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The Hindu
18-06-2025
- The Hindu
Author Prajwal Parajuly's newly minted fondness for train journeys
Back in the day when I was a Sri City newbie, I'd book a cab to and from Chennai. After trying out a few drivers, I settled on Senthil. Senthil is everything I want in a Man Friday: he picks up the phone well past midnight, likes the chutneys at Murugan Idli almost as much as I do and pretends he has his road rage under control when I am in the car. But he also has issues. He has the weakest eyesight I have encountered in a human: when I call him to fact-check this column, he says he wears between -10 and -11 glasses. I understand he can do nothing about that but often wonder how he'd drive me if his glasses flew off mid-journey. He also is that rare Indian driver who cannot function without AC. I think air-conditioning is evil, and excessive air-conditioning an American barbarity that's becoming ubiquitous in India. That I must go to every hotel, mall and theatre with an extra jacket even when it is 43 degrees outside should tell you how dire things have become. Senthil and I play a game where I ask him to switch off the AC, which he does … for about 15 minutes. He switches it back on thinking I won't notice. I call attention to the cold. Off. On. Off. On. The cycle is endless. It's exasperating. Senthil charges me ₹2,700 per trip. The first two times, I tipped him an additional 300. He now thinks the fare is 3,000 rupees. Neither of us has spoken about it. Now that I am a Sri City veteran, I have eschewed Senthil's Tundra-like Toyota Etios for the more tropical — and pocket-friendly —Chennai Express. Sure, I still call Senthil when I need to go to the airport or have more than one suitcase. But on other trips, the train serves my purpose just fine. You will not find an air-conditioned train that stops at Tada — the closest railhead from Sri City — en route to Chennai. What's not idyllic about leaf-plate food, cross ventilation and the forced camaraderie of a commuter train? You will accuse me of romanticising train travel, and you'd have a point. I grew up in Sikkim, in the Himalayan foothills, the one place in India unpenetrated by railway lines. I should be forgiven for getting stoked at the sound of a train whistle in the same way you'd excuse a Chennaite for squealing at the sight of a mountain. Frequent two-hour rail voyages in my adulthood are just the catharsis needed to compensate for the daily absence of trains in my youth. The general fare from Tada to Chennai is 10 rupees, the first-class fare a whopping 18 times that. The women's buggy shares its borders with the first-class compartment but isn't as much of a free-for-all as our cabin. I have ridden the train about two dozen times but am yet to see a ticket collector. As we weave through lyrically named towns — Anuppambattu, Nandiabakkam, Kathivakkam — tittering school kids join us. The clamour heightens. On one trip, an office goer — blessed with an Iphone 13, a Lenovo tablet and a jargon-heavy tongue — gets on at Attipattu. I owe him my knowledge of the difference between a station and a junction. He's unhappy, though. He declares that hardly anyone in the cabin has first-class tickets. I ask him to live and let live. Outside, the industrial air in Ennore is rancid. 'That's why this country will never make progress,' he says. 'It's not like you don't have a seat,' I reply. The stench of Ennore gives way to the scent of sea at Wimco Nagar. On another trip, my colleague Joya and I are treated to repeated decibel-shattering flatulence from a man who joins us in shameless mirth when he realises we noticed. That alone snags him a cameo in a future Parajuly novel. A rainy day, I eye the lunch of a young man travelling in a three-generational group. Each family member has a lunchbox. 'It smells like the gods descended on your tiffin carrier,' I tell my new friend. I need to be slapped. He confers with his family, who decide that one of them will forego lunch. Feeling equal parts proud and ashamed, I accept the unopened box. I dunk a dosa in the sambar and declare it one of the best meals of my life. I reciprocate the family's generosity by offering them dark chocolate. They pronounce it inedible. I am nervous that Senthil suspects me of cheating on him. He often calls me when I am smack-dab in the middle of Chennai. 'When are you coming next, sir?' he asks. I splutter platitudes. One day I'll muster the courage to tell him about the delights of temperate train travel. Prajwal Parajuly is the author of The Gurkha's Daughter and Land Where I Flee. He loves idli, loathes naan, and is indifferent to coffee. He teaches Creative Writing at Krea University and oscillates between New York City and Sri City.
The Hindu
28-05-2025
- The Hindu
Author Prajwal Parajuly on why chutney, not idli, is his go-to dish
To survive the many splendours of Sri City, where I live part of the year, one must get away every so often. Weekending in Chennai is the easiest option. For several of my colleagues, Chennai means concerts. For others, it means stocking up on miso and pesto. For yet others, it means brunch at Pumpkin Tales and cocktails at MadCo. What would Chennai mean to me? I had enjoyed the whimsy of Tulika Books and the gastronomic wonder that was Avartana. I had jumped rope at the Madras Club and had twice eaten the cloud pudding at Kappa Chakka Kandhari. I had also had a bit of a spiritual awakening watching a rooster sashay down a ramp at the Kapaleeshwarar temple. All delightful experiences, no doubt, but mere footnotes to the one thing that would bring me back to Chennai again and again: the humble idli chutney. The array of chutneys at Murugan Idli, to be specific. I didn't know what a preoccupation these chutneys would become when I first made my way to the GN Road outlet at T Nagar. An innocuous idli was plonked on my banana leaf, on top which the waiter ladled out a generous portion of sambhar. There they were in white, green, and two varieties of orange — a quartet of chutneys so flavourful that the idli seemed like an afterthought. There was just the right hint of piquancy, and what was that I tasted? It was sesame, its lavish use genius. I went to Murugan again for dinner and returned for lunch the next day. It is now almost always my first stop when I get into Chennai. What is it about Murugan? It is unassuming. But that can be said for any number of Chennai eateries. The service is indifferent on a good day and infuriating on most days. No one will go to any of the outlets for the ambience either. If I am not going for the vibes or the service, why would I submit myself to a meal — sometimes two meals — a day? It's because I am a chutney addict through and through. Nothing else matters — not the crisp rava dosa nor the sambhar. Neither the fluffy idli nor the inoffensive uttapam. I eat the chutneys — dollops and dollops of them — like they are the main course and the idli, the accompaniment. How I love making snaky rivulets on the banana leaf with my fingers, mixing and matching one, two, three or four chutneys with a smidgen of idli, and guiding the concoction to my mouth as it drips down my elbow, yellowing my shirt, and filling my gluttonous heart with unbridled joy. I'd soon realise that few topics polarise Chennai more than Murugan Idli. For each foodie who unequivocally declares the restaurant as her favourite, there's the one who froths at his mouth recounting its circumspect hygiene. 'Went … a month ago, and it was ghastly,' pronounces my editor, not one to mince words. There are those for whom the lack of consistency jars. 'I'll only go to the one across from the Armenian church,' my colleague Kaveri once declared. My sister points out that in a city brimming with excellent food, Murugan is middling, but she also forks and knifes her dosa, so her opinion doesn't count. Eating Circles any day, some say. There are then the Sangeetha militants. No self-respecting Sangeetha loyalist will out himself as a Murugan fan. Sure, not every Murugan is created equal. I'll set foot in the Besant Nagar location only for takeaway chutneys and nothing else. Not one dosa I have eaten there has come out warm. Plus, in a neighborhood with Native Tiffins and Vishranti — the idli at the former is so well fermented that it renders the chutney useless — a lack-lustre Murugan is just wrath-inducing. I've given the outlet three (three!) chances, and I fully sympathise with those who are unconvinced of Murugan's greatness because it's the one location that can't get anything right. That doesn't mean I will not judge these Murugan haters for dismissing my beloved chain altogether. I shall judge them almost as severely as I do those food writers who describe the idli as a rice cake, the dosa as a crepe and — the biggest horror — the chutney as a kind of pickle. Friends joke that I am responsible for quadrupling Murugan's profits. But they are wrong. Idli is cheap food. I feel awful that the fourth, fifth and sixth free chutney helpings likely cost more than the 23 rupees per idli that I am charged. To circumvent this guilt, I invariably order a rava masala onion dosa, eating which requires … another few ladles of chutney. I return to Sri City with more chutney than blood in my veins. Prajwal Parajuly is the author of The Gurkha's Daughter and Land Where I Flee. He loves idli, loathes naan, and is indifferent to coffee. He teaches Creative Writing at Krea University and oscillates between New York City and Sri City.
