The sun rose reluctantly over the gray skyline of New Delhi. A thin layer of smog hung in the air, almost as if the city itself was ashamed of the drama unfolding in its veins. Inside the walls of the Tihar jail, a small cell on the third block housed a man once called the pride of Indian motorsport.
Yudhvir Singh Shikre sat on the metal bench, staring blankly at the peeling paint of the wall across from him. The fluorescent light overhead flickered every few minutes, casting unstable shadows over his unshaven face. His eyes were swollen with sleeplessness and silent regrets.
Outside the cell, voices buzzed. Journalists. Police. IRC investigators. Lawyers. The world had now remembered who Yudhvir was — but not as the man who broke boundaries. As a traitor.
He clenched his fists as he remembered the moment they took him.
That morning, a simple white sedan had pulled up outside his modest apartment in Pune. A man in a black suit had emerged and shown a badge.
"Yudhvir Singh Shikre, you are under arrest for the illegal transmission of engineering data belonging to Vaayu GP, a violation of the Official Sports Espionage Act under the Indian Penal Code."
His mother had stood frozen behind him. His father, still on oxygen support from the hospital, had been transported home the day before. There had been no time to say goodbye.
The handcuffs hadn't hurt as much as the look in his mother's eyes.
---
Yudhvir stared ahead, unmoving, as if carved from stone. The courtroom was packed— journalists with notepads, lawyers whispering among themselves, and in the farthest row, a few unfamiliar spectators who had once cheered his name. But he didn't look at them. He kept his eyes low or fixed at the judge's bench. The once proud, determined look he had carried on the racing circuit was now buried beneath exhaustion and shame.
The courtroom was stifling. Ceiling fans spun lazily above, doing little to ease the heat, and yet sweat clung to his back not from temperature, but from stress.
As the prosecution continued, images were displayed on a large screen beside the judge's desk: screenshots of WhatsApp messages, dates and times of the data leak, account access logs. It was all precise. The IRC's digital forensics team had done their job well— too well, Yudhvir thought bitterly.
The prosecutor, a sharp-tongued woman named Ms. Raina, turned to the courtroom and announced with gravity, "The accused willingly compromised sensitive engineering data belonging to Vaayu GP, risking not only the competitive standing of their team but also, as we have now seen, the lives of its drivers. All for a sum of two lakh rupees. Ladies and gentlemen, this wasn't a momentary lapse. It was a decision— made, confirmed, and executed."
A hush fell across the room. Even the judge, a stern man with salt-and-pepper hair and rimless glasses, pressed his fingers together and looked at Yudhvir.
His attorney, Mr. Mehta, rose with a sigh. His voice wasn't as forceful, but it was calm and pleading. "Your Honour, the circumstances must be acknowledged. Yudhvir's father was in a critical condition. The hospital had demanded two urgent operations. He had no sponsorship, no savings. The man you see before you was desperate, not deceitful. Desperation can push even the best among us to unthinkable acts."
He turned to the jury. "My client was not living lavishly. His salary was modest. His fame brought him no fortune. He gave ten years of his life to this sport. This country. And when he fell, no one caught him. Not the racing federation. Not any ministry. Not even the sponsors who once smiled for photos beside him."
Yudhvir closed his eyes. It was the truth— and yet it felt hollow. It didn't change the fact that he'd betrayed people who had trusted him. That his actions had nearly ended Sukhman's career. The memory of that explosion, of Sukhman being pulled out unconscious, haunted his nights.
But still, his lawyer continued, "We are not just here to assign blame. We are here to understand what pushed him to this edge. Yudhvir's mistake— yes, a grave mistake— must be weighed against a system that offered him glory without security, expectation without support."
The judge nodded. "Point noted, Mr. Mehta."
The next hour dragged with testimonies. A cybersecurity expert confirmed the leak's origin. A medical professional from Amritsar Hospital spoke briefly about Yudhvir's father's condition at the time— critical, now recovering.
Then came the final opportunity for Yudhvir to speak.
"Mr. Shikre," the judge said, peering down, "if you have any words for the court, you may speak now."
Yudhvir stood up, trembling slightly. He didn't look around the room. Just at the judge.
"I have no excuses, sir," he began, voice rough. "Everything they said is true. I did what they say I did. I leaked the car data. I took the money."
Murmurs rippled through the courtroom. Cameras clicked in rapid bursts.
"My father's life was on the line. That's not a justification—it's just what happened. I was scared. I was angry. I felt abandoned. And when that call came in offering me what I thought was a solution, I took it."
He paused, swallowing.
"I didn't think of what would happen to Sukhman. To Siddharth. To the team. I didn't think it would lead to something like that. And now, every night, I hear that crash in my head. Every night, I remember that I put someone else's dream in danger because I couldn't protect my own."
He looked down again. "I don't expect forgiveness. I only hope… that somehow, someday, I'll be able to make amends."
A heavy silence hung in the air after he sat.
The judge ordered the court to be adjourned until sentencing, which would be delivered in two weeks.
As Yudhvir was led out by officers, a camera caught his face. No arrogance. No bitterness. Just a young man crumbling under the weight of his own decisions.
---
Back in jail, Yudhvir lay on his cot and stared at the ceiling. The news from Tokyo had reached him. Sukhman Singh's car exploded mid-race. The footage was played over and over. Fans, commentators, and even politicians expressed concern and fury.
Yudhvir had wept alone that night.
Not because of guilt alone— but because he realized the depth of his mistake.
He hadn't known his actions would lead to something so horrific. He thought it would be a small leak— some tire calibration data, engine mapping, nothing dangerous.
But when the IRC revealed that someone had tampered with the car's pressure systems based on that leak, something inside him cracked.
He was once an engineer. Then turned into a racer. He had loved the machines, loved the thrill of speed, the science of every turn. And now, he had helped shatter the very soul of it all.
---
Now back in his cell, Yudhvir stared at the metal wall, haunted. Not by the headlines. Not by the hate.
But by the truth.
He had made a choice. And choices had consequences.
And now, as Wolrd GP Championship has finished where Callum Graves has won it for third consecutive time. Ayanda Nkosi, Finn Carter, Lukar Meier have Coe respectively in second, third and fourth position. Sukhman with his earlier points has still managed to maintain top 5. This is a huge boost for Vaayu GP and India in racing community.
For now he would remain behind. Watching.
Wondering if he would ever be more than the man who betrayed his team.
Or if the name Yudhvir Shikre would forever be written in the footnotes of shame.