Fifth. Words: Ferrari, Vijayakanth, Salma Hayek
It was back to college. His month long feast of good food and afternoon sleep was over. He would sprawl over the dull coloured sofa and watch television. Hot bajjis making their way onto his plate while he would watch F1 re-runs, rooting for Ferrari. During particularly boring laps, he would follow his mother into the kitchen and she would indulgingly ask him for the umpteenth time, “What is this? Why do you want to see madmen race in those little cars?”. He would grin and ask for more bajjis. Such pleasant tiffin routines. His father would grab the remote control and insist on watching some Vijayakanth movie. His mother would want to watch the serials on Sun TV. They would have these well-oiled dialogues ridiculing each other’s tastes. His eyes fill with tears. Maybe he should have studied harder and gotten into the college near home.
Back home his mother weeps and sobs. Unconsolable. She has her son’s little notebook in hand. She walks into the Pujai room and looks into the painted eyes of Murugan. Between sobs, she opens the last page of the notebook and shows it to the Gods. “I’ve had him for ten months in my womb, and this is what that ungrateful child does to me? He’s going to marry a Muslim. See, it says he loves Salma Hayek. Did I not teach him to love only Brahmin girls?”.