Parandhur Airport
In the well-balanced article, Landing Before Take Off, on the proposed Parandur Airport, explaining its pros and cons (Madras Musings, Vol. XXXVI, July 18, 2026), Karthik Bhatt states that the previous government’s vision of achieving a one-trillion-dollar economy has revived the proposal for a greenfield airport.
Everyone appears to be enamoured of the phrase “one trillion”. But at what cost? The proposal conveniently overlooks the fact that it would require the acquisition of thousands of acres of fertile agricultural land, the destruction of hundreds of water bodies, including lakes, ponds and other water sources, the felling of hundreds of fully grown trees, and the resulting ecological devastation. It is frightening even to contemplate the environmental damage.
Tamil Nadu is already facing a shortage of paddy production and has had to procure rice from Andhra Pradesh. Aavin’s milk procurement has also declined significantly over the past few years, necessitating the purchase of milk from Karnataka and Andhra Pradesh at enormous cost. Ultimately, it is the common man who bears these additional costs. To add insult to injury, we are now contemplating the further reduction of our agricultural resources. Thousands of acres of farmland and beachside land have already been taken over for the construction of concrete structures.
Whether mankind reaches the Moon, the Sun or the stars, food can only be grown on the earth. In that context, the present government’s decision to abandon the project appears both wise and prudent.
The question then is how to meet the growing demand for air travel. The quicker, less expensive and more practical solution – without the inevitable cost overruns and inordinate delays associated with a new airport – is to expand the existing airport towards the west and south. Expansion to the north is constrained by the hills, while the east is bounded by the sea.
There will, of course, be resistance from affected residents. However, if they are offered more than fair compensation, along with suitable alternative sites for relocation, many may be willing to accept. Such an approach would enable the creation of additional airport capacity more quickly and at a substantially lower cost, while also ensuring easier access for travellers.
It is understood that the present Government is actively considering such an approach.
N P Andavan
audconp@gmail.com
Let’s Disagree Over Coffee
The best conversations with my son never happen when I plan them.
They arrive unexpectedly – over a plate of hot bajjis, or, on this particular evening, over two tumblers in a coffee shop tucked away in Madambakkam.
Mine held strong filter coffee.
His held hot chocolate.
Outside, the evening crowd moved at its familiar Chennai pace. A flower seller sat cross-legged, threading jasmine into perfect white circles. An auto driver was explaining cricket to a passenger with the authority of a national selector. Somewhere in the distance, the temple bells quietly announced that another day was drawing to a close.
I, meanwhile, was smiling at my phone.
“What are you laughing at, Amma?”
“The comments.”
He looked puzzled.
“People actually read the comments?”
“Only when I’m feeling unusually brave.”
He laughed.
“What are they arguing about now?”
I handed him my phone.
Someone had posted a simple question about whether mobile phones should be allowed in schools.
Simple question.
Complicated answers.
Within seconds he was reading aloud.
“Anyone who disagrees has no common sense.”
“’This country is doomed.’”
He looked up.
“That escalated quickly.”
“It usually does.”
He scrolled a little more before giving the phone back.
“They all sound so sure.”
“They do.”
He stirred his hot chocolate for a while before asking,
“Amma… how do they know they’re right?”
Children ask the sort of questions adults spend years avoiding.
His question took me back to school.
Our English teacher loved debates.
Or perhaps she loved confusing us.
Just when we thought we had prepared the perfect argument, she would smile and say,
“Now switch sides.”
The classroom erupted.
“But Miss… we don’t agree with that side!”
“I know,” she’d reply.
“Then why should we argue for it?”
“Because before you disagree with someone, you should first understand them.”
At twelve, I thought that made no sense.
At forty, I wish more people had teachers like her.
“So you had to defend an idea you didn’t even believe?”
“Yes.”
“Did you win?”
“Sometimes.”
“And sometimes?”
“Sometimes I discovered the other side had better arguments than I expected.”
He smiled.
“That must have been annoying.”
“It was.”
“It was also useful.”
Outside, a gentleman at the next table had somehow managed to involve three strangers in a discussion about whether Chennai’s traffic had become worse than Bengaluru’s.
Within five minutes everyone had an opinion.
Within six minutes someone had statistics.
By the seventh minute they were all laughing.
Nobody stormed off.
Nobody announced the end of civilisation.
They simply disagreed.
Then ordered another round of coffee.
Perhaps that is what I miss most today.
Not agreement.
Conversation.
Somewhere between verandah chats, intervals and coffee-house debates, we seem to have forgotten that listening isn’t surrender.
It’s curiosity.
“Amma…”
“Hmm?”
“If someone is wrong, shouldn’t we tell them?”
“Of course.”
“But…”
“You can challenge an idea without attacking the person.”
He thought about that.
“That sounds difficult.”
“It is.”
“It’s much easier to type, ‘You’re an idiot.’”
“Where did you learn that?”
He pointed towards my phone.
“The comments.”
Fair enough.
After a comfortable silence, he asked one final question.
“So… what was your teacher trying to teach you?”
I smiled.
“There’s actually a name for it.”
“What?”
“Playing the devil’s advocate.”
He frowned.
“That’s a strange name.”
“It is.”
“But the idea isn’t strange at all.”
“What is the idea?”
“To spend a little time looking through someone else’s window before deciding your own view is the only one.”
He nodded slowly.
“I like that better.”
“So do I.”
We finished our drinks and stepped back into the familiar bustle of Madambakkam.
The flower seller was packing up for the evening.
The auto driver had found a new passenger.
The argument about traffic had somehow turned into a discussion about where to find the city’s best pongal.
Nobody had changed the world.
Nobody had won.
Yet everyone had gone home having listened to another point of view.
Perhaps that is enough.
As we crossed the road, my son slipped his hand into mine.
“Amma?”
“Yes?”
“The next time you read the comments…”
“I know.”
“Read them.”
“And?”
“Just don’t forget to read between them too.”
For a moment, I wondered whether my old English teacher would have smiled at that.
I think she would have.
– Priyanka Soman