I’ve often wondered why we complain so easily about the places we live in—especially the very places that make our lives possible.
It’s a strange habit, when you think about it.
We use the roads, the transport systems, the infrastructure, the opportunities a city provides—and yet, at the slightest inconvenience, we turn against it. We curse it. We call it names. As if it owes us comfort without patience.
This thought came back to me strongly one day while waiting at a Delhi Metro station.
The Metro had been delayed due to technical issues, and eventually, the services were cancelled. The station was jam-packed. People were restless. Voices rose. Some began shouting slogans—angry, dismissive ones—directed at the very system they depended on every single day.
Standing there, I couldn’t help but think: Have we forgotten what came before this?
Have You Forgotten the Blue Line Bus Era?
I haven’t.
Those were difficult times.
Overcrowded buses.
Ill-mannered conductors.
Helpers chewing gutkha.
Impatient, reckless drivers.
At times, you had to shout just to get the bus to stop. Even if you left home on time, there was no guarantee you’d reach college, office, or your institute when you were supposed to.
And traveling in a blue line bus during peak summer—especially in May—was a test of endurance. The heat, the sweat, the smell, the sheer helplessness. Even now, the memory makes me uneasy.
Then came the Delhi Metro.
At first, people were skeptical. But slowly, trust grew. The Metro was air-conditioned, orderly, and predictable. No sudden stops. No unnecessary chaos. Most importantly, people began to calculate their lives again.
You could finally leave home knowing when you’d reach your destination. That certainty brought something invaluable: peace of mind.
And for years now, the Delhi Metro has served the city with quiet professionalism.
Why This Matters to Me Personally
In many ways, it’s because of the Delhi Metro that you’re reading this today.
I started this blog in 2011, after my PD classes at Subharti University were over. At the time, I was commuting long distances daily. I had to reach Noida City Center Metro station by 7 a.m. sharp.
Without the Metro, I could never have committed to that schedule. Without that commute, many things that followed in my life would simply not have been possible.
Which brings me to something deeper.
What a City Quietly Gives You
Delhi is a city of migrants. I am one of them.
Born in Western Uttar Pradesh, schooled initially in Haridwar, I came to Delhi in 1986, when I was in the fourth standard. Leaving behind old friends and familiar surroundings wasn’t easy. For a long time, I resented the city for disrupting what felt like the golden period of my childhood.
But with time, that resentment faded.
Because what did I really have when I arrived here?
Very little.
Everything that came later—schooling, college, skills, exposure, work—came from a city that accepted a stranger and gave him space to grow. A roof over my head. Food on the table. Opportunities I didn’t even know existed.
I am a blogger and a voice artist today. Had I stayed back in my old town, I might never have discovered this path. Not because of lack of talent—but because talent needs a platform.
I often get calls from people in smaller towns asking how to become voice-over artists. Many of them are capable. But capability alone is not enough. Geography matters. Infrastructure matters. Cities matter.
Gratitude, Not Blindness
This doesn’t mean cities are perfect.
There is corruption. Traffic is horrible. Roads are congested. Crimes exist. These are real problems, and acknowledging them is part of being responsible.
But there is a difference between criticism and contempt.
If the roof of your house leaks during the monsoon, you fix it. You don’t stand outside shouting, “Down with my house.”
So why do we treat our cities differently?
For me, belonging begins with respect. A nation is not an abstract idea—it is made up of streets, neighborhoods, towns, and cities. Every inch of land you step on is part of it.
And that raises a simple, uncomfortable question:
If a person cannot respect the very city that gives him dignity and livelihood, can he truly claim respect for something larger and more abstract?
I don’t have a slogan as an answer.
Just a quiet thought—worth sitting with.