A Longish Day in Delhi

An experimental attempt at capturing the quiet weight of the everyday

Living in the mountains allows me the luxury of not taking public transport for work. I mostly work remotely or travel across cities when required. Two months of quiet and peace in the mountains, followed by a month of travel to wherever work takes me. A balance I have come to admire.

Delhi serves as my base in the plains, as my parents live in Noida. While I sometimes work from home when in Noida, I do not shy away from hopping on different forms of public transport when work calls.

We have a car at home that my father drives to work. He often asks if I want to take the car after dropping him off at the office, and I always instantly answer with a full-bodied no.

I lived in Mumbai for a decade, from 2012 to 2022, and in all those years, the local train and reliable autos were my go-to options for travel. In 2016, when I bought my bike, I would often ride it to places, but public transport remained my most preferred mode.

I have always loved using public transport, especially metros and trains that carry thousands of people at once. From my experience in Mumbai, if two friends meet at a place far from their homes, it can be safely assumed that they both took the train. In Delhi, I have observed the opposite. People usually take the car, braving hours of traffic, inconvenience, and noise.

Last year, when I came down from Himachal to Delhi for the first time, I wondered if I would feel overwhelmed by the insane crowd in the metro. My mother was especially worried. She wondered if her son, who once spent three hours daily on Mumbai’s local trains, still had the street smartness to survive Delhi Metro.

But I have always felt comfortable in the Delhi Metro. The best part is that unlike Mumbai’s locals, there is almost zero chance of death since the doors remain shut. The metro is also clean, hygienic, and air-conditioned.

While the environmental benefits of taking the metro are obvious, I have realized another unexpected benefit over the past few months. My mind drifts as I look out of the window or observe people around me, and this fuels my creativity. Let me tell you about today.

My father had just gotten ready and was leaving for the office when he saw me in a shirt, black jeans, and shoes. He rightly assumed I had to leave for work too. When he offered to drop me at Botanical Garden Metro Station, I said a resounding yes, saving one hundred rupees in auto fare.

In the car, we talked about my plans for the day since I had just returned from a five-day intense retreat in Dehradun.

“Well, I have to look for venues in Delhi for an event in late August or September,” I told him.

“Isn’t it too soon?” he asked.

“Perhaps, but venues get booked quickly in cities, so it is best to lock one in early and be free.”

Before I knew it, we had almost reached the station. My father made a gradual but sharp left unlawfully to drop me off at the safest point. He once again asked if I wanted the car for the day. I refused. Then he asked if carrying my laptop was necessary, noticing me struggle with my bag. I wish I had thought this through, but the fear of missing urgent work made me burden my shoulders with the weight of my laptop, a Kindle, a book, and a water bottle filled to the brim.

Before entering the station, while walking towards the escalator, I switched into my Delhi Metro look. Shades, mask, cap, and earphones on. The idea was to hide myself from the public eye.

After putting on these blinders, I boarded the crowded metro from Botanical Garden towards Sukhdev Vihar, my first destination for the day.

The seats were full, and there was barely any space to stand. I tried to slowly swim through the crowd with my heavy bag, searching for a spot to rest my feet. Once I found one, I hung my bag toward my torso, relieving my back of some strain and resting it against the pole.

Women, kids, elders, young men, and teens—people of all ages surrounded me, all glued to their phones. I longed to see someone simply doing nothing or reading a book, but I failed. So, to look smarter than the crowd and feel more intellectual, I pulled out Ibn-e-Battuti, a Hindi book I have been reading lately. I do not know about others, but in my head, I felt sexy doing that. Like I was the one still rooted and grounded while everyone else wasted their time on their screens.

My mind was quick to alert me of its judgment, and as the words of the book started to get louder, the judgment went silent. The views of Delhi from the large rectangular windows kept distracting me. And rightfully so—having spent most of my adult life in Mumbai and elsewhere, the capital still felt new to me.

Now, I was in two minds. Should I keep up my sexy personality of reading, or should I freely look outside to get to know Delhi better? If I stopped reading, I would look like a fool. A cultural show-off. A man who took out his book to place himself on a moral pedestal, only to step down after reading just one page.

Thanks to the shades I was wearing, I could do both. I read a few lines, then subtly glanced around at the city passing by. With time, the book slowly found itself tucked into the last zip of my bag, resting with its advanced brother, the Kindle.

Outside, the world unfolded like a slideshow—the dirty Yamuna, the depressing river basin, blue garbage bags filled to the brim, heaps of waste towering over shanties. I did not know what to make of it. Suddenly, everything looked grey. Below, the roads were packed with traffic, and I felt proud of saying no to my father’s offer, saving time, effort, and money.

When I passed Jamia, memories of the police attack in the Jamia library flashed through my mind. My heart sank a little, and my body trembled. Before I could dwell on it, my station arrived—Sukhdev Vihar.

Stepping out of the metro, I headed straight to the moderately clean loo in the station, having drunk too much water since morning. The attendant outside asked for five rupees. I had almost no cash, so I hesitantly asked if he would accept an online payment. He nodded without saying much. As I scanned his code, I found myself entering ten instead of five. A negligible difference for me, and perhaps for him too, but it was enough to make me feel wiser and more giving.

My mind quickly alerted me to this self-congratulation, and as I descended the stairs to my first venue, the judgment blurred.

Don Bosco College was just footsteps away from the station, yet I had to navigate several obstacles to reach it. Groups of young college students claimed the footpath as theirs, standing in clusters of five or six, completely unmoved by the presence of others trying to pass. I stepped onto the road and walked around them without feeling much. Ten years ago, I was in college too. It was understood that the hundred-meter radius around campus belonged to us. I understood them.

At Gate Number 1, a security guard held the gate tightly, opening just enough to let one person in at a time. He was checking every student’s ID. Without thinking, I instinctively reached for my bag, almost pulling it in front to take out an ID card I no longer had. When my turn came, before I could even speak, I was shooed away to Gate Number 3.

Retracing my steps, again walking past the same groups of students, I reached Gate Number 3, where I was the only one. The guard there was stricter. He did not even open the gate to speak to me. I shared my intent through the narrow gap between the doors, where we could barely make eye contact.

I had not heard this many "no’s" in years.

“I was supposed to come with an appointment,” he said.

“Nobody picked up my call or replied to my email,” I countered.

“Keep calling, keep emailing,” he replied.

Just as I was about to get irritated, he threw his most powerful defense.

“I am just an employee here, doing my job.”

That softened me a little. Without saying much, I turned and walked toward the second venue, which, luckily, was right next to this one.

Navinta Retreat Center had its doors shut, and upon calling the guard’s name, nobody showed up. Suddenly, the earlier guard felt like the nicest human being I had met that day. A few minutes later, the door opened, and a young guy emerged, looking at me with a question on his face.

“I want to speak to the admin.”
“Sure, just go straight and right.”

Relieved, I bent a little to enter through the small gate and stepped into a green and clean retreat center. There was nobody around, a surprise from the previous destination where I saw hundreds of people inside and me outside. I wandered around the campus in the hope of meeting the admin person.

Seeing me confused, a gardener emerged, carrying with him a sense of slowness. Watching him come slowly toward me and taking out an old Nokia phone from his pocket somehow brought out a calmness in me. We stood under the canopy of a big tree, the sunlight making its way through the dense leaves, falling right over his body, almost illuminating him. The way he gently asked for the sister’s whereabouts on the call, explaining that a visitor had come to see them, almost impressed me. Perhaps it was the calm he brought out in me that made my listening a bit romantic, or maybe it was just the serene greenery in the otherwise concrete Delhi that blurred my reality. For those few seconds, I almost saw him in a Ghibli-esque frame without having watched any Ghibli movie but solely relying on the notorious AI visuals of it on Instagram for the past two days.

I was guided toward the main door, which was opened specially for me and then asked to wait in the waiting room. I sat alone and aloof. The sunlight peeping in from the thick windows created a sepia effect inside, with the exception of a blue light to my right coming from an aquarium beside me. The aquarium, possibly placed there to give company to aloof people like myself, kind of disgusted me. From the moral pedestal I stand on by virtue of being vegan, I silently condemned the act of randomly putting fish in the waiting room of a retreat center. It had been a while since I sat there, staring at the walls around me, with nothing else to do. I wondered if I had anything worthwhile to share on my Instagram story. The excitement to share was quickly taken over by the laziness to do so. I let my smartphone rest while I enjoyed the quietness of the room.

A few minutes later, a faint sound of footsteps could be heard, and when they started to get clearer and louder, I safely assumed that they were coming for me. Setting my hair and straightening out my shirt, I stood up to greet them. A sister appeared from behind the wall, asking for my intent. Upon briefly sharing that I was there to inquire about the hall, she quickly disappeared to call the director.

I was left alone for another couple of minutes, after which a gentleman appeared. He was clean-shaven, wearing specs, and carried himself very well. His walk carried confidence, and so did the question he asked me.

“What do you want?”

After the last fifteen minutes of quiet and peace, the sudden authoritative presence and the question nearly jolted me, reacting to Newton’s First Law of Motion. It took me a while to adjust to his presence, and I answered him with all honesty.

Within the next few minutes, I saw him relax, sitting on the sofa adjacent to me, sharing all about himself. He went on and on about his adventures across India and the world. He had worked in Bangalore, studied in Europe, and worked for missionaries in the rural areas of Bihar in the 80s. He shared stories of his time as an admin head in a dangerous village in Bihar, where after 7 pm, goons looted outsiders and carried guns. He narrated stories of his childhood in Goa and his experiences serving in different roles. He even shared recent incidents of police coming to question him after pressure from the government. He heroically shared how he was okay with being arrested but not okay with having his honesty and integrity questioned.

Whenever he allowed me, I shared about my life and work. He didn’t shy away from expressing his admiration and appreciation for me. Every five minutes, while narrating, he would pause and say, “When I was a young chap like you,” before diving into another story. He told me that the moment he saw me, he knew I was doing good work and liked me for my honesty.

Over the next hour, we chatted about anything and everything. I even told him about Rewari, my hometown, and he had been there too. Some time later, we shifted to his office, and just when our conversation was coming to an end, I brought him back to the purpose of my visit. He showed me around the property, which I liked. It was well-kept, clean, and hygienic, and I took extra effort to tell him that. He was proud of the work he had done there, and rightly so—it really was a good place.

When it was time for me to leave, he suggested that I check out Don Bosco. When I told him about my experience there, he quickly gave me his card and told me to ask the guard at the gate to call him. I liked that feeling—the responsibility he took to ensure I could access Don Bosco. Even though I hadn’t intended to return, I now did, with the visiting card in the front pocket of my shirt.

Like an ace of spades in poker, I announced the visiting card to the guard, who called Father and confirmed that I was safe enough to enter the property. Soon, the doors opened, and I was able to step into the pious and pure land of Don Bosco.

After walking through a couple of doors and weaving through small crowds of college kids, I met a person at the counter who carried a very different energy from the Father I had just met. He was quick to say, “Come back in June,” without hearing me out completely.

I mentioned that I was looking to book the place in advance to be safe, which was why I was checking for an appropriate venue. Like a tape recorder, he repeated, “Come in June.”

I wouldn’t let Father down, who had taken the effort to let me in, so I asked him again, insisting that I at least see the property before making a decision.

That, he found reasonable. In the next ten minutes, he hurriedly showed me everything—the hall, the dining area, dorms, rooms, open areas.

Partly irritated by my repeated questions about rates, he handed me a printout of the venue’s pricing and wrote down an email ID. Like a religious prayer, he repeated that I contact him in JUNE.

My next destination was ITO, where I was supposed to check out two venues, both very close to each other, much like these two.

I walked to the station and confidently boarded the metro, where I was supposed to change lines after two stops. When three stations had passed, I realized I was going in the opposite direction. I got down and quickly ran to the other platform, where the waiting time for the train was eight minutes. I had wasted 20 minutes, for which I judged myself a bit. Perhaps my mother was right—I was losing my sense of street smartness when it came to traveling on public transport.

When the metro arrived, it was full even at this odd hour. I squeezed myself in and, for the next three stations, felt embarrassed within myself until I passed Sukhdev Vihar and was well on my route to ITO. I changed lines at Kalkaji, walking faster than others and always taking the stairs. By the time I boarded the metro to ITO, I was panting for breath.

Listening to Seedhe Maut (Delhi contemporaries of Divine and Naezy) gave me much-needed entertainment, relaxation, and some insight into Delhi's culture.

On the train, I checked every few minutes to confirm I was on the right one. It was crowded, and there was hardly any view of Delhi from the large windows, so I immersed myself in Seedhe Maut's songs while thinking about what to write for my newsletter. It was Friday noon—ideally, my newsletter should have been scheduled for the next morning, but like every week, I had delayed it until the last minute. I wondered what I would write about. Different things came to mind—the five-day Conscious Communication retreat I had just attended, my time in nature in Dehradun, one year of writing on Substack, and other topics from the past.

Soon, ITO arrived, and I got down, hurrying to my third venue of the day—Gandhi Peace Foundation.

Located in the posh area of Lutyens' Delhi—the only place in Delhi worth living, and the very place where living is only affordable for the top 0.1%—I walked under trees whose leaves quickly rustled and fell. The wind was strong, providing much-needed respite from the oncoming Delhi summer and heat. The 400-meter walk was made entertaining by my effort to crunch every rustled leaf I saw on the footpath.

When an auto nearly drove over me, even though I was on the footpath, I stopped myself from hurling a couple of abuses at him. He had put me in reaction mode at that moment, and for him, I had all judgment and zero empathy.

At Gandhi Peace Foundation, there was a sense of calm in having reached. A few people walked in and out of the campus. My left ear listened to the faint murmur coming from a meeting in the hall, while my right ear caught the sounds from the busy road outside.

Inside, I met a very warm and loving lady—my first and only interaction with a female that day. She remembered my phone call and email and, with a broad smile, introduced me to a few people at her workplace while walking me to her office. As we discussed the venue and my intent to host our event there, two gentlemen barged into our conversation. One of them sat in the seat next to me, hijacking our discussion with the same topic—hosting their event at the venue. I almost got up to give way to the other guy so they could have their conversation in peace, but I quickly brushed off the idea when I realized how stupid it was of him to interrupt.

Luckily, the kind lady in front of me asked them to wait until she finished speaking to me—a gesture I greatly appreciated then and there, with a slight attempt to mock the two men. Their presence snatched away my sense of calm. I felt like I was suddenly running on their time. I had already seen the hall, discussed the rates, and wanted to see the rooms, but it was lunchtime, and the two men were just waiting for me to finish my sentence so they could start theirs. A bit irritated at them and grateful to the lady who helped me, I left the campus to walk to my fourth location of the day—National Bal Bhavan.

The 500-meter walk was lined with small shops selling all sorts of food and beverages for college students and corporate employees.

I had not eaten breakfast but resisted the urge to grab something from any of these places. The thought of reaching home sooner and eating with my mother sounded like a better option.

A huge queue of parents and their little toddlers escorted me to the front gate of Bal Bhavan. Just before I reached, I kept rehearsing what to say to avoid standing in the long queue. As soon as I mentioned I was here for venue booking, he quickly let me in.

He pointed to the right, where two men sat relaxed at the counter, both wearing glasses and talking to each other. I announced myself and waited for them to finish.

The two men were very different from each other, evident in the way they responded to my inquiry about venue booking.

"I'm looking for a venue to host an event in August," I said.

"What event is this?" came the obvious question from one of them.

I explained that it was an annual community gathering for an organization I had been a part of for years—where we met, celebrated each other's journeys, and had conversations on themes like the environment, self, inner work, money, and whatever was alive in us.

The first person replied, "Our campus is only for children. We don’t do such events."

The other said, "Nothing can be done. We are doomed. Nobody can save the environment now."

While I was more interested in having a conversation with the second guy, I had to briefly answer the first one to at least get preliminary permission to access the campus—without which, any further discussion was pointless.

"Sir, we are also kids. My mother still calls me a kid," I joked.

It landed well—he let out a laugh and said, "Mine too, but this is for even younger kids."

I then stepped out to hear the other person’s views on the ecological crisis.

"Our forefathers had no money, no technology, no tools, no education, and yet look how they kept our land, our rivers. And look at us—armed with everything in the world, yet surrounded by a dead environment. What is all this for?"

He had a smile on his face, but his eyes spoke volumes about the grief he carried for the environment. There was a magnetic energy in his words. Sitting in the admin office of a government institute, it was powerful of him to say all that.

I listened to his monologue, quietly agreeing with him at every point. In the end, he himself admitted that while nothing could be done, when he met people like me, he wished to walk shoulder to shoulder and speak his heart out.

I told him how even we engaged in such discussions and would love to have him as a speaker for a segment on environment and nature.

He laughed and said he would love to. Then, coming back to my reason for being there, he quickly narrated a number to me. Trusting him completely, I started typing it without knowing whose number it was.

"He is the admin head, probably out for lunch. Still, it’s a government office after all—lunch is the most important hour. Call him later and speak to him. That’s as much help as I can offer."

I shook his firm and strong hand, looked him in the eye, and thanked him.

The queue of parents and children had only grown longer in the last ten minutes, and I secretly wished that instead of just playing in the garden, every kid and parent could hear this gentleman’s revolutionary views. It would have been amazing.

Exhausted from all the walking, and since my last location for the day was nearby, I booked an auto to Gandhi Smriti Museum.

I refrained from reading or listening to anything. Like a dog with its face outside the car window, I, too, looked outside for the 15 minutes I was in the auto, marveling at the big bungalows of diplomats, politicians, and other worthy and important people of the capital. It was clear why the country’s issues didn’t bother them—they were living the dream life.

I wondered if the huge green belt and canopy of trees shielded them from the 1000+ AQI, or if they had the superpower to breathe fresh air too.

I was excited to explore Gandhi Smriti Museum, after which I could go home and rest it out. This venue was also my only shortlisted venue out of all five, so I was confident to strike gold here. I confidently walked through the beautiful campus, already having had multiple conversations on call with Mr. S. The only problem was that neither he nor the admin office was anywhere to be found. I walked the circumference of the entire place only to find the admin office adjacent to the first gate through which I had tried to enter earlier, resulting in a philosophical alchemist-like moment.

Luckily, I got to walk around the beautiful campus, completing my 10K+ steps for the day without having to measure them. Even though I just hurriedly walked through the campus, the fragrance of its beauty still announced itself to me.

I walked the long corridor of the admin office to meet a lone man sitting on a chair. When I shared my intent for visiting, he brought out the news that I had, in fact, come to the wrong Gandhi Smriti. He mentioned that I was supposed to go to Gandhi Darshan in Rajghat near ITO.

A bit sad with myself and feeling stupid, I exited the place to find an auto to take me very close to where I already was. My second mishap of the day. By now, I was confident that I was not as street-smart anymore. I would have to be more present and attentive to keep up with Delhi’s pace. I was thankful that I got the chance to briefly see such a beautiful place, which I would have perhaps never been able to visit otherwise. I made a mental promise to come back here with enough time in hand.

The autorickshaw took me through the exact same places, yet the excitement to see Delhi took over my feeling of feeling stupid about myself. The rickshaw driver was speaking to someone on call with his earphones on. I suppose it was a long-lost friend. He would let out a laugh every few minutes, and it was a very cute, childlike laughter. It was almost contagious. I saw myself feeling funny and laughing a bit along with him.

Soon we reached Gandhi Darshan, and his laughs were still to be heard. As I paid him and he left, the echo of his laughter still accompanied me till I walked the long stretch of the campus to find Mr. Mohit in the admin office. What felt like forever and being guided by half a dozen people, I landed in front of the admin office gate, where a gentleman asked another colleague to show me around.

He had the exact persona one would imagine of someone in a government job. A person in formals, aged, having a frown resting face, and seemingly irritated. I refrained from asking too many questions or engaging in long conversations, even though I had lots of questions to ask him.

One by one, he showed me the different places that I had to see. We did a long walk together. The campus was huge. With every step, the laptop that I was carrying on my gentle back only seemed to get heavier. The sun was on us, yet the cool wind somehow generously saved me from a heatstroke. I would have easily completed 15 to 20K steps in the entire day. With a weight on my back, I kind of felt nice to have done a workout while working.

After a short conversation at the admin office, I walked the long stretch to the main gate and called an auto directly to Noida. I did not have it in me to take the metro, especially since I would have anyway had to take an auto to reach home from the metro station.

With 30 minutes to kill, a hungry stomach, and Seedhe Maut blasting in my ears to keep me awake, I thought to also start ideating the topic on which I would write the newsletter.

The title “A Longish Day in Delhi” occurred to me, and I reached home soon to have the long awaited meal with my mother.

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I invite you to reflect and write on the following prompt:

Write about a moment from your daily routine: pouring your morning tea, waiting at a traffic light, folding laundry, and bring it to life with rich detail. What do you notice? What thoughts pass through your mind? How does this small moment reflect something larger?

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As a feature of all my newsletters, I share one song, one book, one plant-based meal, one film/video that inspired me, and some photographic updates from my life.

• Song:

• Book/Newsletter: I am reading Ibn - e - Battuti by Divya Prakash Dubey and How to Break Up With Your Phone by Catherine Price.

• Meal:

  

• Film/Video: Going to watch Superboys of Malegaon today! Will write about it next week. Meanwhile, you may watch its documentary on YouTube, which a friend suggested to me.

• Photograph(s):

  

  

  The only 5 photos I took yesterday

Read my other newsletters :

The story of moving to the mountains
My relationship with failure
Photography, my first love

Read my short stories :

Socratree
Quenched
Chetak

Compilation of all recommendations :
Video recommendations by Creative Writing Laboratory
Music recommendations by Creative Writing Laboratory
Books read by Creative Writing Laboratory

Free Journaling eBook:
Last year, I compiled a journaling ebook for myself for times when I feel I have nothing to write. I am offering it to you for free. Whether you’re starting your journaling journey or feeling stuck in a creative block, this guide will help you find your way.
Download your journaling eBook here.

Thank you for reading my work
Rishabh Khaneja
Creative Writing Laboratory

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