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The Hindu
2 days ago
- The Hindu
Prajwal Parajuly hates Chennai's airport, cabs and parks. What about the weather?
As accusations go, this is one I am not particularly ashamed of: readers say I am far too positive about Chennai in this column. They point out that, like a gleeful part-time resident who absconds just when the temperatures become unbearable, I choose to focus only on the food, festivals and the finer things. They do have a point. My column has been insufferably upbeat. Chennai, like every city, has its share of issues. Readers have demanded that I talk about them in the same vein as I do the chutneys at Murugan Idli. To embrace Chennai living further, I have eschewed the Madras Club for a weekend rental at one of the four Seaward Roads. My flat is part of a charming two-storied house on a tree-lined street. Some days, Pagir, a community art space that's housed in the building, hosts rehearsals in the living room, and I wake up to the sounds of thumping feet and singing conches. My place is a short jaunt to the beach, which I seldom take advantage of. Valmiki Nagar is a cute neighbourhood —mom-and-pop shops still thrive, the idli places are inviting, and the four Seaward Roads are somewhat walkable. Not all houses have been torn down, and the community WhatsApp group is a delight as long as you stay away from arguments about stray dogs. Now that I have a little slice of Chennai to call my own, I have unearthed a set of somewhat-first-world irritations with this city I mostly adore. It begins the minute I get off the plane. My biggest problem with Chennai is its airport. Back when I was a starry-eyed teenager in America, I often wondered if airports in India would ever catch up with those in the West. (How naïve I must have been to even consider western airports a yardstick when the Changis of the world were already being spoken about in breathless tones.) Here we are, though, a mere two decades later, smug about our world-class terminals in Bengaluru and Delhi and Mumbai being better than almost anything in America. The Chennai airport, unfortunately, is where your confidence in Indian airports goes to die. The international wing is dated, ugly and abysmally connected. We do have a direct flight to London, unlike Kolkata, but that does not negate the fact that our airport is far inferior infrastructurally. When Kolkata is outdoing you in terms of development, you know you're not just woefully behind but doing something completely wrong. If that's the international terminal, the domestic would look ancient in 1980s Delhi. In what metro — nay, in what city — is it acceptable to join a mile-long line after you have retrieved your luggage so a wobbly golf cart can haul you to a carpark that's only slightly farther than Sri Lanka? What pinches harder is that the neighbourhood is populated with exemplary airports. Hyderabad has the most efficient airport I have encountered in the country. And the Bengaluru airport is, of course, the Leela Palace meets the Arashiyama Bamboo Forest meets the Eden Project. Ah! Bengaluru. Chennaiites will never admit it, but Bengaluru is a city they view with a mix of envy and schadenfreude. A Chennai-verses-Bengaluru argument always results in platitudes about our having the beach so what if they have the weather. We are safer and less polluted but also less diverse. Sure, Bengaluru outperforms us when it comes to restaurants and pubs, but it is also worse in terms of traffic congestion and pollution. Our rival definitely trumps us in matters of tree cover and pedestrian-friendliness. We are becoming greener than before, but Bengaluru far surpasses us in walkability. I cannot even sugarcoat this: Chennai is the worst city for pedestrians in the country. I am struck by the scarcity of parks and gardens. I am contemplating a membership at the Theosophical Society Library just so I can use its grounds for walks. The good people there reading this: invite me for a talk and grant me membership. I'll read and walk. I'll walk and read. I'll read, walk and talk. When you can't use walking as transportation, you are forced to drive or get driven everywhere. The drawback, though, is that Chennai Ubers are the least professional I have seen in the country. The waiting times are awful (more awful than anywhere else in India), and the cancellations are rampant (more frequent than anywhere else in India). I have come to the sad conclusion that Uber works better in Tier-2 cities than it does here. I should, of course, try the city's bus network, which I have been told is superb. Superb is how I'd describe my rather youthful foray into Rapido. I hope it doesn't go the way of Uber, whose shenanigans here, more than anywhere else, continue to shock me. Only in Chennai have I been confronted with a phenomenon (it has happened about five times, so I am surprised I haven't come up with a name for it yet) where the driver asks that I cancel my Uber as soon as I get in the car. The idea is for me to pay him the same amount the app would charge me and for him to avoid paying the Uber commission. Now, I am all for any deviousness that involves sticking it to a gazillion-dollar conglomerate, but imagine being asked to participate in this song-and-dance when you're already late for your flight? It doesn't help nerves that said flight is from the Chennai airport. So, yes, dear readers, I do have complaints about this city I love: the lacklustre airport, the lack of walkability and Uber's lackadaisical service. Not the weather? you marvel. It's a humid city. So what? Suck it up and eat an ice-cream. 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
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.
