The Race on NH 205A
The highway was alive with the hum of engines, the glow of headlights cutting through the midnight mist. NH 205A, a winding stretch of road in the Punjab countryside, had become the battleground for another illegal street race. Five cars lined up at the makeshift starting line, their engines growling like hungry beasts, waiting to be unleashed.
The racers exchanged nods, gripping their steering wheels tightly. The bets had been placed—big money was on the line. On the sidelines, a small crowd of street racing enthusiasts, gamblers, and mechanics whispered among themselves. The tension was thick in the cold night air.
A girl stood ahead of the cars, her scarf fluttering in the wind. She raised her hand. Three… Two… One…
She dropped her arm. The race was on.
Tires screeched as the cars lunged forward, the raw power of their engines roaring through the valley. The road ahead was a twisting nightmare of sharp turns and steep inclines, but these racers weren't amateurs. They knew the terrain, the curves, the exact moment to shift gears.
Sukhman Singh sat at a distance, inside his car—a simple-looking Maruti 800, rusted around the edges, an old beast compared to the modified speed machines ahead. While others had spent lakhs upgrading their engines, Sukhman had spent his time, knowledge, and passion making his car faster where it mattered most.
As the pack jostled for the lead, Sukhman finally put his foot down.
Vroooom!
The old car surged forward with a sudden burst of speed. The other racers glanced in their mirrors, their expressions turning from confidence to shock.
"What the hell?" one of them muttered.
Sukhman's Maruti weaved through the gaps, his hands steady, eyes sharp. He knew every inch of this highway; he had driven it more times than he could count. Approaching a hairpin turn, the others slowed, hesitating for a split second.
That was all Sukhman needed.
With a perfectly executed drift, his car hugged the curve like it was glued to the asphalt. The back tires skidded, but he controlled the slide effortlessly, overtaking three cars in a single move.
Now, only one was left.
The leader, a heavily modified Honda Civic, tried blocking his way, swerving aggressively. But Sukhman was patient. He waited until the last possible second before pulling a dangerous inside maneuver on the final turn.
The Civic's driver tried to react, but it was too late.
Sukhman's Maruti shot ahead—crossing the finish line first.
The crowd erupted.
---
Sukhman stepped out of his car, his turban slightly loose, sweat glistening on his forehead. He barely looked at the other racers as he walked toward the betting table.
A thick stack of rolled-up cash was waiting for him.
The bookie handed it over with a reluctant sigh. "Damn, kid… you've got a death wish."
Sukhman smirked. "Not a death wish—just skill."
Before he could pocket the money, a voice pierced through the celebrations.
"POLICE! RAID!"
Panic swept through the crowd. Some ran toward their cars, others bolted into the fields, but there was no escape. Flashing red and blue lights flooded the highway, sirens blaring as police vehicles blocked the exits.
Cops stormed the scene, grabbing racers and spectators alike. Sukhman tried to make a run for it, but a firm hand grabbed his arm, yanking him back.
"Not so fast, Singh," growled an officer.
Sukhman didn't resist. He had been in this situation before.
The Morning After – Father's Wrath
The police station smelled of sweat, damp concrete, and cheap tea. Sukhman sat in the holding cell, arms crossed, back against the wall. Around him, other racers mumbled curses under their breath.
As morning sunlight filtered through the barred windows, the clinking of keys echoed down the hall. A gruff voice followed.
"Let him go."
Sukhman looked up. His father, Harjeet Singh, stood before the officer's desk.
Harjeet wasn't a rich man, but he was respected. A farmer and a community leader, his words carried weight. After some stern negotiation, the officer reluctantly unlocked the cell.
Sukhman stepped out, rubbing his wrists. His father didn't say a word until they were outside the station.
Then, the storm hit.
"How many times, Sukhman? How many times do I have to pull you out of trouble?"
Sukhman exhaled, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Papaji, I won the race." He pulls out the pile of cash.
"Won? Won what? A night in jail? An arrest record?" Harjeet's voice was sharp. "Do you even think about your mother? Your sister? What kind of example are you setting for her?"
Sukhman's jaw clenched. "And what kind of life are we living, Papaji? You want Manpreet to go to college, right? Where's that money coming from?"
Harjeet didn't answer.
Sukhman took a deep breath. "I can't watch you struggle forever. This racing… this is my way of helping. You think I want to bet illegally? No. But what other option do we have?"
His father studied him for a long moment. The anger softened, replaced by something else—understanding, mixed with sorrow.
At last, Harjeet sighed. "You are my son, Sukhman. I don't agree with what you do… but I know you're doing it for us." He placed a firm hand on Sukhman's shoulder. "Just don't lose yourself in this world. Promise me that."
Sukhman nodded slowly.
But deep down, he wasn't sure if he could keep that promise.
---
A Passion That Won't Die
By afternoon, Sukhman was back at work. Torn engines, grease-stained hands, and the smell of petrol—this was his second home.
The garage was packed, music playing from an old radio in the corner. His boss yelled orders, his coworkers cursed at stubborn bolts, and Sukhman… he worked in silence.
But his heart wasn't in fixing cars today. It was in driving them.
A TV mounted on the wall played a live World GP Championship qualification race, live broadcast from Nottingham Circuit. Sukhman's eyes lit up as he watched the sleek cars zip through the track, engines screaming at insane speeds.
At the front of the pack was Callum Graves, the three-time champion. The man is a living legend, dominating every turn, outmaneuvering opponents with effortless precision.
Sukhman watched, mesmerized, his hands moving involuntarily as if he were shifting gears himself.
When Callum executed a perfect overtake, Sukhman cheered loudly, drawing glances from his coworkers.
"You act like you're the one racing," one of them chuckled.
Sukhman smirked. "One day, I will be."
They laughed, shaking their heads. "In your dreams, Singh."
Sukhman didn't argue. He just smiled and went back to work.
Because in his heart, he knew— that what they are saying is right. Life is not like inspirational novel where a character can achieve impossible looking goals.
It's the harsh reality of this life.