The air balloon drifted gently over the Isle of Man, its flame hissing softly against the wind as it hovered above one of the most dangerous race circuits in the world. A dining table was elegantly arranged in the basket—linen, silverware, wine glasses trembling slightly with each gust of wind. Below them, the Isle of Man TT race roared to life—motorcycles flashing through mountain passes, forests, and small towns at breakneck speeds, pushing 300 kilometers an hour on public roads. the most dangerous race in the world. A sixty-kilometer open-road circuit that had claimed over 265 lives in 102 races.
Gautam Joshi, a broad-shouldered man in his early sixties with silvered hair and a calm gaze, leaned slightly over the edge of the balloon basket. He took a deep breath, absorbing the energy of the spectacle below.
"Incredible, isn't it?" he said.
Sitting across from him, thirty-five-year-old Varun Arora nodded. The younger man, sharply dressed, with restless eyes and a jawline still etched with ambition, smiled.
"Yes," Varun replied. "Absolutely."
Gautam's gaze didn't leave the scene below. "Sometimes I wonder why we love sports so much. That even after thousands of years, we can't grow out of it. From the days of ancient Rome to today's NFL, football, cricket—it still works like magic."
He paused before continuing. "I think that is because in this bleep of an existence and in this unfair world, a field in play might be the only place that's truly fair and equal. It remains the only place where the poor can still win against the rich—and the rich can't do anything about it."
Varun chuckled softly, sipping from his glass. "Maybe. But at the end of the day, it's just a form of entertainment. The longest-running reality shows. And like every other business, it's run by people with money. Just look at the Olympics—who wins the most gold? The nations with the most wealth."
Gautam turned toward him. "That's exactly why people love it. It's war without the blood. A matter of pride. You can buy better gear, buy coaches, even referees—but you can't buy being a legend. Because once the field is in play then that one skill, that one goal, that one lap or one shot is going to write your name in the history, and no one can do anything about it."
Varun leaned back, arching an eyebrow. "And what good is that going to do, if you are not going to make money out of it, Nothing in the real-world changes because of that."
Gautam smiled, intrigued. "Then what are you doing at a race like this?"
"I enjoy the thrill," Varun said. "The racing, the risk… and the betting. They might not make money, but I can make money of them. That's the difference."
Gautam chuckled. "And what do you do, if I may ask?"
"I'm a businessman," Varun replied. "Owner of the Arora Group."
"And this philosophy of yours—'money solves everything'—that's what built your empire?"
"I didn't build it," Varun said, with a self-aware grin. "My father did. I just grew it tenfold."
"And your father thought like you do?"
"Not at all. He was all work hard, do the right thing, trust the process kind of a guy. It worked in his time. But now? You need to think fast, move faster, and bend the world to your will. You understand that, right?"
"I understand," Gautam said, studying the young man carefully. "And I respectfully disagree. You can scale an existing business with that mindset, yes. But creating something of value from scratch will always... always take time, efforts and honesty. There is no way around it."
Varun raised his glass, his eyes glinting. "Then let's test your theory."
"Oh?" Gautam leaned forward, interested.
"A friendly wager," Varun said. "Let's make a bet that tests our ideas. Something original. Something money can't just buy."
Gautam grinned. "I like it already. Go on."
Varun scanned the racetrack below. "No Indian has ever qualified for the Isle of Man TT, right?"
"Correct."
"Then that's it. We both pick Indian riders—not professionals. Train them. Race them. The fastest ones win."
Gautam laughed. "You want us to be ancient Roman emperors, choosing our champions to fight on our behalf?"
"Well, I'm not planning on racing myself," Varun smirked. "Unless you want to see who dies first."
The two men laughed. The wind picked up slightly, rocking the balloon, but neither seemed to notice.
"Alright," Gautam said. "Let's make it interesting. Three categories. One rider each. They have to be Indian. They can't be professionals. And the race is in one year."
"One year," Varun agreed. "Sounds impossible enough."
They shook hands across the table.
"It's a deal," said Gautam Joshi.
Back on the ground, Gautam was already speaking to his manager Samar.
"That's the bet," he said, placing his overcoat on a chair in his office. "Start preparing. I want a detailed plan and budget in two days."
Samar frowned. "You both realize this race can kill people, right? It's not a joke."
"I know," Gautam said. "And we're not going to force anyone. Whoever we choose will know the risks. And we'll make sure they're compensated well, trained right, and kept as safe as possible."
Samar nodded. "Understood. I'll get started immediately."
Gautam looked out the window as motorcycles roared far in the distance. A smile played at his lips.
One year. Three riders. An impossible task.
Perfect.