman is not someone who knows how to dominate. He is someone who knows where not to go. A coach reserved for ladies is not a threat to male freedom. It is a mark of civilized space, where mutual respect governs over individual ego.
And what does it say about us when rules designed to protect are seen as obstacles to personal convenience? What does it say when we don’t follow a rule unless someone is there to enforce it, to shout, to fine, or to threaten? We live in a time where external policing has replaced inner discipline. But Dharma, as taught by the ancients, was never about surveillance—it was about inner order. In the Mahabharata, Bhishma says, “Dharma is that which sustains society, upholds truth, and guides action when no one is watching.” True civility is not measured by laws but by voluntary restraint.
If we cannot resist the urge to sit where we shouldn't, to enter where we shouldn’t, to touch what we shouldn’t, then what are we really? Educated? Employed? Literate? Maybe. But wise? No. Professionals? No. Human? Only biologically. Spiritually, we may still be evolving.
We are becoming a society that breaks rules and feels clever. But the Vedic vision of greatness was never based on cleverness—it was based on viveka, discernment. Knowing the right from the wrong. The wise from the foolish. The noble from the selfish. It is said in the Upanishads: “Asato ma sadgamaya”—Lead me from falsehood to truth. But truth begins in small truths. Truth begins with not sitting where you shouldn’t. With stepping back when others need space. With following the rule when no one else does.
The rules of the Delhi Metro are not mere civic instructions; they are moral mirrors. When followed, they create a system of respect and order. When broken, they expose the cracks in our consciousness. Each rule, no matter how small, carries the weight of collective responsibility. The metro is a moving temple of human behavior, and every sign is a scripture written in modern fonts.
People often ask why rules need to be written when they’re common sense. But common sense has become rare, and personal convenience has become the new god. We are taught Sanskrit shlokas in schools but forget the meaning when stepping into a public place. We chant Satyam vada, Dharmam chara—speak the truth, follow righteousness—but we lie about being tired to avoid offering a seat. We chant Loka Samastha Sukhino Bhavantu—may all beings be happy—but push others to get in first.
Why do we change the moment we step into public transport? Why does a rule seem to lose its power when it stands next to desire, ego, or impatience? Because we have separated values from action. Our ancient teachers never taught by rules alone—they taught by embodiment. A guru never said “follow discipline”; he lived discipline. That is the wisdom the Metro demands of us—not just to see a sign but to become the sign.
I’ve seen young children tell their elders to follow rules. I’ve seen elderly people asking young men to stand away from the door. I’ve seen volunteers explaining patiently and also Metro staff losing patience. In these scenes, we’re reminded that education is not literacy, and rule-following is not weakness—it is wisdom. We don’t follow rules to be obedient; we follow them because they reflect what we respect. And the greatest reflection of self-respect is how we treat shared space.
In my seven years of Delhi Metro experience, I’ve realized that most people know the rules—they just don’t see value in them. And when value is lost, rules become burdens. So the transformation isn’t about enforcement but enlightenment. We don’t need more fines; we need more viveka—discernment. We need people to ask, “Is this action respectful?” not “Will I be caught?”
A society grows when it follows what is right even when no one is watching. The Delhi Metro is not a battleground of rights but a platform of responsibilities. And each written rule is a verse from a new-age scripture of civic living. Whether you read them or not, whether you follow them or not, they speak to you, challenge you, and test you.
The rules are simple. The choice is sacred. And the change begins not with the Metro, not with the government, but with the person standing in front of the sign—you.
You are not just a passenger. You are a reflection of this civilization. So ride well. And live better.
So the next time you step into a Metro, remember: it is not just a train. It is a test. Of your character. Of your manners. Of your invisible self. The self no one sees but you. When you walk past the reserved seat, will you take it? Or will you honor it? When you see the glass panel, will you touch it? Or will you control your urge? When the coach is empty, and there’s no one to notice—will you still follow the rule? That’s where greatness lies. Not in being seen. But in being right, even when unseen.
And when you choose that path—not once, but again and again—you’re not just a good commuter. You’re a conscious citizen. A humble seeker. A modern yogi in a crowded, chaotic, concrete ashram we call the Metro.
Let the Metro not just take you to a destination.
Let it take you to your real self. In the next chapter, I will talk about the changing values in a changing world through a glimpse of the Delhi Metro.
There is no better mirror of our society than our public spaces. And in Delhi, no space is more telling than the Delhi Metro. Every day, millions of people step into its compartments—students, workers, entrepreneurs, artists, elders, tourists, mothers, and dreamers. But what you truly witness inside is not just a mode of transport but a slow, silent erosion of values. You don’t need a philosophy class or a moral science textbook. Just observe how people behave—or fail to behave—when something as simple as offering a seat is called for.
Let’s begin with one of the most obvious values: respect.
The Delhi Metro has clear seats reserved for elderly citizens, differently-abled individuals, and women. And yet, how many actually offer their seats when the need arises? You would think it’s automatic. You see an old man board the coach, holding onto a pole, wobbling slightly. Or a mother carrying a toddler in one arm and a bag in the other. Or a foreigner, confused, unsure of where to sit, trying to grasp this fast-moving Indian chaos.
And what happens?
Most people deliberately ignore. They dig deeper into their phones. They laugh loudly with friends. They pretend to sleep. The body is alert, but the conscience is asleep.
This is not just about seats. It’s about values—the value of seeing others, the value of service, the value of respect.
In ancient Indian scriptures, giving up one’s comfort for the comfort of others was not considered a loss but a blessing. "Atithi Devo Bhava," they said—the guest is god. And not just the guest. The weak, the tired, and the old—every person in need was to be honored.
But now, the divine in others is harder to spot because the divinity within us has been buried beneath distraction and detachment.
We scroll and scroll, as if swiping through a screen can delete the reality before us.
This brings us to the second value: compassion.
Compassion is not charity. It is attention. It is the ability to notice when someone is struggling. It is to feel the weight in another’s posture. It is to move without being asked. In the Bhagavad Gita, Krishna explains to Arjuna that action without compassion is dry, mechanical, and ultimately meaningless. Even the act of war, he says, must be governed by Dharma—by responsibility and higher awareness.
Offering your seat to someone who needs it more than you is not about etiquette. It is about being awake in your soul. It is about saying, I see you. I acknowledge your discomfort. And I choose to do something small to ease it.”
Yet today, most Metro travelers don’t even look up. We fear eye contact as if it demands an obligation. And maybe it does. Because the moment you look into someone’s eyes, you can no longer pretend. You are humanized. And perhaps that's what we are afraid of—that our empathy will ask us to act.
Next comes the value of responsibility.
What is a responsible citizen? Is it someone who pays taxes, votes, or follows the law? Yes, perhaps. But at its core, responsibility means, "I don’t wait for someone else to do what I know is right." If you see someone in pain, you don’t wait for the system to respond. You respond. And if you cannot offer something big, you offer something small—a seat, a gesture, even a smile.
But we live in an age where people wait for someone else to move first. No one wants to stand up unless someone else has already done it. In the Mahabharata, when Dronacharya asked his students to hit the eye of the bird, only Arjuna had the focus to see only the eye. Responsibility is also about focus—on what matters, not what distracts.
Today’s distractions—phones, ego, selfishness—are so loud that the whisper of responsibility is drowned in the noise.
And then comes the disappearing value of humility.
Why is it so hard to give up a seat? Because pride stands in the way. “Why should I get up?” we think. “I came early and sat first.” “I am tired too.” “Why not someone else?” This mindset comes from entitlement, not humility.
But ancient Indian thought valued humility above all. In fact, the greatest sages were also the most humble ones. Whether it was Vashistha, Valmiki, or Buddha—they always made space for others, not just in conversation, but in their very presence.
True humility is not in lowering yourself; it is in lifting others quietly.
When you see an old man and get up without being asked, you are saying, “Your dignity is more important than my convenience.” That is humility. And humility creates peace—not just in society, but inside you.
Because when you act with humility, you carry less ego and more grace.
Another value fading fast is sensitivity.
Have you ever noticed how numb we’ve become to others? Someone faints in the Metro—people glance, maybe record it on their phones, but hesitate to help. Someone is crying quietly—nobody asks why. A woman struggles with a stroller—no one lends a hand.
It’s not that people are cruel. But we have lost emotional sensitivity. We’ve trained ourselves to become passive. The ancient sages called this “Hridaya-Drishti”—the sight of the heart. Not just looking, but feeling. To observe the world through a heart awakened to pain, to beauty, to struggle, to silence.
Today’s Delhi Metro is full of people who see everything with their eyes open but hearts closed.
Reclaiming sensitivity means choosing to feel—even when it’s uncomfortable. It means recognizing that the person in front of you isn’t a stranger but a reflection of yourself.
Another vital value that must be addressed is generosity.
Not generosity of money. Generosity of space, of spirit, of time.
When you move slightly to make room for someone to sit, you are being generous.
When you offer directions to a foreigner without mocking their accent, you are being generous.
When you lift someone’s dropped bag and hand it back without annoyance, you are being generous.
In the Rigveda, it is said, “Let noble thoughts come to us from every side.” But noble thoughts must translate into noble acts. And noble acts begin with small generosity.
Next comes integrity.
Integrity is doing the right thing even when no one is watching. Especially then.
You don’t need a CCTV camera or a security guard to know that an old woman standing while you sit is not okay. Integrity is your inner compass. And just like any compass, it must be realigned often. The Metro offers you that opportunity every single day. To realign your conscience. To test whether you live by your values or simply speak of them.
And here we must talk of Courage too.
Courage is not only about fighting injustice in big arenas. Sometimes, it’s the courage to speak up when someone else is behaving poorly.
To say, “Please offer your seat, sir,” when you see someone denying it to a needy person.
To say, “This is a ladies’ coach, please step out,” when a man enters arrogantly.
It takes courage to face resistance. It takes courage to act differently in a crowd that chooses apathy.
True courage is not in strength—it is in standing for values when it’s inconvenient.
And this brings us to perhaps the deepest of all values—self-awareness.
Do we even know what we’re doing? Or are we just going through the motions?
Are we aware of how we behave when no one is watching?
Do we reflect, even once a day, on how we treated others?
Self-awareness is the mother of all values. It is what transforms action into wisdom and wisdom into transformation.
As Swami Vivekananda said, “The greatest religion is to be true to your own nature. Have faith in yourselves.” But faith in self begins with knowing the self. And knowing the self begins with observing how we treat others in small, public, unnoticed moments.
And finally, let’s talk about gratitude.
Gratitude for what?
For a public system that works efficiently.
For air-conditioned compartments.
For the chance to rest, even briefly.
For the hundreds of workers who keep the Metro running, clean, safe, and timely.
Gratitude is not loud. It is quiet respect. And one way we show that is by giving back—not through money, but through manners.
Offer a seat. Keep the coach clean. Don’t push. Smile more. Complain less.
If you can’t be thankful with your words, let your behavior express it.
Delhi Metro is not just a train. It is a spiritual classroom if you choose to see it that way. Every day, it gives you a chance to test and build your values.
Respect. Compassion. Responsibility. Humility. Sensitivity. Generosity. Integrity. Courage. Self-awareness. Gratitude.
You don’t need to visit an ashram or read a holy book. Just look around you, look within you, and ask: Am I the person I want to be?
Your seat is not just a seat. It is a symbol. What you do with it says everything about what you carry in your heart.
Don’t just travel. Transform.
Where Manners Get Lost Between Stations
In my seven years of daily travel through the heart of Delhi in its lifeline—the Delhi Metro—I’ve observed thousands of faces, countless stories, and endless patterns of human behavior. One thing that never fails to disturb me is the increasing normalization of abusive language inside the metro. You don’t need a sharp ear to hear it—just board any coach during peak hours and you’ll likely catch a burst of profanity slipping from someone's mouth. It’s so common now that people have stopped reacting. But I haven’t. I still observe, I still reflect, and I still wonder: what does this habit say about us as people?
Roughly 8 to 12% of passengers, be it male or female, fall into this category. They speak loudly, not because they want to be heard, but because they want to dominate. They abuse casually, as if it’s a badge of honor, a sign of coolness, of being bold and unfiltered. For them, the louder they are, the more powerful they feel. But I have noticed one universal pattern—behind that loud voice, there’s a deep insecurity. A hidden fear of not being seen, of not being respected, of not being significant.
What they don’t understand is this: the metro is a shared public space, not your private room. It’s not a street corner, not a college canteen, not a closed cabin where you can let your tongue loose. It is a microcosm of the city—a place where school children, working professionals, senior citizens, and families with toddlers travel together. It is not the right place to vomit your frustration through profanity. And yet, these people do it, unconsciously or consciously, with no awareness or responsibility.
Let me be clear—I am not saying that using abusive words is inherently wrong. We’re all human. We all get angry. We all have moments when our emotions boil over. And sometimes, in a private conversation, between two consenting adults, an abusive word might just be part of expressing a deep emotion—anger, betrayal, disappointment, or even fun in some circles. But the key word here is context. Abusing in public, especially inside the Delhi Metro, is not boldness. It’s not bravery. It’s not confidence. It’s just a lack of self-control, a lack of wisdom, and yes—an indication of deep-seated insecurity.
There’s a unique kind of insecurity that tries to mask itself with noise. People who are truly confident don’t feel the need to prove themselves in every space. They don’t shout to be heard—they speak with calm clarity. But insecure people? They shout, they curse, they behave as if the metro is a stage and everyone else is the audience. They believe they are being noticed. But what they don’t realize is—they are not being respected. They are just being tolerated.
And then there’s this strange idea floating around that using slang or abusive language makes you “cool.” This is especially common among younger crowds. I’ve seen teenagers and college students using the foulest language while laughing out loud, as if they’re above everything. But here’s a truth I’ve learned: those who think they’re “cool” because they can abuse anywhere are actually the most disconnected from real confidence. Real confidence doesn’t need noise. It doesn’t seek validation through abuse. Real confidence is silent. Real confidence is composed.
In fact, I’ve observed the difference closely. The ones who abuse loudly are often the ones who get easily agitated when they’re questioned. They don’t know how to handle disagreement without raising their voice or resorting to insults. They mistake aggression for assertiveness. And because they lack the inner stability to express themselves peacefully, they rely on verbal aggression to assert their presence.
Over time, I’ve realized that abuse is a symptom of something deeper. It’s not just about language—it’s about identity. The need to use harsh words in public stems from a fear of being invisible. It’s like they’re screaming, “Look at me! I matter!” But the irony is, the more they scream, the less respect they earn.
Sometimes, I feel sad watching it all. Because I don’t believe these people are inherently bad. I just believe they are lost. They have never been taught that there’s more strength in restraint than in rage. That silence is often more powerful than shouting. That speaking politely is not weakness—it’s the ultimate sign of inner strength.
I remember an elderly gentleman once scolded a group of young boys who were casually abusing in the metro. “Beta,” he said gently, “is this the way you speak in front of your mother or sister?” The boys went quiet for a moment—but then laughed it off. That’s what happens when the culture of casual abuse becomes so normalized—it blinds us to basic human decency. We stop caring how our words affect the people around us.
We all crave respect. But there’s a better way to earn it. Through empathy, through composure, through the choice of our words. Especially in shared spaces like the metro, where every person is going through their own struggles, carrying their own worries, rushing toward their own deadlines.
If you really want to stand out in the Delhi Metro today—don’t raise your voice. Lower it. Don’t abuse. Instead, smile at a stranger with good intentions. Don’t show off your arrogance—show your kindness. That’s how you leave a mark. That’s how you become unforgettable in the best way.
I write this not as someone who claims to be perfect. I, too, have had moments when frustration got the better of me. I’ve been on both sides of the spectrum—once a silent observer, and once someone who reacted emotionally. But I’ve learned, and I am still learning. What helps is awareness. What helps is mindfulness. And what helps most is the decision to not let anger control your tongue.
The Delhi Metro is more than a transportation system—it’s a mirror. It shows us who we really are. And every time someone abuses in that space, it reflects the part of our society that still needs to grow up. But growth begins with one person. One rider. One choice.
So next time you're in the metro and feel the urge to speak harshly, ask yourself: Is this the kind of person I want to be? If not, pause. Breathe. And choose better words. Because words are powerful. They can uplift or they can damage. In a crowded coach of silence, be the one who brings peace—not more noise.
That’s real confidence. That’s real strength. That’s real humanity.
Eyes glued to screens.
You enter any metro coach, and what do you see? Rows of commuters... but no conversations. No eye contact. No shared smiles. Just the cold light of mobile screens reflecting off blank faces—scrolling through reels, memes, meaningless content. Strangers not even glancing at one another, because they’re too busy watching strangers on the internet.
Welcome to the age of being Alone Together.
We’re standing inches apart, yet worlds away.
You’ll find a pregnant woman standing, struggling for balance—but not a single person looks up to offer their seat. Why? Because they’re busy watching viral prank videos. There’s a visually impaired person near the door, but others are too engrossed in their social media feed to notice. A tourist tries to ask for help, but no one hears them—headphones in, notifications on.
What was supposed to be shared public space has now become private digital rooms.
No matter how many people travel in a single coach, it’s like each one is traveling alone—in their digital bubble. We are surrounded, yet disconnected. Together, yet unavailable.
This is not just a behavioral shift; this is a value erosion.
Delhi Metro, in many ways, is a miniature model of our larger society. You see both discipline and disobedience. Silence and chaos. Patience and rush. But lately, what you see most is disengagement—from each other, from reality, from the moment.
People get on the train, and the first thing they do is pull out their phones. Not to check a message from a loved one, but to scroll mindlessly. Reels after reels. Stories after stories.
A girl crying silently beside you? Unnoticed.
A man with a heavy bag and a heavier heart? Invisible.
An elderly lady unable to stand properly? Ignored.
Because we are more interested in someone’s “Get Ready With Me” or "What I Eat in a Day" than what is happening right in front of us.
We have replaced conversations with captions. Replaced human warmth with Wi-Fi signals. And worst of all, we’ve replaced real empathy with digital emojis.
In ancient Indian scriptures, the idea of Sangha (community) was sacred. In the Upanishads, it is said:
The guest is equivalent to God.
But now, even fellow passengers are treated like background noise. We no longer acknowledge the presence of another human unless it’s to complain or push.
Lord Krishna in the Bhagavad Gita says:
“Yogah karmasu kaushalam” — Yoga is excellence in action.
What excellence is there in ignoring those who need help? What karma are we performing when we refuse to look up from our screens and be human?
True yoga is not just standing in a pose—it’s standing for something. It’s offering a seat. It’s smiling at someone. It’s asking, “Do you need help?” And yes, it’s keeping your phone aside, even for ten minutes, to exist in the moment.
Inside the Metro, we are constantly fed information. Memes. Gossip. Celebrities. Skits. Short videos with even shorter lifespans in our minds. But real experiences? We’re skipping them like ads.
You’ll find people:
We’re consuming content like water, but emotionally dehydrated.
What’s the point of being connected to the world if we’re disconnected from the person sitting beside us?
In my personal experience of traveling daily in the Delhi Metro for the last seven years, I’ve witnessed an incredible evolution—not just in infrastructure, but in the way people behave and spend their time. Back in 2016, the atmosphere inside the metro was very different. People would often look around, observe fellow passengers, smile politely, or even strike up small, friendly conversations. There was a sense of shared presence, a quiet acknowledgement that we were all part of the same journey. But after 2020, things started to shift drastically. Now, if you enter any coach, all you see are heads bowed down—not in reflection, but in addiction. Almost every person is scrolling through Instagram, binge-watching shows, glued to YouTube, or mindlessly swiping reels. I’ve seen people plug in their earphones before even settling in their seat, as if being alone with their thoughts for a few minutes has become unbearable.
I’m not saying I’ve never done this. I have. In fact, I still do it sometimes. I get it—we all need escape, entertainment, distraction. But what surprises me is how much time and energy we lose without even realizing it. Let's break it down. Delhi Metro recently hit a record of 78.67 lakh daily commuters. Now imagine even half of those people—around 39 lakh—wasting just 30 minutes of their commute time on purely unproductive stuff. That’s over 1.17 crore minutes lost in a single day. Which means about 19.5 lakh hours gone. In a week, that's more than 1.3 crore hours. In a year, it's over 26,000 years of collective human time. And what is all this time being spent on? Not building dreams, not learning, not connecting, not thinking—just endless scrolling, gossip, and digital noise.
What breaks my heart is not just the waste of time, but the waste of awareness. We no longer notice the world around us. We don’t smile anymore. We don’t observe. We don’t engage. We sit next to each other like islands, wired into our screens, yet disconnected from ourselves and everyone else. The Delhi Metro has become less of a public space and more of a digital bubble where each person is locked in their own little world. And this isn’t about blaming anyone. I’m not here to say who’s right or wrong. I’m just sharing what I’ve seen and felt over the years.
We live in the 21st century—arguably the most educated era in human history—yet we struggle to use our intelligence wisely. We don’t need more knowledge; we need more wisdom. And wisdom is knowing how to use your time and energy in a meaningful way. You don't always need to read a book or meditate or talk to a stranger. Sometimes, just looking out the window, sitting quietly, or being present in the moment is enough. The Delhi Metro gives us those quiet pockets of time every day—time that can be used to recharge, reflect, or reconnect with ourselves. But instead, most of us waste that time like it’s infinite.
So, I’m not pointing fingers. I’m simply inviting you to notice what I’ve noticed. If you’re someone who travels daily, maybe you’ve seen it too. And if you haven’t, maybe next time you’ll look up for a second—not at your screen, but at the life happening around you. Because in the end, the journey matters as much as the destination. And if we’re always tuned out, we might just miss the beauty of the ride.
Every Metro journey holds a thousand untold stories:
But do we see them?
No. Because we’re watching someone pretend to cry in a 15-second reel.
Real stories pass us by—just like stations—because we’re not present. We don’t ride the Metro anymore. We ride the algorithms.
Let’s be clear—social media isn’t evil. But like any tool, its value lies in how we use it.
The problem isn’t the phone. It’s the priority we give it.
What if we used 20 minutes of our commute not for reels, but to reflect?
What if we observed the people around us, made eye contact, and smiled?
What if we kept the phone in our pocket and simply watched the city pass by?
Imagine how many real connections we could make—how much peace we could feel—if we just paused.
We’ve lost:
But we can regain all this.
We can start by being aware inside the Metro.
Put the phone down. Just for 10 minutes. Observe.
Notice the child’s laughter in the corner. The rhythmic clacking of wheels. The elegance of the woman reading a book instead of scrolling. The old man was softly humming a forgotten tune.
These are the moments that ground you.
These are the moments that heal.
These are the real connections we were designed for.
The Delhi Metro has thousands of stories moving in every direction. Don’t let yours be the one where you missed living because you were too busy watching someone else live.
We are indeed alone together.
But the next time you enter the Metro, remember:
The phone can wait.
But life?
Life won’t wait.
Chapter 13: The Disappearing Line Between Real and Fake
Seven years inside the Delhi Metro, and yet it feels like I’ve seen a thousand lifetimes play out across those metallic coaches. And not real lifetimes—but scripted ones. Performances. I’ve watched people sit beside each other like strangers, speak to thousands on screens but not a word to the person two inches away. I’ve seen eyes glued to phones, not books; hands trained to swipe, not to greet; and smiles—oh, the smiles—smiles made for Instagram, not for the soul.
When I first started traveling, the Delhi Metro was a breathing space. People would look around. They’d offer seats. They’d smile with a sense of warmth. Conversations weren’t rare. I remember an elderly Sikh gentleman once shared with me stories of his youth during a 30-minute ride from Rajiv Chowk to Gurgaon. That day, no one looked at a phone. He spoke. I listened. It was real. It was human.
But now? I see people stage moments. They don’t just sit—they pose. Not for themselves, but for an audience they’ll never meet. A girl once stood near the pole with her back arched unnaturally, phone in hand, making pouty expressions. She clicked ten pictures in ten seconds—checked each one with surgical intensity—then smiled, posted, and the smile vanished immediately. Just like that. A performance concluded.
At that moment, something hit me hard. This isn’t just vanity. It’s a vacuum. A hollow echo of what used to be real. These people aren’t vain—they’re lost. Lost in the illusion that happiness is a display. That presence is a story. That life must be updated like a profile. They’ve started living for applause that never claps. It’s all been reduced to views, likes, and validation.
There was once a time when the greatest joy was the peace of silence. The Rishis of our land didn’t broadcast their enlightenment—they sat in forests, in silence, with closed eyes, discovering the universe within. “Antar mukha samaradhya bahir mukha sudurlabha”—true divinity is worshipped within; the outward seekers rarely find it. But now, we’ve turned that upside down. We are constantly looking outward. Into screens. Into reactions. Into metrics. Never inward.
A man once entered the Metro at New Delhi station. His clothes were clearly chosen to attract attention—shiny, spotless, designer. He stood in the corner, pulling out his phone and fixing his hair every two stops. But what really caught my eye was this—he wasn’t traveling. He just rode three stations, took videos of himself dancing for a reel, and then exited. He had no destination. No journey. His only goal was to be seen. That day, I didn’t laugh. I felt pity. Not for him alone—but for this entire generation of humans caught in the trap of looking happy instead of being happy.
Every now and then, someone enters with real sadness in their eyes. I can feel it. But they hide it fast—scrolling mindlessly, laughing artificially at reels, masking pain with distractions. That’s the fakest part of this fake life. We’re not even allowed to feel bad anymore. Emotions have been categorized—share joy, hide sorrow. Post wins, ignore losses. Look flawless. Be aesthetic. Even suffering must now be beautiful. Even silence must be loud enough for attention.
I’ve seen couples sit beside each other and not exchange a word. They’ll smile for a selfie, post it with “my forever” in the caption, then go back to ignoring each other. I’ve watched a boy fake a call near the door, exaggerating his laughter so others think he’s important. I’ve seen girls record “candid” dance videos while blocking the way of other commuters. What is happening to us?
The Vedas call life Sat-Chit-Ananda—truth, consciousness, and bliss. But none of those things require an audience. Real bliss comes when the soul is quiet and the mind is present. In the Delhi Metro, presence is disappearing. Consciousness is diverted. And the truth? That’s the biggest casualty.
I once noticed a foreigner standing, clearly uncomfortable. No one offered him a seat. No one even looked up. Why? Because every single head was buried in a phone. This isn’t just rudeness—it’s absence. A disconnected existence. People don’t notice anymore. They don’t care. And yet, on social media, the same people will post “Be kind” and “Help others.” Online, they are sages. Offline, they are spectators.
The irony is cruel—we’re the most connected generation ever, and yet we are lonelier than ever before. In the Delhi Metro, hundreds of souls ride together every minute, but the emotional distance is greater than the physical. We are together, yet alone. Visible, yet unseen. Alive, yet numb.
And what makes this fake life so dangerous is that it’s addictive. The illusion feeds itself. Every reel that gets likes makes you want to fake more. Every story that gets seen makes you want to stage another. And the more you pretend, the less you feel. Slowly, you forget how to be real.
But I also know this: all is not lost. Because the human soul is ancient and wise. Deep down, we still crave truth. We crave silence. We crave connection. That is why, sometimes, in rare moments of vulnerability, people break down on a Metro ride. I’ve seen it. Tears falling quietly. A hand covering the face. In those moments, I see real life. Raw. Unfiltered. And those are the most beautiful moments of all.
The solution is not to abandon the world. The Gita teaches Karmanye vadhikaraste ma phaleshu kadachana—do your actions without obsession over the results. Live your truth, not for likes, but for the sake of living. Sit in the metro and notice a stranger. Offer your seat. Speak to someone. Close your eyes, breathe, and listen to the hum of the city. These are real things. These are human things. And no amount of social media can replace them.
Delhi Metro is still a mirror. It shows us who we’ve become. But it also shows us who we can be again—if only we choose to be aware.
So next time you ride, I want you to keep your phone in your pocket for a few stations. Watch people—not for judgment, but with compassion. Watch the fake smiles, the restless swipes, and the staged joy. Then, close your eyes, and remember that the greatest moments of life can never be captured on a screen—they are felt in the heart.
And maybe, just maybe, you’ll find a piece of real life waiting for you at the next station.
Chapter 14: What You’re Seeking Might Be Sitting Next to You
"Don't wish for anything from God until you know that thing or person is worthy of you, or else you will get what you don't deserve rather than getting what you deserve in your life."
In the last seven years of commuting through the lifelines of Delhi—the ever-busy Delhi Metro—I’ve learned a surprising and powerful truth: sometimes, what we’re looking for out there, in the world of apps, dating sites, job portals, colleges, offices, or even social events, is sitting right in front of us—in the metro coach, a seat away. You might laugh or brush this off, but trust me when I say that the Delhi Metro isn’t just a vehicle that takes you from one station to another. For me, it’s been a moving classroom, a window into society, and on many days, a mirror to my own inner world. And strangely enough, I’ve also come to realize it’s a place where connections—genuine human connections—can happen if you are just a little courageous and curious.
If you’re someone who’s looking for a life partner, a real relationship, good friends, or even just someone to share meaningful conversations with, you don’t need to go hunting at some fancy seminar, a party, a workplace, or swipe endlessly on dating apps. Just look around you while you’re commuting. Yes, I’m talking about inside the Delhi Metro. The idea might sound odd, but think about it: where else do you see such a diverse mix of people from every background—college students, working professionals, artists, thinkers, dreamers, everyday people like you and me—all packed together for at least 2 to 3 hours a day?
Now, before you misunderstand me—no, I’m not saying Delhi Metro is some dating hub or friend-making zone. But what I am saying is that it offers a very unique opportunity: to observe, to interact, and maybe, just maybe, to initiate something real in a world full of superficial distractions. Who hasn’t noticed a person sitting across from them that instantly caught their eye? It could be their calm expression, their choice of book, their quiet elegance, their style, or simply an energy that feels genuine. We all notice, but very few of us act. Why?
Ego. Doubt. Fear. Social conditioning.
I’ve been there too. You want to say hello, but your mind plays tricks on you: What if she thinks I’m flirting? What if he thinks I’m weird? What if people stare? And so, like everyone else, you lower your gaze and dive back into your phone screen, pretending not to care, pretending that the moment never happened. But deep down, you do care. Because connection matters to all of us. We’re human.
And let me say this especially to the girls reading this: if you’ve ever thought, “Girls don’t initiate conversations first, that’s the guy’s job,” then understand this is just outdated conditioning. If you genuinely want to talk to someone—do it. A smile, a “Hi,” or a simple, “Are you reading that book? I’ve heard it’s good,” can lead to surprising and sincere conversations. What you’re afraid of, the other person is afraid of too. Everyone wants connection, but no one wants to be the one to risk looking foolish. The truth? We all have the same fear—that we’ll be judged. So we keep quiet, and in that silence, a lot of magic dies before it’s even born.
We judge before we know. We assume before we understand. We decide before we engage. That’s the tragedy of modern interaction. We say we want to meet good people, but we never talk to anyone new. We dream of finding love, but we avoid eye contact. We want friendships that feel like home, but we refuse to leave our own bubble. The irony is real.
What changed my mindset was a realization—one that didn’t hit me suddenly but slowly crept in over the years: If I am truly looking for something—be it a meaningful relationship, a life partner, or even a deep life lesson—I can find it anywhere. Even in the Metro. Especially in the Metro. Because life doesn’t handpick places for destiny to unfold. It can happen in a café, a bookshop, a quiet temple, or a crowded metro coach. You don’t need the perfect setting; you need the right mindset.
I’ve had conversations in the Metro that taught me more than a classroom ever did. I’ve seen kindness shared silently—like someone offering their seat to an elderly person or quietly helping a stranger with directions. I’ve noticed people exchange shy smiles that probably made someone’s day. And yes, I’ve also seen people regret not speaking up when they clearly wanted to. I’ve been that person.
Rumi once said, “What you seek is seeking you.” I didn’t understand the depth of that quote until I began seeing people differently—not as strangers in a public space, but as possibilities. Everyone carries a story, a world inside them. The person next to you may be your future business partner, your best friend, or your soulmate. But you’ll never know unless you dare to look beyond your screen and speak.
Let’s do some honest reflection: How many hours have we spent scrolling, refreshing feeds, liking reels, forwarding jokes to people we barely know, while completely ignoring the living, breathing people around us? We’re constantly searching outside—on apps, websites, posts—for people, ideas, wisdom, and love. But what if everything we’re looking for is sitting just one seat away?
We talk about loneliness as a modern epidemic. But maybe the cure isn’t more technology or better algorithms. Maybe the cure is courage. The courage to look up. The courage to smile. The courage to speak.
So next time you board the Delhi Metro, don’t just plug in your earphones or scroll through the same three apps for the 100th time. Look around. Be aware. Feel the presence of people—not as strangers, but as humans who, like you, might be waiting for someone to talk to them. Maybe that someone is you.
You don’t have to turn every ride into a mission. But allow yourself the space to connect, even if it’s just a small moment. That moment could change everything.
Because in the end, you don’t need to look outside for everything. Sometimes, you just need to look inside—the Delhi Metro.
Chapter 15: No Space, Still We Race
I have been traveling in the Delhi Metro for over seven years now. And if there’s one thing that continues to surprise me even today, it’s this: no matter how full the metro already is, there will always be people trying to rush in, push in, squeeze themselves, and somehow fit—like the laws of physics don’t apply inside the compartments of Delhi Metro.
This is not just an occasional observation. It’s something I see almost every single day. The train arrives, the doors open, and even before the passengers inside can step out, a flood of people waiting on the platform begin forcing their way in. There’s this blind urgency in everyone’s eyes—as if this is the last metro of the day, as if they’ll lose their job or their life’s purpose if they don’t get inside this one.
I’m not blaming anyone. I’ve been in that rush too. I’ve had those days where I was already late for a meeting or had no patience left after a long workday. But what I’ve learned—and I believe we all should learn—is that no amount of rushing can change the capacity of the train. If it’s full, it’s full. Pushing, forcing, and struggling only creates chaos—not convenience.
There have been times when I’ve been standing near the doors, trying to get off at my station, and a wave of new passengers starts pushing in. I gently tell them, “Bhaiya, pehle nikalne do.” (Brother, let us get down first) Sometimes, they listen. Sometimes, they give you a look as if you’ve just insulted their entire ancestry. The concept of letting people deboard before boarding seems so simple, yet it gets ignored every single time during rush hours.
But this isn’t just about inconvenience. It’s also about behavior, mindset, and respect for space. We all want space in life—not just physical space, but mental and emotional space too. But how will we learn to give it to others if we don’t even practice it during something as basic as boarding a metro?
I’ve observed something else too: this rushing behavior doesn’t come from bad people—it comes from anxious people. People are in a hurry not just because of time, but because of fear. Fear of missing the metro. Fear of being late. Fear of not reaching wherever they want to reach. But this fear turns into frustration and selfishness when it’s not handled with awareness.
What’s also ironic is that there’s almost always another metro just a few minutes away. The Delhi Metro system is one of the most efficient in the world. Trains arrive every 2–5 minutes on most lines. And yet, people behave as if this is the last hope of survival. We all know this logically, but when that train arrives, logic disappears and the race begins.
I've seen people fall because of this rush. I’ve seen children almost crushed, elderly people being pushed, and women struggling to keep balance while the crowd just flows in like a flood. And this happens not only during peak hours. Even during slightly less busy times, the habit of rushing continues. It’s like muscle memory—we don’t even think about it. We just react.
But here's what I’ve learned over the years: metro travel is not just about reaching from point A to B. It’s a reflection of society. It shows how we behave when nobody is watching us individually but everyone is together. Do we help others get in? Do we wait? Do we show patience? Or do we turn into competitive beings who must get inside first, sit first, and stand first?
One of my most unforgettable experiences was at Rajiv Chowk station, one of the busiest interchanges. The metro came, already packed, yet the people on the platform looked at it like warriors eyeing the enemy. The doors opened—and war began. I was inside the coach, trying to get out, and despite my efforts and polite requests, I had to literally fight my way through the wall of bodies. And what happened next was even more interesting—some of those who rushed in so aggressively realized there was absolutely no space and had to get down at the next station anyway.
I remember stepping out that day and thinking: “What did all that pushing and impatience achieve?” Nothing but frustration for everyone involved.
If we zoom out a little, this rush reflects how we live our lives today. We’re in a constant rush to earn, to succeed, to reach somewhere fast. We want quick results, fast promotions, instant gratification. And in this speed-driven mindset, we forget to wait, to breathe, to let things flow. Just like we forget to wait for people to get off the metro before we get on.
I’m not saying I’m perfect. I’ve also had moments where I pushed in, rushed without thinking, or didn’t consider others’ comfort. But the difference is, I’ve learned from it. I observe. I reflect. And that’s what I want to share with everyone who reads this.
The metro doesn’t just teach us about travel—it teaches us patience, discipline, cooperation, and respect for space. If we really paid attention, every metro journey could be a meditation on human behavior. Think about it: we are all on the same train, going different places. Isn’t that just like life?
So the next time you’re standing on a platform and a full metro arrives, ask yourself: Is it really worth pushing in? Is there a better way to handle this moment? Can I wait for the next one and allow those inside to come out calmly? These small choices don’t just make commuting better—they make us better humans.
We are the most intelligent species on the planet. We build rockets, invent AI, create music and art. And yet, we can’t pause for two seconds to let someone get off the metro?
The rush is not outside. It’s inside us. And until we calm that rush, no amount of extra space will ever be enough.
So let’s start with something simple: Don’t rush into a full metro. Wait. Breathe. Let others pass. In doing so, you’re not just showing manners—you’re showing wisdom.
And maybe, just maybe, that small act of awareness will ripple into something bigger.
Chapter 16: A Smile Missing in Millions: What the Metro Reveals About Us
There’s one universal truth that I have observed over the past seven years of traveling daily in the Delhi Metro—everyone is worried. No matter how smart, confident, well-dressed, or positive someone appears, there is an invisible cloud of worry lingering over them. It’s not just a few people—it’s practically everyone. Every face tells a silent story of struggle, pressure, expectation, fear, or anxiety. I’ve seen it across all coaches. Worries are universal, and they don’t discriminate based on age, gender, income, or background.
While it’s human to worry, the real concern is how we carry those worries with us—especially during our commute to work, college, or other important commitments. The Delhi Metro is more than just a transport system; it’s a living reflection of urban India. Every day, millions of people board it with hopes, dreams, deadlines, responsibilities, and yes—worries. But what if I told you that carrying those worries into the Metro and then to work actually harms us more than we realize?
Let me ask you this—have you ever seen someone enter the Metro with a genuine smile, looking joyful, present, and positive? Very rarely. Maybe 1 out of 100 people. The rest look exhausted, restless, or anxious, even at 8 in the morning. What I’ve noticed is that people don’t smile anymore, not because they don’t want to, but because they’ve forgotten how to.
There was a time in India—not long ago—when people used to wake up, bathe early, pray, have breakfast with family, and head out with an energetic smile on their face. Whether it was the paanwala, the bus conductor, or the office-goer—smiles were a part of the culture. Smiles weren’t fake or forced; they were genuine expressions of life. But today, in our so-called modern society, driven by technology, stress, and competition—smiling feels like a luxury.
The truth is, we’ve become so caught up in deadlines, promotions, comparisons, social media highlights, and constant news alerts, that we’ve stopped connecting with ourselves—and with each other. And this disconnection is most evident in the Metro. When I look around, I don’t just see people heading to work—I see minds burdened with the weight of unpaid bills, unsaid words, incomplete goals, broken relationships, health fears, and a deep feeling of "not being enough."
But here’s what I’ve realized through experience—worrying during the morning commute is one of the worst ways to start your day. Because when you step into your office or college already feeling low, your productivity crashes. You become reactive instead of proactive. Your creativity shuts down. Your energy level drops. You do things mechanically, not mindfully. And slowly, your work suffers. Your reputation takes a hit. Your confidence dips. And eventually, your job or career can get affected.
Now I’m not saying that we should never worry. We are human, and it’s okay to feel down sometimes. But what I am saying is this—we should not carry our worries like a badge of honor every morning. The Metro journey is the perfect opportunity to reset, reflect, recharge, and realign our thoughts. It’s not just a travel time—it’s a transformation time.
And here’s one tool that can change everything—a smile. Yes, something as simple as a smile can change the way your day unfolds. When you smile, your brain releases feel-good chemicals like dopamine and serotonin. These chemicals reduce stress, boost your mood, and shift your mindset. Smiling tells your body and mind that things are okay, even if they aren’t perfect.
Try this for a week—every morning as you step into the Metro, put a gentle smile on your face. Not a fake one. A genuine, conscious, peaceful smile. Smile not because everything is fine, but because you have the power to make it better. Smile not for others, but for yourself. Smile not to impress, but to uplift. You will notice how your energy shifts. How people start reacting to you differently. How you feel lighter. How you notice more good things during your ride.
When we smile, we connect with others too. We break the invisible walls between strangers. You don’t need to start a conversation, but just passing a smile to the person sitting next to you can create a moment of human connection. And maybe, just maybe, your one smile can change someone else’s entire day.
Think about it—what do you lose by smiling? Nothing. But what you gain is immeasurable—better mood, better thoughts, better energy, and better results. It’s the cheapest and most powerful therapy available—and it’s inside you.
If millions of people commuting in the Delhi Metro every day simply started their journey with a smile instead of stress, imagine the positive energy we could create. Let's do a small calculation to show the power of wasted time and energy.
Suppose 5 million people travel daily by Delhi Metro. If even 99% of them spend their 45-minute ride worrying or mindlessly scrolling or overthinking, that’s:
Now imagine this time being wasted every day of the year. That’s more than 154,000 years of combined time wasted each year—just by not being mentally present, not smiling, not being mindful.
If even a small percentage of this time was used for meditation, listening to audiobooks, reflecting with gratitude, smiling at strangers politely, or planning your day—you can imagine the kind of productivity, creativity, and happiness we’d be unlocking as a society.
In conclusion, I’ve learned through my seven years of Delhi Metro travel that life doesn’t change with a new job, a new phone, or a new relationship. It changes when you change your energy. And the simplest way to do that is—start your day with a smile. Let that smile travel with you from your home to the Metro to your workplace. Let that smile be your signature—not because your life is perfect, but because you’ve decided to live with grace and gratitude.
The next time you step into the Delhi Metro, remember—you’re not just carrying a bag on your shoulder. You’re carrying your energy, your thoughts, your future. Choose to carry joy, not worries. Choose to smile, not stress. Because the face you wear in the Metro is often the face you wear in life.
Chapter 17: My Final Station—What Delhi Metro Taught Me
Seven years is not a short span of time. It’s long enough to complete an education, long enough to build a career, long enough to change your life entirely. For me, these seven years spent traveling daily in the Delhi Metro were more than just a commute between home and work—they were a transformative journey that taught me some of the most profound lessons about life, people, and the nature of the self. The Delhi Metro, with its crowds and chaos, its silence and stories, became my moving ashram—a modern monastery where ancient Indian wisdom met the hustle of the modern world.
From the first ride to the last, I carried expectations, assumptions, and sometimes even anger or anxiety in my backpack. But with each passing day, with each encounter, with each silent observation, the Metro began to teach me—without words, without sermons, without lectures. It simply showed me.
I began to understand that life, like the Metro, is a journey of stations. Each stop teaches something. Some people get on and stay with you for a long ride. Others come for a few stations and leave. Just like people in life—some are there for a reason, some for a season, and very few for a lifetime. Initially, I used to wonder why people were so quick to anger, so hesitant to smile, so reluctant to show kindness. But then I began to realize that every person carries their own invisible burden. Some carry heartbreak, others carry stress, and many carry loneliness masked by smiles or indifference.
I remember sitting one day beside an old man in a less-crowded coach. He didn’t speak. He didn’t look at anyone. But he had the calm of a sage. His eyes were tired, not with age, but with wisdom. He reminded me of the concept of sthita-prajna from the Bhagavad Gita—a person of steady wisdom, unaffected by pain or pleasure. He didn’t teach me anything with his voice, but his stillness spoke louder than words. In the Metro, I met many such silent teachers—unseen gurus disguised as ordinary commuters. The crying child, the tired mother, the frustrated office-goer, the cheerful student, and the lonely elder—all were chapters in a living scripture.
I used to hate the rush, the elbow-pushing, the noise. But over time, it made me more patient. It taught me that frustration never speeds up life—it only slows down our inner peace. In ancient Indian thought, patience is titiksha—the ability to endure without complaint. That quality got polished inside me, not in temples or retreats, but in the sweaty, suffocating, crowded compartments of the Delhi Metro. Every time I held back my irritation, I felt a victory within. I was not just traveling through the city—I was journeying within myself.
I saw arguments. I saw kindness. I saw rudeness. I saw laughter. I saw silence. The Metro became a mirror of humanity. One day, a woman dropped her shopping bag. A boy who looked rough and rowdy bent down and helped her pick up every item. Another day, a man refused to vacate a reserved seat for a pregnant woman, pretending to be asleep. And then, there were days I saw people share food, share smiles, or share silence in a way that made me feel that not all hope is lost.
Delhi Metro made me confront the truth that humans are not black or white—we are all shades of grey. Good and bad coexist in every compartment, just like they coexist within us. And that realization made me less judgmental. It made me more human. Ancient Indian philosophy always talks about balance—samatvam yoga uchyate—equanimity is yoga. Metro taught me equanimity. I stopped reacting to every small provocation. I started responding with awareness.
There were days when I stood for hours due to no available seat. And there were days when someone unexpectedly offered me one. Life is exactly like that—some days you give, some days you receive. But the beauty lies in giving even when you have little. I once saw a beggar woman offer her food to a stray dog outside the Metro station. That image stays with me to this day. It reminded me that kindness is not the privilege of the rich or the educated—it is the nature of the awakened heart.
I saw people from all walks of life—government employees, private-sector workers, daily-wage laborers, students, tourists, housewives, retired officials, and even performers playing musical instruments or singing songs. In those moments, the compartments didn’t have caste, creed, religion, or status—they only had humans moving toward their destination. And isn’t that what life is? A collective journey toward something unknown, something greater.
Sometimes I used to sit silently with my headphones on, pretending to listen to music, but actually observing the life around me. The Metro gave me stories. Some painful, some powerful. Like the girl who wiped her tears silently while typing a message on her phone. Like the man who fed a blind beggar with his own hands while talking gently to him. Like the woman who laughed loudly on a video call, bringing smiles to nearby faces.
Every day in the Metro, I met versions of myself. My anger. My peace. My insecurity. My compassion. All reflected in others. The Metro didn’t just carry my body—it carried my soul to places within I had never traveled before.
It changed the way I look at purpose. We often think purpose is a big mission—a grand career, a global impact. But the Metro taught me that purpose can also be small. Smiling at a stranger politely. Offering your seat. Being patient. Listening without interrupting. Helping someone without expecting anything. That is the purpose. That is the impact. And that is what the Vedas always taught—Paropkaraya punyaya—doing good for others is the highest virtue.
Some of the most spiritual people I saw were not wearing saffron robes or chanting mantras. They were common people, living honestly, helping others, and carrying peace within. The Gita says a true yogi is one who sees the self in all beings and all beings in the self. I saw such yogis disguised as Metro riders.
The Delhi Metro also showed me the ugly side of modern society—entitlement, aggression, hypocrisy, and attention-seeking behavior. But it also offered the antidote—observation, humility, and introspection. You don’t need to argue with everyone. You don’t need to record every moment. You don't always need to prove your point. Sometimes, peace lies in letting go. That is what I learned.
I realized that the real journey of life is not just about reaching your station on time, but about who you become during the ride. I entered the Metro seven years ago with ambition and restlessness. I leave with insight and calmness. My destination changed. My route changed. But more importantly, I changed.
If there’s one thing I want to share with every reader of this book, it is this: don’t underestimate the power of your daily routine. Even in the most mundane settings—like a Metro ride—you can find growth, awareness, and spiritual insight. Every moment is a message. Every station is a lesson. Every fellow traveler is a teacher. And every delay is a reminder—to slow down, to breathe, to reflect.
Your path may not always be smooth. You may face crowded compartments in life. You may feel lost or alone. But keep moving. Keep observing. Keep learning. Because life, like the Metro, will always take you somewhere. The key is to let the journey shape you, not just carry you.
My final station may not be the end. It may be the beginning of a new route, a new story, a new evolution. But I carry with me the gift of these seven years—the wisdom earned not from books or gurus, but from the people, the silence, the noise, and the stillness of a moving train.
So next time you step into the Metro—or any mundane routine—don’t just ride. Reflect. Don’t just move. Transform. And remember, sometimes the most powerful life lessons come not from mountaintops or holy places, but from the ordinary rhythms of everyday life.
This was my Metro. This was my monastery. And this was my transformation. Thank you for riding with me. May your journey be as awakening as mine.
Conclusion: Life Is Also a Metro
Life is also a metro. It begins quietly, with a door sliding open, a chance to step in, a beginning you never completely understand. You may not know the full route, you may not see the final destination, but you enter anyway. Some enter excited, some confused, some already tired, but the ride begins—and once it starts, it doesn’t stop for your worries, your heartbreaks, or your doubts.
Just like the Delhi Metro, life moves fast. Stations come and go. Some you anticipate with joy—like getting a new job, falling in love, or chasing a long-awaited dream. And then there are those stations you wish never existed—failure, loss, separation, betrayal. But the metro doesn’t wait for your emotions. It halts for a few seconds, and then it moves again. Life, too, doesn’t pause for you to understand why something happened. It urges you to keep moving.
Over the past seven years, I’ve watched hundreds of faces in the Delhi Metro—some smiling, many tired, some angry, and others lost in thought. It struck me that these faces weren’t just fellow passengers—they were versions of me. At different phases of life, I too have been all of them. I have smiled with joy after receiving good news, sat silently after heartbreak, laughed with friends, and even cried quietly in a corner when life hit me harder than I could handle. The Delhi Metro has been both witness and companion to my evolution.
People enter and leave your life like they do in the metro. Some stay for just a station or two—like strangers who offer a kind smile or an unspoken act of help. They leave quickly, but their presence changes something within you. Others stay longer—maybe through several phases of your journey. They teach you lessons, comfort you, walk with you, and sometimes argue with you. But they’re also bound to leave—because no one stays in your metro forever. At some point, their destination arrives, and yours continues. It hurts. But it’s also real.
And in all this in-and-out, you begin to realize—the point was never who stays and who goes, but who you become with every stop.
Life’s journey isn’t meant to be predictable. The metro map might be printed, but the experience is always unique. Sometimes your train is too crowded to breathe. Sometimes it’s empty enough to let your thoughts echo. Life too gives you crowded moments—filled with responsibilities, voices, noise, and chaos—and then, moments of solitude, where you're left alone with nothing but your breath, your fears, and your dreams. Both are essential. Both shape you.
Many times, we get annoyed when the metro stops too long at a station. Or when a technical glitch halts the ride. We keep checking our watches, worrying about being late. But then we realize—some delays are beyond our control. Just like life. Sometimes you don’t get what you want when you want it. You wait. And that wait teaches you something that the speed never could. It teaches you patience. It teaches you humility. It teaches you how to find meaning in stillness.
And what about those who stand too close to you? Who pushes you, irritates you, and disrespects your space? You learn to manage them too. Not every journey in life is comfortable. Not every co-passenger is kind. But you realize that complaining about it only ruins your peace. You begin to focus inward—on how to balance, how to breathe, and how to center yourself regardless of who or what surrounds you. This, too, is a reflection of life.
In the Bhagavad Gita, Krishna tells Arjuna that equanimity in gain and loss, pleasure and pain, is yoga. Riding the Delhi Metro gave me a glimpse of that philosophy. Some days, I got a seat. Some days, I stood for hours. Some days, the AC worked perfectly. Other days, it felt like I was in a furnace. But I kept riding. Because the goal was never to have a perfect ride. It was to reach where I was meant to go.
We often think the people with headphones on, lost in their phones, are detached. But I realized—detachment is not about tuning out the world. It’s about being so rooted within yourself that even amidst chaos, you stay calm. I’ve seen people close their eyes in meditation, even during the busiest rush hours. That, to me, is wisdom. That, to me, is strength. That is the kind of person I want to become in life—unmoved by external noise, focused only on my inner journey.
And yes, just like in the metro, in life too—we carry baggage. Emotional, mental, and sometimes spiritual. Some people carry too much and struggle to move. Others travel light and feel free. The more we declutter from within, the more peaceful our ride becomes. You cannot change how many people board your train, but you can always choose how much you carry with you.
So, what has the Delhi Metro taught me about life?
That every stop has a reason, even the painful ones.
That every stranger has a story, even if they never speak.
That peace is found not in empty trains but in a calm mind.
That the journey matters more than the destination.
That we must learn to move, to wait, to let go, and to grow.
My final station is not a place—it is a mindset. A mindset that no matter what life throws at me, I will ride through it with grace, patience, and purpose. And to every reader of this book, I say this:
Life is your metro. It will be noisy, unpredictable, and often unfair. But if you learn to observe, to listen, to feel, and to reflect—you will see there is immense wisdom even in the smallest moment. Don’t rush. Don’t resist. Don’t fake it.
Breathe. Learn. Let go. Be kind. Be aware.
And above all, keep moving—because the journey always matters more than the noise.
This action cannot be undone.