"I went looking for trains; I found passengers." - Paul Theroux, the Great Railway Bazaar
There are a million differences between a commuter train and the great transcontinental railways that Paul Theroux took in the 1970s, back when India's rail system had yet to modernize and bookings could only be made in person, by standing in a dusty queue with a whole host of other unfortunates.
The Delhi metro rail - famous throughout the world for its carbon friendly engines, brushed stainless steel modernity, and rapid construction - looks nothing like the rickety trains that took Theroux throughout the country. Purchasing a ticket is a mechanical transaction, and most people use RFID-powered SmartCards, just like in Washington DC or London.
But the similarities end past the turnstile, and there Theroux's reality emerges. Even at offpeak hours, the Delhi metro station at Rajiv Chowk (in the heart of the city) is a form of controlled and human chaos. So is Union Station, so is Penn Station, so is Brussels Centralle, for that matter. The difference is that in those stations, commuters struggle not to find each other. The greatest mental achievement of the DC commuter is that he can stand cheek-to-cheek with another person for forty-five minutes and still convince himself that he's entirely alone, swaying towards a unique destination.
By contrast, the Delhi commuter yearns for human interaction to validate his journey. From the moment he enters the station and recognizes the beggar on the steps - the same beggar who holds his hand out every day for change, marked by the same familiar deformities, and with whom the commuter has the same routine exchange, whatever it is, every day - to the moment that he exits the station at his destination and dodges a family on the steps to emerge into the air, his commute is made up of a million tiny human conversations. First, the nod of acknowledgment at the beggar, who nods back. Then the familiar pat down from the security guard, who probably recognizes the commuter in turn. "How are you?" he says. "I'm fine, but you look tired today." He goes down the steps, and at the bottom someone he doesn't know catches hold of his arm. "Does this train go to Rajiv Chowk?" "No, you have to change stations, but you can follow me." He asks some men sitting on a bench to scoot over. The train arrives two minutes later. They jostle in. "Let people out first," says the guard. "Thanks," grunt the exiting passengers, their elbows folded in to facilitate passage through the crowd. Then the train itself. The commuter angles his head for a glimpse of a woman, he chats with his fellow commuter about the weather. He touches someone's shoulder - initially by accident - but then doesn't bother to move. A little boy dodges people's legs in the aisle and the commuter smiles indulgently at the parents.
He exits at the gate, where again he recognizes the guard. In line to scan his SmartCard, he cracks a joke and the other passengers clap him on the shoulder. And then he's out, through the tunnel, and back in the open air.
Public transport is a metaphor for a culture's approach to the thorny question of public space. In America, people share space rarely and usually without acknowledging each other. It's a matter of necessity, a straight journey from Point A to Point B, and it doesn't matter if it's undertaken alone.
But there's something in the collective Indian spirit that rebels against doing anything alone. Old men take their morning walks in pairs. Women hang washing out to dry together. In a recent essay on Slate, the author suggests that the invention of portable music players transformed American "public space" - suddenly, people would stand around in public doing something private. It seemed weird, antisocial and a little obscene. Today's Indians are the first to have widespread access to listening devices, but even so it doesn't seem like Indian culture is on the verge of becoming withdrawn.
Theroux compares the Indian train station to a village - raucous and messy, sure, but it thrives on its own emotional energy. Whereas the bright, spacious arches of DC's Union Station absorb the crowd and render it meaningless, Rajiv Chowk enfolds its daily passengers and brings them into loud, uncomfortable but necessary proximity to each other. Not quite a village - too modern, too diverse - but certainly not a Western commuting crowd, either.
There are a million differences between a commuter train and the great transcontinental railways that Paul Theroux took in the 1970s, back when India's rail system had yet to modernize and bookings could only be made in person, by standing in a dusty queue with a whole host of other unfortunates.
The Delhi metro rail - famous throughout the world for its carbon friendly engines, brushed stainless steel modernity, and rapid construction - looks nothing like the rickety trains that took Theroux throughout the country. Purchasing a ticket is a mechanical transaction, and most people use RFID-powered SmartCards, just like in Washington DC or London.
But the similarities end past the turnstile, and there Theroux's reality emerges. Even at offpeak hours, the Delhi metro station at Rajiv Chowk (in the heart of the city) is a form of controlled and human chaos. So is Union Station, so is Penn Station, so is Brussels Centralle, for that matter. The difference is that in those stations, commuters struggle not to find each other. The greatest mental achievement of the DC commuter is that he can stand cheek-to-cheek with another person for forty-five minutes and still convince himself that he's entirely alone, swaying towards a unique destination.
By contrast, the Delhi commuter yearns for human interaction to validate his journey. From the moment he enters the station and recognizes the beggar on the steps - the same beggar who holds his hand out every day for change, marked by the same familiar deformities, and with whom the commuter has the same routine exchange, whatever it is, every day - to the moment that he exits the station at his destination and dodges a family on the steps to emerge into the air, his commute is made up of a million tiny human conversations. First, the nod of acknowledgment at the beggar, who nods back. Then the familiar pat down from the security guard, who probably recognizes the commuter in turn. "How are you?" he says. "I'm fine, but you look tired today." He goes down the steps, and at the bottom someone he doesn't know catches hold of his arm. "Does this train go to Rajiv Chowk?" "No, you have to change stations, but you can follow me." He asks some men sitting on a bench to scoot over. The train arrives two minutes later. They jostle in. "Let people out first," says the guard. "Thanks," grunt the exiting passengers, their elbows folded in to facilitate passage through the crowd. Then the train itself. The commuter angles his head for a glimpse of a woman, he chats with his fellow commuter about the weather. He touches someone's shoulder - initially by accident - but then doesn't bother to move. A little boy dodges people's legs in the aisle and the commuter smiles indulgently at the parents.
He exits at the gate, where again he recognizes the guard. In line to scan his SmartCard, he cracks a joke and the other passengers clap him on the shoulder. And then he's out, through the tunnel, and back in the open air.
Public transport is a metaphor for a culture's approach to the thorny question of public space. In America, people share space rarely and usually without acknowledging each other. It's a matter of necessity, a straight journey from Point A to Point B, and it doesn't matter if it's undertaken alone.
But there's something in the collective Indian spirit that rebels against doing anything alone. Old men take their morning walks in pairs. Women hang washing out to dry together. In a recent essay on Slate, the author suggests that the invention of portable music players transformed American "public space" - suddenly, people would stand around in public doing something private. It seemed weird, antisocial and a little obscene. Today's Indians are the first to have widespread access to listening devices, but even so it doesn't seem like Indian culture is on the verge of becoming withdrawn.
Theroux compares the Indian train station to a village - raucous and messy, sure, but it thrives on its own emotional energy. Whereas the bright, spacious arches of DC's Union Station absorb the crowd and render it meaningless, Rajiv Chowk enfolds its daily passengers and brings them into loud, uncomfortable but necessary proximity to each other. Not quite a village - too modern, too diverse - but certainly not a Western commuting crowd, either.
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