The day Sukhman and Harinder were to return, the entire village gathered near the dusty road that curled like a lazy snake toward the distant highway. The sun peeked over the sugarcane fields, casting long golden shadows, while children darted between legs, chasing each other with kites and plastic bats.
It wasn't an official farewell. No banners, no speeches. But word had spread like wildfire. A boy from their soil was about to take on the world — not with weapons or words, but with wheels.
Baljeet, eyes red from an early morning of cooking and crying, carefully packed a cloth-wrapped bundle of food into Sukhman's duffel. The smell of ghee and fenugreek wafted into the air.
"Plane mein mile na mile, maa ka pyaar toh pet mein hona chahiye," she said, patting his cheek with one hand, slipping the food inside with the other.
("Even if you don't get anything on the plane, at least you should have your mother's love in your stomach.")
Next came Harjeet. His hands—coarse from years of fieldwork—held a worn-out pair of leather gloves, the same he used to wear on the tractor during harvest season.
"Zaroori nahi track pe kaam aaye. Par tere haathon ko mere jaisa mazboot bana denge." ("Maybe they won't help you on the track, but they'll toughen your hands like mine.")
Sukhman took them as if they were made of gold.
"Waise toh mere haath steering wheel ghumate hai, par thresher chalane ka bhi experience ho gaya ab." ("My hands usually handle steering wheels, but now I've got some thresher experience too.")
They laughed. But it was the kind of laughter you share when your heart's too full.
Harinder's farewell was less poetic, more hilarious. His extended family swarmed him like he was a film star. Cousins shoved snacks, dried sweets, and an enormous sack of guavas into his arms, until he looked more like a roadside vendor than a passenger.
One of them handed him an oddly-shaped, neon-colored water gun.
"Bas bhai, ab tere driver banne ka time aa gaya," a cousin teased.
Harinder put on his sunglasses with exaggerated flair, flashing a smirk.
"Driver? Bhai, main toh ab undercover bodyguard hoon. Sukhman ko world se bachana hai." ("Driver? Nah, bro. I'm officially his undercover bodyguard now. Gotta protect him from the world.")
Laughter exploded. Even the village elders chuckled, shaking their heads at the theatrics.
As the bus rumbled down the road to the city airport, a strange silence settled between the two boys. Sukhman leaned back, eyes closed, the soft thudding of the wheels mixing with old memories — the first kart race he ever saw on TV, the toy car he built from scrap, the broken track they'd made near the wheat fields with bricks and hope.
---
Back in the City – One Week Before the Grand Prix
The Vaayu GP garage pulsed with a different energy — like a loaded spring waiting to release.
Technicians darted between car bodies. One worked under the hood of the VR-7, the latest model Sukhman would be driving. Another calibrated the pit timers down to the millisecond. The Vaayu GP logo — an abstract swirl of wind currents — stood bold and proud against the steel walls.
And then, the door creaked open.
In walked Sukhman, skin a shade darker from the village sun, hair tousled, and a duffel bag that smelled like gobar and tulsi and something uniquely home.
For a moment, everything stopped.
Then Rajan, the new crew chief, about whom Sukhman just learned about a month ago, let out a cheer loud enough to shake bolts loose.
"HE'S BACK!"
He rushed forward and hoisted Sukhman into the air like a trophy.
"Abbe kaunsa gaon ka protein powder kha ke aaya hai re tu?" ("What rural protein shake did you drink?")
Sukhman grinned, adjusting the strap of his bag.
"Wahi jo mitti aur mehnat se banta hai." ("The kind made of mud and hard work.")
Just then, Harinder strolled in behind him, miming a security sweep with exaggerated hand gestures, eyes scanning the room.
"Aur koi security check ki zarurat nahi. Apna bodyguard saath hai." ("No need for security checks. The personal bodyguard's here.")
"Tu bodyguard kam, dhol waala zyada lag raha hai," one of the engineers quipped, slapping him on the back. ("You look more like a drummer than a bodyguard.")
The garage erupted in laughter, the tension briefly dissolving into warmth.
But behind every laugh is in a rhythm — the hum of engines, the click of code, the sharpening of focus. Every person in that room was aware of what lay ahead: The Grand Prix — the ultimate test, not just of machine, but of mind, of team, of will.
---
Night Before the Championship
The racetrack gleamed under the floodlights like a river of molten silver. Empty grandstands stood as silent witnesses, soon to be filled with roaring fans and waving flags. The wind danced gently across the asphalt.
Sukhman stood at the starting line, helmet in hand, suit partially unzipped. The cool night air brushed against his face.
Harinder appeared beside him, two bottles of soda in hand.
"No pressure, bro. Just a billion people kinda hoping you don't crash," he said with a lopsided grin.
Sukhman didn't flinch.
"Thanks. You missed your calling as a motivational speaker."
They clinked bottles. The fizz of soda filled the silence.
Harinder's voice lowered.
"Tu ready hai?" ("You ready?")
Sukhman's eyes were locked on the first curve. A perfect curve. A deadly one.
"Har turn mein risk hai… lekin har turn mein mauka bhi." ("Every turn has risk… but every turn also holds opportunity.")
Harinder nodded. "Fir kya, chak de phatte!" ("Then what are we waiting for? Let's tear it up!")
Above them, stars scattered across the sky like distant headlights. Below them, the track throbbed with anticipation.