You pay to commute—
the college’s modest fees for pure motion,
costlier than the course once daily fares are tallied,
deadlier than ideas—kept caged, denied the space to breathe.
Three hours a day you are a captive audience
o the beep of the smart card and the breath
of a metropolis in a desperate hurry,
guarding your ribs against the sudden surge
as the train lurches through the underground veins.
The unread narratives in your bags grow heavy,
a leaden weight of radical potentials
that you will never actually explore.
Instead, you are stuck at Mayur Vihar interchange,
researching the subtext of damp shirts in July,
the blistering platforms of Anand Vihar in May,
the sour, familiar smell of August at Laxmi Nagar,
the bone-chilling fog of January at Kashmere Gate.
You have become experts in the tactical elbow,
researchers of the overhead pole.
You pay to commute—
constant motion leaves no room for studies,
your primary contribution a single square foot.
Three hours again.
The same metal prayer, same sermon of horns,
the moon rising over the half-built flyover
that mocks every promise of progress.
You pay to commute—
a drained mind stays safely quiet,
you remain mobile, manageable, mute.
The college buildings are red with heritage,
offering lectures but no hostel.
The shaded lanes and silent compounds nearby
are reserved for those who never chase a train,
for names that come with roofs already waiting.
So you dwell where the construction dust never settles
and the rent is almost reasonable,
measuring your lives in fare zones.
You pay to commute—
it’s cheaper not to give you hostels, they say,
a perfect cycle where you pay to study
and still pay to reach the classroom.
Three hours again.
By the time you reach my classroom
it has become your only place to rest—
dupattas slipping from drooping shoulders,
calloused palms cradling faded cotton bags,
high cheekbones resting heavy on folded arms,
steady hands gripping worn canes with quiet resolve,
slender frames still carrying the chill of distant hills.
No open books, no notes from last night’s struggle,
no spark left after the long journey.
You sit wrapped in silence when questions rise,
shrinking deeper into reticence when pressed
about your supposed indifference.
You pay to commute—not for deep learning, not for thinking, not for becoming,
but for the commute itself.
The benefits are clear and generous:
The system has made you full-time commuters
who still sit—sit still—in my class
before the long journey back.
Viraj Kafle teaches at a college in Delhi. He himself commutes three hours daily because the institution provides no staff quarters, and he watches his students arrive equally exhausted after the same punishing journeys, as the college offers them neither hostels nor accommodation. The poem grew out of this shared reality of higher education in the city.