Goodbye, Swift: When Delhi's Law Took Away My First Love on Wheels
It’s been years since I first turned the key on my first-generation Swift, but even today, I can remember exactly how that felt. The hum of the engine, the lightness of the steering, the quiet promise that this little car would take me anywhere. It wasn’t just a hatchback—it was something I wanted to hug.
When I first saw the Swift, it looked different from anything else on Indian roads back then. Short, curvy, almost playful. The headlights had this mischievous look, the stance was confident, and the drive—oh, it was a joy. It felt solid, nimble, and eager to please. Not many cars manage to look good and drive well, but this one did both without even trying.
It became part of my everyday rhythm. The early morning drives when Delhi’s roads were still empty. The evening sprints through traffic, windows rolled down, music turned up just enough to drown the chaos outside. I didn’t think about fuel economy or maintenance costs. I just drove. And it never disappointed me.
I didn’t even drive it that much—55,000 to 60,000 kilometres in all. But those kilometres were all mine. The car aged gracefully. The clutch was light, the gearbox still smooth, the interiors intact. There were no rattles, no warning lights, nothing that made me feel like it was “old.” In that time I also had Toyota Corolla and Honda City but when it was my turn to drive, I would always pick my Swift.
Every time I washed it, the paint still caught the light in that same red it wore the day I brought it home. It didn’t feel tired or past its time. If anything, I thought I’d get another five, maybe ten years out of it easily.
Then came the letter of the law. Fifteen years, the rule said. In Delhi, that meant no more petrol cars beyond that limit. It didn’t matter if your car was running perfectly or if you maintained it like a newborn—it had to go. Just like that, a blanket rule that treated every car the same.
Try explaining to anyone that your car isn’t “polluting” just because it turned fifteen. Try explaining that it’s still mechanically sound, cleaner than half the smoke-belching diesel trucks on the road. The system doesn’t care. The rule is the rule.
And so, I stood in that awful yard, surrounded by cranes, hammers, and heaps of metal that once were memories for someone else. My Swift stood there quietly, the same way it always did—obedient, beautiful, not asking for anything. Watching it get scrapped felt wrong. It wasn’t just losing a car; it was losing something that had shared fifteen years of my life.
Now, of course, the government says you can apply for an NOC. You can sell your car in another state where the rules are less harsh. Someone else can drive it, love it, keep it alive. And I think, really? Now?
It’s like they realised the heartbreak they caused but too late for those of us who already did what we were told. The logic may have been environmental, but the execution was merciless. I followed the law, but the law had no space for nostalgia.
I know it’s just steel and rubber, plastic and paint. But it carried me through some of my best years—through traffic jams, road trips, monsoon chaos, and quiet midnights when the city felt like it belonged only to me.
That’s the thing about the first car you truly love—it’s not about horsepower or resale value. It’s about moments. You grow older, your priorities change, but when that car goes, it feels like a part of your story ends with it.
The Swift didn’t die a natural death. It was taken away because a law said it must. And maybe that’s what stings the most—not the loss of the machine, but the idea that something so personal can be so casually erased.
So yes, I let it go. But every time I see a first-gen Swift on the road—rare now, fading into memory—I smile a little. Some loves are hard to replace. And some cars, no matter how long it’s been, will always feel like home.