New Delhi, Jan. 1: When Arvind Kejriwal's "odd-even" formula was announced, I was sure there were harrowing days ahead.

The 22km drive each way from the Ghaziabad highrise complex I live in to the office in New Delhi's Parliament Street normally takes an hour. That was now going to take much longer.

Most days, the driver would bring up the car from the basement and I would sit as expansively as one can in a hatchback and read the newspapers on the way to office. That idyll goes out the window on the first of the car-less days in Delhi.

The "odd-even" formula does not apply in Ghaziabad, Noida, Gurgaon, Faridabad or Rohtak - the satellite towns that make up the National Capital Region. But Delhi is their raison d'etre. While thousands choose to live in these cities because of the boom in BPOs, KPOs and IT offices, there are tens of thousands more who commute daily to and through Delhi where the new rule was implemented on Friday.

On any day, the six-lane road in front of my housing complex that leads to both a business locality in Noida - larger than Salt Lake's Sector V - and connects to Delhi, is chock-a-block between 8.30 and 10 in the mornings. Blaring horns pierce the ears even on the top floor of the highrise. The belching smoke stings the nostrils the moment you open the main door.

This morning it was as if the six-lane road had gone to sleep. Maybe it is a tired morning because of New Year's Eve parties in most of the housing societies around. It was quiet. When I stepped out to check from the balcony, the three lanes that have bumper-to-bumper traffic had cars swishing past like you were seeing them through a windshield.

For the past 10 days, I had made faint-hearted efforts to join a car-pool, hoping that neighbours would be enthusiastic about it. It has not worked out because (a) most of them work in the Noida business locality; (b) many of them drive to Gurgaon; (c) our timings did not match; and (d) they were abusive of the Delhi government that they said was anti-growth.

But everyone agreed that pollution was indeed a grave danger. From our elevated matchbox flats, we wake up every morning to a dull greyness that smothers the ground below us and puts the world in a purdah.

The nearest Metro station is about 6km away. I would take the Metro for a few days a month, driver or no driver, just to, ahem, keep in touch. But today it is forced.

The ride through Indirapuram and Vasundhara to the Vaishali Metro station is bumpy in an auto-rickshaw. The driver is Firoz Khan, 33. He lives in a Dilshad Garden colony that is in Delhi but plies his trade in Ghaziabad and Noida.

Firoz used to drive tourist taxis on the Golden Triangle (Delhi-Agra-Jaipur) circuit or to the hills. He earned more but spent more. Then he got married. He wanted to stay at home longer. So he has taken to driving the three-wheeler.

" Hum toh yehin karte rahte hain - sawari baasat jaate hain aur Metro station jaate hain (I keep doing this - commuters want to go to Sector 62 or to the Metro station)," he says.

Is there a greater demand for the Metro? Not really, he says, because it is New Year's Day and a long weekend. " Monday ko dekha jayega (We'll see on Monday)."

" Aur waise bhi hum Dilliwalon kanoon todne me mahir hain (In any case, we Delhiwallas are experts at breaking the law). I have heard that people are getting two number plates made - one odd and one even. Pakda gaya toh chor; nahin pakda gaya toh badshah (If you get caught you are a thief, and if you don't you're a king)."

At the Vaishali Metro station, the crowd is larger than I saw on Thursday afternoon. But on Thursday, it was a little later in the day, around noon, because traffic had been held up for the Prime Minister's visit for a road project.

Today, at 11.30 in the morning, Vaishali has more commuters. Many of them are youths - boys and girls planning a New Year's outing in CP, Connaught Place.

A train leaves just as the escalator deposits me on the platform. Vaishali is the eastern terminal of the blue line, the longest of the Metro routes, at the other end of which is Dwarka Sector 21 (52km). It is usually more crowded than the others. It passes through Rajiv Chowk (Connaught Place). In three minutes, there is another train. It usually takes longer.

I am the last in the queue to get in and lose out on a seat. But there is enough room to stand. "I thought it would be more crowded," I tell a commuter.

"Yeh odd-even ke chakkar mein (Because of the odd-even formula)?" he asks. Yes. " Ab toh theek hain, Monday ko dekha jayega (It's OK for now, but let's see on Monday)."

On the bench in front of us a young man in his twenties, with his mobile phone plugged in to his ears, leaves a corner seat for an elderly man in a suit. On the other side, A Bengali couple, out with their chubby young son, argue over the wisdom of leaving the wife's mother at home when they are going to have fun. The husband says it would have been too strenuous for her. The wife says they should have hired a car.

Just before the train trundles into Yamuna Banks, on the east bank of the river, I peer through the windows. The traffic rolling down the flyover and veering left towards ITO bridge is swishing past. That's the route I would have taken if I were driving. It doesn't really get bumper-to-bumper here but it does get congested in the peak hours.

I think of the unopened New Year newspaper supplements at home that I have not managed to read. I wouldn't be able to, either, in the Metro. There just isn't enough space to hold a newspaper open.

But most commuters in the Metro are young and are into their mobile phones. Delhi's Metro is a train of black heads -- the sighting of grey hair is rare. It is a journey into India's demographic dividend.

Then it strikes me: the answer lies in apps. Those icons on your android phone you click and open. I download one of a newspaper this afternoon: an undesigned consequence of the odd-even formula.

Two stations later, it is Mandi House, from where to change to the Violet Line for the short ride to the Central Secretariat. Central Secretariat, about 700 yards from the office, is more crowded than Vaishali but not terribly so.

During the short walk to the PTI Building, I count 33 cars that drive past the kerb. I'm counting only private four-wheelers and watching their number plates. Only two end in even numbers. I can't make out if the drivers are men or women.

My journey has taken an hour and 18 minutes.