Illustration
| Photo Credit: Saai
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.
Published – July 30, 2025 03:47 pm IST
