Edited by: Surabhi Aivalli
The Yellow Line is not just a metro line; it’s a living, breathing artery of Delhi. Starting at the corporate jungle of Millenium City Centre and stretching all the way to Samaypur Badli, this line connects worlds that should never coexist: the glossy high-rises of Cyber City and the chaotic poetry of Old Delhi. And yet, it does. Every single day.
For me, the Yellow Line isn’t just about getting from Point A to Point B; it’s about everything in between. It’s about leaving behind Gurgaon—a city that’s trying too hard to prove it’s a city—and stepping into a capsule that takes you through the heart of Delhi. From the moment you swipe your card and enter the station, the journey begins to weave itself into your life. There’s something about the hum of the escalators, the disembodied announcements, and the rush of people that makes you feel like a part of something larger, even if it’s just a collective struggle to grab a seat. The ride always starts predictably. The HUDA City Centre platform is a study in monotony: office-goers glued to their phones, students juggling oversized bags, and the faint air of Gurgaon’s dust following everyone. As the train moves forward, it cuts through different areas, each with its own distinct vibe. The further north you go, the more of Delhi you see. Hauz Khas is where the city begins to flex its intellectual muscle. It’s the unofficial capital of South Delhi, where the vibe shifts dramatically. You’ll see college students in faded kKurtas and tote bags, artists heading to a rehearsal you’ll never hear about, and maybe a professor on their way to a lecture that will spark ideas you’ll read in tomorrow’s op-ed. The air feels greener here—less dust, more promise. It’s almost enough to make you forget you’re in a city of 30 million. Then, of course, there’s Rajiv Chowk, the city’s chaotic core, where everything collides. If the Yellow Line is Delhi’s artery, this is its heart—clogged, messy, and perpetually beating. Every kind of Delhiite converges here: the corporate worker racing against time, the street vendor counting their coins, and the confused tourist wondering which platform to take. You don’t stop here unless you have to; Rajiv Chowk is for switching lines, not for lingering. But in those brief moments on the platform, you can feel the city’s pulse, erratic and alive. And then there’s Chandni Chowk, a stop that needs no introduction. If you’ve ever gotten off here, you know the jolt of stepping into a world that seems frozen in time. It’s a paradox: a place that’s moving at a million miles an hour but also stuck in the sepia-toned pages of history. The narrow streets, the smell of spices and street food, the chaos—it’s all overwhelming, but in the best possible way. It’s the kind of stop that makes you wonder how Delhi contains multitudes without collapsing under the weight of its contradictions.
Somewhere between these stations, you realize the absurdity of it all. I’m sitting here, writing an entire piece about the Yellow Line—a metro line—and yet, it feels like the most natural thing to do. The Yellow Line isn’t just a series of stations; it’s a map of life in transit. It’s the thread that connects places, yes, but also moments, memories, and people.
The beauty of the Yellow Line lies in its ordinariness. It’s not about the journey itself but the stories you collect along the way. It’s about the middle-aged man who falls asleep and starts snoring against the window. It’s about the group of college friends cracking jokes loud enough to make half the compartment roll their eyes. It’s about the woman balancing three shopping bags and a toddler, managing both like a boss. It’s about the fleeting connections—the eye contact, the shared smile, the polite shuffle to make space.
For someone like me, shuttling between Gurgaon’s corporate monotony and Ashoka’s academic bubble, the Yellow Line is a strange kind of anchor. It’s the pause button between two worlds, a place where time feels suspended, even if only for an hour. It’s where I’ve scribbled notes for essays, rehearsed interview answers, and stared blankly out of the window during existential crises. It’s where I’ve seen Delhi in all its raw, unfiltered glory—its beauty, its chaos, and its relentless rhythm.
Is it stupid to romanticize a metro line? Probably. But the Yellow Line isn’t just a metro line. It’s the city in motion, a living cross-section of its people, dreams, and contradictions. It’s the bridge between who you are when you step on at HUDA and who you become by the time you step off—whether it’s at Hauz Khas, Kashmere Gate, or wherever life is taking you next.(Always an advocate for the Yellow Line, no matter what Blue Line loyalists say.)