How pets, art, and strangers shaped Author Prajwal Parajuly’s Chennai home life

As living arrangements went, this one promised to be far from normal. 

I decided that getting a permanent place in Chennai only made sense. Shuttling between the unparalleled luxury of my Sri City apartment and a different hotel or club room every weekend got old. Renting a little slice of Chennai would mean, more than anything else, circumventing the need to frequently pack and unpack. I cast my net far and fortified myself for a week of flitting from one underwhelming apartment to another. Fortunately, a colleague alerted me to a housing situation she assumed would be uniquely up my alley. Her friend ran Pagir, a community arts organisation, and was looking to let out the flat that housed it. Yes, I wouldn’t have flatmates. No, the space wouldn’t be wholly mine. Yes, yes, no one would use my bathroom but I. No, no, the space — this continued to confound me — wouldn’t be wholly mine. It was a bizarre living arrangement. I couldn’t wait. 

My potential apartment was part of a comfortable two-storied bungalow that I hoped had been built in the 1970s but was barely 30 years old. It boasted a rooftop terrace. The landlady lived downstairs. I’d rent the upstairs. The living room opened up to a balcony the size of my New York apartment. The balcony wall sported a hand-painted illustration of a wise tree. Posters showing off positive reinforcements crowded the living-room walls. It was like I had stepped into a Deepak Chopra book. One of the three bedrooms was massive. Two of the bedrooms had en-suites, and there were windows in the pantry. Everywhere you looked, there were windows. Everywhere you looked, there was light.

The flat was on one of the four Seaward Roads. This particular Seaward Road had several independent homes. The apartment buildings were neither old nor new. The tree-lined street was quaint in a way that harked back to a Doordarshan cliché from the ‘80s. The beach was a five-minute walk away. If you went the opposite direction, you’d encounter mom-and-pop shops, fruit stalls and cute dosa joints. 

The space sang to me. But it wasn’t so straightforward, the landlady cautioned. I’d have to deal with people in the apartment during the day — this was a place for conversations and questions. I’d already read a pamphlet about Pagir helping discover people’s “many different selves through art, play, music, film, movement, silence and talking together.” I was perfectly okay with all that as long as my bedroom and bathroom were out of bounds. I moved into my weekend flat in Chennai one rainy day.

It is, by far, the wisest thing I have done in the city. 

First, there are the non-humans. My landlady has two dogs and a cat, all rescues. Noah, who is part golden retriever and part indie, is mellow, the wise guy of the trio. Kalai, the indie-mix, is still nervous around people. Jackson, the English tabby cat, looks majestic but is less imperious than many cats. Kalai curls up next to me when I nap. Noah sleeps on the floor close to us. Jackson, the cat, doesn’t care if I live or die. Kalai is afraid of my suitcase and often runs away with my flip-flops. I have learned to hide my bag and place my shoes on a pedestal. 

It isn’t just the animals keeping me company, though. There are also noises of thought-provoking provenance at various hours.  One morning, I wake up to the sound of dancing feet. It is decibel-defying melodies another day. I am still confused about the singing conches from a few weekends ago. Sometimes, there’s a knock at my door when I am mid-siesta. A theatrical group inquires if I’d like to partake of their vadas and coffee. 

Friends and family often wonder why I put up with this. Why not just get a place that’s entirely mine? they ask. They have a point. I’ve been known to be uncomfortable having people I know, let alone strangers, over. But there’s something wonderful about an organisation that unironically calls itself a community arts space. I like this little sliver of earnestness in a jaded world. The absurdity of sharing space with people who aren’t flatmates appeals to the whacko in me. I like stepping into the apartment not knowing what might transpire. Will Carnatic music waft from underneath the door? Will I walk into a mural-painting workshop? Or a talk on shore ecosystem? I don’t have the patience to watch five-year-olds learning to finger-paint, but I like that something that gives them so much joy happens in my living quarters. That alone makes the accommodation arrangement worth it. The animals are just an added bonus. 

Prajwal Parajuly is a novelist. Karma and Lola, his new book, is forthcoming in 2026. He teaches Creative Writing at Krea University and oscillates between New York City and Sri City.