If you've always wanted to know what it feels like to be in the innards of an anaconda without actually being swallowed by it, then all you need to do is take a ride in the Metro. Sometimes, it's not enough to use a single analogy to describe the Metro Experience. So here's the second one. Taking the Metro is like taking a bottle of laxative: it gets the job done in no time, but by the time it's over you'll be sweating and panting as though you were tied to Usain Bolt when he was being chased by a pack of hungry hounds. It's a possibility that my less than genial attitude towards this very useful mode of transportation has got to do with unique experiences that i've encountered but i'll let you be the judge of that.
To start with, i have a serious problem with the 'automatic abdomen smashers' that are there at the station right before you flash your token to gain access to the Metro. I know this because i've actually timed it but that demonic contraption gives you approximately three nanoseconds to make your way past it before it slides shut with a deadly click. Every time i go through that thing i run the risk of losing my power to carry on my family name.
The 'automatic crotch crushers', shockingly, are just the beginning. But like in an Indiana Jones movie, there are a million bizarre obstacles in the traveller's way before one can reach the Metro; the biggest hurdle being the 'molestation mob'. These incredibly violent throngs are found all throughout the Metro disguised as unsuspecting individuals; calm, harmless and completely Gandhian. Until, they hear the Metro screech to a halt at which point these innocuous Metro-goers transform into grasping, groping, grabbing gargoyles (Yes, i alliterate when i'm angry). When you're caught in the middle of the 'molestation mob' whose single-minded mission is to thrust themselves into the train at any cost, there's nothing you can do to stop them. It's like one of those zombie movies where even if you're pumping bullets into their bodies, flinging grenades at them, smacking them on their heads with baseball bats they keep clutching at you tirelessly. This phenomenon can go on for long periods of time until you find yourself involuntarily pushed inside the Metro feeling guilty, ashamed, angry and, on some lonely days, even a little bit excited.
And if you think that's when the infernal agony stops, then you couldn't be more wrong. From the time you find yourself inside the train to the time you reach your stop, you're on an endless mission to find a place to sit. There are so many seats reserved for physically challenged people, women and old people that it's next to impossible for a non-disabled young male to find himself a seat inside the Metro. That's why when there was a recent incident in the news about a man getting beaten up for entering the women's section inside the Metro, there was a part of me that somewhat empathised with him.
Having presented my side of the story, it's also true that there are people who love taking the Metro. I have friends who swear by the Metro and tell me that it's a pleasurable joy ride that liberates their senses. Now, i'm not sure if i should inform the narcotics department in order to investigate the root cause of such bizarre statements or reconsider my own perspective about taking the Metro. After ruminating for a while, i have concluded that there are three kinds of Metro-goers. Metrophiles: people who love taking the Metro. Metrosexuals: people who take the Metro just to rub against other passengers. I, on the other hand, fall into the third category; i am a Metrophobe.