The Art of Lying in Delhi Metro

If each person’s nose got bigger every time they lied in Delhi Metro, people would be holding on to each other’s noses instead of the poles. Almost every third person travelling in metro is a liar. And no, there’s no moral baggage to it. Lying is an art and every commuter of Delhi metro is an artist – successful, unsuccessful, but artist nonetheless.

Yesterday was a fine cloudy afternoon. The ‘after’ part of the noon which lulls you into a soft sleep; followed by a craving for your choice of beverage and pakoras. So, on one such dreamy pakora-afternoon, in one of the 196 metro cars of DMRC’s Violet line, unfolded a dreamy performance of lies by a couple. Dreamy for every commuter who’s bored of reading his/her co-passengers’ faces whilst on an underground metro journey. Others who are bored of shuffling their playlists and many other who’ve just lost their internet connection to use Snapchat filters anymore.

Among these passengers I was one such. So when the extravagant play of lies began, I too, like several others stopped my music and alerted one of my five senses to pay attention. Others unabashedly stopped munching chips to listen more precisely, while a few started munching louder – enjoying, while anticipating the end. The coach hoppers even, who walk wild hunting down every empty seats; stopped their expedition and leaned on the pole instead to listen. People put down their newspapers, books, and gossips to be a part of this lie. I slowed down my breath to hear every syllable clearly. The entire coach became a lie-house – wonderful. Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.

But this was not the first lie I was listening to in Delhi metro. You are expected to lie while taking public transportation. Or that’s what my grandmother told when I turned sixteen and travelled to an adjoining city all by myself for the first time.

“Don’t tell your full name to any one in the bus”, said my dear grandmother with her wide eyes falling apart.

My chachu who stood beside her at the bus-stop added, “and if any one offers you something to eat, politely refuse saying you are not hungry.” But I was almost always hungry. And was almost always asked to lie about it.

So when I shifted to Delhi, the big city, I found to my surprise that the rule was same here too. No matter where you go, small town or a big metropolis like Delhi; you lie while travelling in public transport.

I had not gotten used to lying in Delhi metro and I remember meeting this woman, who was exceedingly interested in my skirt and the place I bought it from. Upon knowing that it was purchased from my hometown, she got even more interested in knowing about me and my family. My parents had taught me everything but they didn’t teach me how to say no to people. So when she interrogated me, holding the metal pole in one hand and a bag full of groceries in another, I didn’t say no to her. I couldn’t. But my grandmother did teach me the art of lying. So, I lied about my name, my hometown and even my height too! On top of it, when she asked me where I was heading to, I lied, “Hauz Khas”. I was on the blue line, travelling to an entirely opposite direction.

Lying is like a rainbow pastry. Layers and layers of prompt and sometimes well-researched thoughts piled onto each other; iced with a factitious smile. Another very common lie you’ll witness in Delhi metro is that of lack of space to accommodate people.

“Nahi hai jagah” is the second most common sentence you’ll hear in metro; first being the recorded announcements. But this lie had a character to it—it’s a shared lie. Shared by the entire row of passengers who unannouncingly refuse make space to adjust one more pair of buttock.

There are lies you speak to yourself. A lie that you will chance a seat at next interchange station. And if you call this optimism; then, gotcha you are lying again. These thoughts are disillusioning. Your favorite music does not fill you with as much enthusiasm as each passing station does. You surveil the coach, looking for the slightest hint of body movements indicating that the passenger will get down at the next station. You slyly move towards that person, like a snake, to hop onto his/her seat when the time is right. You nonchalantly wait, pretending to be occupied with your playlist but you are listening to even the slightest variations in the passenger’s breathing. The next station approaches and your prey begins to assemble its belongings—packs bag, folds the UPSC reference book, and fiddles with your patience for a while. The gates open at the next station and he closes his eyes and resorts to sleep. And it then you spot another liar in Delhi metro.

And then. You pass by your lost lover’s metro station. And the world stops. You anticipate the arrival of this station beat by beat. In those moments of contemplation, you remind; rather lie to yourself that you don’t miss him. It’s easier to lie than to submit to longing. You lie more passionately than you loved him. That you don’t reminisce about holding hands at the same metro station, snuggling on that same old bench. The door shuts and you again drown in the abyss of darkness.

But sometimes these lies hold the power of binding an entire coach. Like I was saying, yesterday, a couple performed a wonderful show of lies which even made me pause the tunes of Prateek Kuhad. The woman, aged somewhere around thirty, curling her hands into her husband’s arm, was looking outside the metro. The duo looked fairly in love with each other. They were standing right next to the gate, which is the unsaid lover’s corner in metro, where you get to enjoy the cityscape which journey leaves behind. Everything was rosy and nobody seemed to care. But a phone call changed everything.

The woman received a call. It was a mundane Samsung ringtone but seemed to have shook her. It was her boss.

“I will not pick the phone”, she announced.

Her husband who seemed to have maintained a reasonable calm said, “No, pick up and say that you’ve reached Badkal Mor.”

We were at Sarita Vihar, seven stations from the claimed. The stakes were high.

“But this metro aunty will start announcing”, she pulled a flaw in their plan.

I had now put my earphones aside and intently waited for the action to unfold. The coach hoppers held on to the pole more firmly. The munching had stopped and the chatter faded.

“Don’t worry. Disconnect the phone before she even starts blabbering”, suggested the husband.

Now we were moving towards the next station, Mohan Estates. She exactly had two minutes to finish the conversation. She finally picked the phone.

There was a deadly silence in the coach. I noticed people looking at their watches.

“Hello”, said the woman nervously.

“Yes, I am fine”, she lied.

“Yes sir, I am at Badkal More”, she lied again.

The conversation should’ve ended then and there, but the boss took longer than expected. He kept talking and the woman—totally helpless, faked a laughter. We could see the anxiety seeping on the couple’s face. The husband held her hands reassuringly.

The audiences had turned anxious too. Some fidgeted nervously with their bag straps whereas I bit my lips. In that short moment, I feared the worst for the woman. What would the boss do if he gets to know their exact location? Fire her from the job? My imaginations were running wild when the metro speaker turned alive.

The announcer geared herself for the announcement. And it started…

“Agla station…”

Each pair of eye was on the couple. It felt as if Sachin Tendulkar had got out at 99 runs. We had lost hope when the woman finally said, “Okay, bye.” She put the handset into her bag and brushed her cheeks on husband’s shoulders.

The entire coach heaved a sigh of relief. I could hear the unheard applause and cheering. The munching, gossiping resumed and so did the tunes of Kuhad.