The Blair Switch Project

I remember that a jealous writer once said fashion modeling was the world's "least demanding profession."

I have to disagree.

Fashion modeling may in fact be on the list of world's least demanding professions, but by far, the world's least demanding profession is that of Delhi Metro driver.

The Delhi metro runs every two minutes.  The Metro drivers probably know this, but I can't make any promises.

Some of them might be paying attention to the movement or direction of the train.  Many others are cutting their toenails, downing shots of Old Monk with their buddies, or humming along to Bhojpuri folk music on their phones.

Like all Delhi drivers, the Delhi metro drivers know that the most critical driving skill to know in Delhi - more important than knowing traffic laws, where the police cameras are mounted or when to stop drinking - is knowing when and how to honk.  Honking is the most popular driving maneuver in Delhi, with the possible exception of its cousin, swearing.

The Delhi metro drivers are eager honkers.  Any time I get on the train, they honk their horns in a sequence that could either be "Hot Cross Buns" or Morse code for "Look at these losers."  They honk long and they honk hard, and then they honk home.  Thanks to some feat of sadistic engineering, the horns on the Delhi metro come in two tones - both unpleasant enough to induce uncontrollable twitching among passers-by.  The drivers use these horns with gleeful abandon.

And then there's the ride.

A trip on the Delhi Metro is a trip into the land of infinite possibility.  It is like being launched into space or taken to the bottom of the sea, but without the splendid inky view.  It is a submarine, a space capsule and a bumper car all at once.  The lights flicker menacingly like in an outtake from an apocalyptic monster film.  The train car rattles in the tunnel like a bullet speeding towards an unknown but deadly meeting.  The announcer's voice is alternately booming and thready, as he announces that there will be "a delay in the service."  The darkened train crashes to a swaying halt.  The tightly-packed commuters cling to each other, not for comfort but because that's what happens on a crowded Delhi metro anytime you move your arms - you end up clinging to somebody.  The dreadful drop in your stomach comes partly from your impending doom and partly from the realization that the person you're clinging to didn't shower this morning.

The experience of taking public transport - spooky at the best of times, in any city - is almost haunting on the Delhi metro.  This is because the train lurches, jerks and changes its mind like a missile, until you're not sure whether the drivers are piloting a train or trying to catch Harry Potter's Snitch.

Whether the drivers are capable of easing up - or indeed, whether they even want to - is a matter of debate best reserved for people who know more about trains than I do.  

On a recent trip on the Delhi Metro, I planted my feet and attempted the sensitive art of "Metro surfing."  The dedicated Metro surfer is to a train experience what Bode Miller is to alpine skiing - a disgrace to form, a tribute to good luck, and also very possibly drunk.  There is no mediocrity in Metro surfing - there is only miraculous survival and sudden death.

I learned the hard way that I cannot surf the Delhi Metro.  The terrain is too smooth, the populace too cosy, the trip too uncertain.  I ended up on my butt, then on my face, then on the face of the person beside me.  I decided not to risk further proximity, and finally grasped a pole like it was a life preserver.  Which it might have been.