Ah, C. Joseph Vijay. That name brings me back—my bhaiti, my youngest son, he once saved two months of his college mess money to buy a Vijay poster for his hostel wall. I remember the price of that poster: thirty-five rupees. Now I read what it costs to keep a lad in a racing seat—lakhs, crores—and I think of my filter coffee, how even a two-rupee rise in mustard oil makes me recalculate the day’s luchi counts. A driver is not so different from a stall: the fuel must be good, but the heart must be steady, else the puff falls flat. May this Vijay fellow serve his people well, and may his mechanics’ luchi be hot.
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