A Metro Ride, a Meltdown, and a Little Bit of Magic in Delhi

Sundays are supposed to be easy: brunch plans, soft playlists, maybe some shameless scrolling through Zara’s “New In.” But this one? This one felt like I’d accidentally wandered into the climax scene of my own coming-of-age movie.

It started, as these things always do, with me saying yes to plans I had no budget for. My bank balance was already whispering “please stop” louder than a DHH drop, and we were just 14 days into the month. But when someone close to you is about to disappear for two whole weeks, you say yes. No second thoughts.

He picked me up. We vibed. We laughed. We split a plate of fries like it was a memory, not a snack. And then just like that, he was headed for the airport.

Now, I'm standing outside the place we met, watching his Uber vanish into a blur of honking cars and taillights, realizing I still haven’t figured out how the hell I’m getting home.

Scene: Metro. 5:10 PM. Blue Line.

I slipped into the metro like muscle memory: AirPods in, purse slung across one shoulder, the tired weight of the day in my knees. The train exhaled as the doors shut, and suddenly I wasn’t just a girl heading home. I was a character in something.

The flickering lights. The buzz of a hundred lives. The smell of metal, sweat, and cheap perfume. The silence between stations.

And somewhere in that hum, between Khan Market and Yamuna Bank, something shifted.

Lesson 1: Inspiration Doesn’t Knock, It Ambushes You

There I was, scrolling on my phone, one hand white-knuckling the railing like I was holding on to more than balance, when it hit me.

Words. Thoughts. Phrases. Out of nowhere. Like my brain had been on airplane mode for months, and suddenly someone flipped it back to “connected.”

I didn’t have my laptop. Not even a scrappy notebook. But if I did? This blog would’ve been born right there, between the auntie fighting with her husband on speaker and the kid humming some god forsaken song that I still haven't managed to get out of my head.

• Inspiration doesn’t live in your Pinterest board or that untouched journal gathering dust. It lives out here: in noise, in chaos, in awkward eye contact with strangers. Sometimes you just need to go outside and touch some overstimulating, overpopulated grass.

Lesson 2: Growth Isn’t a Timeline, It’s a Tension

Around Mandi House, shuffle betrayed me with a sad song, and so did my brain.

Suddenly, I was 16 again. Scribbling on Wattpad at 1 AM. Getting shortlisted in a writing contest. Meeting Durjoy Dutta and shoving a torn notebook page at him for an autograph because I didn’t even carry a diary. 

I remember thinking: This is it. My origin story.

Now? I’m a full-time content writer. I get paid to write. On paper, I “made it.”

But did I really?

Because somewhere between the 9-5 struggle, that starry-eyed version of me got buried under Google Docs. Not dead, but definitely dormant.

• Growth isn’t just your LinkedIn headline. It’s whether the fire inside still crackles, even if it’s just a spark. Mine? Flickering. But alive.

Lesson 3: Everyone Is Carrying Something, and It’s Heavy

Near Preet Vihar, I spotted two girls in Aakash coaching sweatshirts. Backpacks dragging their shoulders down, eyes tired but burning. They looked like they’d been solving physics numericals in their heads between stations. Their dreams felt loud: NEET, JEE, rank lists, maybe even parents waiting at home with quiet pressure and warm food.

Next to them, a man in his 40s, suit a little crumpled, bag stuffed, face unreadable. He didn’t look at anyone, but you could feel the exhaustion hanging off him like an over-worn coat.

That’s when it hit me: every single person in this coach is carrying something invisible.

A dream. A deadline. A heartbreak. A hope.

And in a city where we brush past each other like ghosts, it’s easy to forget everyone’s quietly hustling too.

• You’re not the only one doubting yourself. But doubt doesn’t mean you stop. Doubt means you’re standing on the edge of something worth doing.

Conclusion?

I got off the metro somewhere close to home, but far from who I was when I boarded it.

No, I haven’t written my book yet. No, I don’t have a five-year plan with neat little checkboxes. And yes, sometimes my job feels like a treadmill I didn’t even sign up for.

But this isn’t where my story ends.

Maybe I don’t need the full blueprint. Maybe I just need to write: one blog, one scene, one shaky little paragraph at a time.

Because what’s not okay anymore is staying stuck.