Two weeks before the World GP Championship began, Sukhman made a quiet decision. He wanted to return to his roots — to feel the earth under his feet and the simplicity of home before the engines roared again. The decision wasn't dramatic. He simply told Nandini during a training cooldown session, "I need this. Just a bit of stillness."
Nandini, ever perceptive, gave him a small smile. "Go on. Your body may have healed, but sometimes it's the soul that needs the final patch-up."
And so, Sukhman, accompanied by Harinder, boarded separate flights — Sukhman back to Gujarat, Harinder to Haryana. No media. No cameras. Just the rustle of old memories and the calm of open skies.
---
Gujarat: Sukhman's Home
Baljeet Kaur nearly dropped the steel pot when she saw him standing at the threshold.
"Sukhman! Oh Rabba, tu aa gaya!"
"Sukhman! Oh God, you've come back!"
She rushed forward to hug him, hands streaked with flour, apron smelling of turmeric and ghee. Her son had returned.
From the fields, Harjeet Singh looked up, shielding his eyes against the sun. He didn't run. He didn't shout. But as Sukhman crossed the ripe wheat rows, the older man walked up to him and placed a firm hand on his shoulder.
"Bas, aa gaya tu. Kaam karne layak ho gaya hai ya nahi?"
"So, you're back. Are you even fit to work now or not?"
Sukhman grinned.
"Dekh lejiye, thresher ki speed se kaam karunga."
"Wait and watch, I'll work faster than a thresher."
Harjeet grunted, smirking despite himself.
And so began two weeks of grounding. Not of restrictions, but of reconnection.
Sukhman helped Baljeet in the kitchen — chopping vegetables, kneading dough, rolling out rotis so uneven they looked like maps of unknown countries.
"Beta, yeh roti hai ya Australia ka naksha?" Baljeet teased.
"Son, is this a roti or a map of Australia?"
He cleaned the aangan, watered the tulsi plant, and fetched water from the pump like he had years ago.
With Harjeet, he went to the fields. The sun was brutal, but the work was honest. The soil welcomed him like a prodigal son. He drove the old tractor, pulled weeds, and even milked the buffalo once — with hilarious consequences.
"Yeh buffalo mujhe mafia jaise ghoor rahi thi, Amma."
"This buffalo stared at me like she's part of the mafia, Mom."
In the evenings, under the neem tree, the family drank chai while the radio hummed nostalgic tunes. Local boys — his childhood kite companions — showed up. At first shy, then comfortable, they stayed until moonrise, sharing stories and pakoras.
Manpreet had returned to college, but she'd left a note tucked under his pillow:
"Take care of Amma and Papa. And take care of yourself too, you idiot."
---
Meanwhile: Harinder in Haryana
Harinder made his way to his ancestral village, a few kilometers from Sukhman's. He dropped his bag and shouted:
"Dadaji!"
The old warrior, Sardar Karamveer Singh, was seated on a charpai, his cane beside him. He looked up and chuckled.
"Harinder? Mera pehlwan pota aa gaya!"
"Harinder? My wrestler grandson has returned!"
Later that night, after a meal of makki di roti and sarson da saag, they sat outside. The crickets chirped. The stars watched silently.
"Tu jeet gaya na gold medal?"
"You won the gold medal, right?"
"Haan Dadaji. Haryana championship jeet gaya."
"Yes, Grandpa. I won the Haryana championship."
"Accha kiya. Par yaad rakh, asli jeet wo hoti hai jo dil jeet le."
"Good. But remember, the real victory is winning hearts."
"Aapne toh pura desh jeeta tha Dadaji."
"You won the whole country, Grandpa."
Karamveer chuckled.
"Ladai mein jeetna kuch aur hota hai. Sun, tujhe ek kahani sunata hoon…"
"Winning in war is different. Listen, let me tell you a story..."
And so he began, his voice slow but strong.
"It was 1965. Indo-Pak war. We were deployed near the Rajasthan border. The sun felt like it could peel your skin off, but we held our ground. One night, they attacked our camp. We were five. They were over ten. But we didn't flinch. That night I learned — when your life is on the line, all that matters is trust. Trust in yourself and your comrades."
Harinder listened with reverence.
"Tujhme wohi hai," his grandfather said, placing a hand on his shoulder.
"You have that same fire."
"Apne dost ka saath diya tune. Ab jab wo fir se race karega, tu uske saath ho. Lekin yaad rakh, tu sirf uska bodyguard nahi, uska himmat bhi hai."
"You stood by your friend. Now that he races again, be by his side. But remember, you're not just his bodyguard. You're his courage too."
Harinder blinked quickly, brushing at his eyes.
"Himmat toh aap ho, Dadaji. Main toh bas aapka ansh hoon."
"You're the real courage, Grandpa. I'm just a part of you."
---
Back to Rhythm
The remaining days passed in a comforting blur.
Sukhman helped with harvest festival prep — carrying grain sacks, helping decorate bullock carts, and even judging a rangoli contest with suspicious bias toward his cousin.
"Ye rangoli toh mujhe lagta hai rocket hai, phool nahi."
"This rangoli looks like a rocket, not a flower."
Harinder, meanwhile, joined the village kids in a friendly kabaddi match — accidentally sending one boy flying during a tag.
"Oye sorry! Mujhe laga opponent wrestler hai."
"Oops, sorry! I thought you were an opponent wrestler!"
That night, under a sky so full of stars it looked stitched with light, the two friends sat on the terrace. Chai in hand. Silence shared.
"Sukhman," Harinder said, "ready ho?"
"Sukhman, are you ready?"
Sukhman took a slow sip.
"Zindagi ka circuit samajh gaya hoon. Ab World GP kya cheez hai."
"I've understood life's track. The World GP? That's just another turn."
Harinder grinned.
"Chak de phatte."
"Let's crush it."
They clinked their steel cups like racing trophies.