Back in India (Meanwhile)
The air in Amritsar was unusually thick that morning. It wasn't just the monsoon humidity that clung to skin like a second layer— it was something heavier, something harder to name. Tension, maybe. Guilt. Fear. In Yudhvir Singh's case, it was disappointment— a deep, bitter kind that gnawed at his insides like rust.
He sat alone in the dim corridor outside the ICU of Fortis Hospital, the tiled floor cold against his worn-out sneakers. His back was hunched, elbows on knees, fingers clasped tightly together— not in prayer, but as a way to hold himself from unraveling. His eyes, dull and bloodshot from sleepless nights, were locked on the flickering TV screen mounted high in the corner of the waiting area.
The volume was barely audible over the buzz of medical equipment and hushed conversations, but the images said enough.
There he was again.
Sukhman Singh.
Smiling. Waving to the crowd. The camera panned across fans holding the tricolor, faces painted, mouths open in cheer. Sukhman in slow-motion, climbing out of his car after finishing second at the Brisbane Grand Prix. And then came the replay of his breathtaking overtake on lap 27, the crowd's reaction swelling like a tidal wave.
The anchor's voice was barely a whisper from the screen, but Yudhvir didn't need to hear the words to know what she was saying.
"India's rising motorsport hero."
His jaw clenched, a muscle in his cheek twitching. He looked away, shaking his head, then stared down at the cracked tiles beneath his feet. A part of him hated the jealousy— but it burned nonetheless.
Eight months ago, it had been him.
Yudhvir Shikre.
The first Indian driver to qualify for the World GP Championship. The headlines had come in a flood. Trailblazer. Game-changer. Pride of Haryana. For weeks, his face had been plastered across newspapers, sports channels, Instagram reels. Students had started reaching out to him for advice. Brands were beginning to show interest. His phone wouldn't stop ringing. Even his estranged cousins had called to say how proud they were.
He remembered walking into his father's tailoring shop in Gurugram, just days before his flight to Europe for the pre-season tests. The old man— stoic, skeptical, practical— had held his hand just a moment longer than usual. That gesture had said more than any congratulatory word.
But everything changed after the crash.
A brake failure. A split-second decision. The car had skidded off the track and collided with the barriers. He survived—but his season didn't.
A fractured ribcage, torn ligaments, and weeks in recovery. When the season resumed, his team moved on. They had to. He wasn't benched—he was replaced.
And the media?
They vanished as quickly as they had arrived.
Now, he sat in a hospital corridor, waiting for updates on his father's condition after a reckless driver had T-boned his scooter three nights ago. Doctors said the old man was stable, but required two back-to-back surgeries. The cost? Over 1.5 lakh rupees. Yudhvir's bank account had 16,200.
Even though he still received a modest monthly payout from his former team—60,000 INR as part of a residual contract—it barely covered rent, let alone a medical emergency.
He scrolled through his phone, a small, bitter fire glowing in his chest.
Instagram— Sukhman's latest post had over 400,000 likes. A snapshot of him and his car, drenched in podium confetti.
Twitter— #SukhmanSingh and #BrisbaneGP were trending in India.
YouTube— "How Sukhman Almost Won It All!" "Singh Is King?" "The Rising Legend: A Breakdown of Sukhman's Best Races."
Not one video mentioned his name. Not one photo, not one tag. No one remembered the man who had made it possible for an Indian flag to be seen in the World GP paddock to begin with.
They think Sukhman is the pioneer. But it was him. It had always been him.
Yudhvir felt his throat tighten. The feeling wasn't just envy— it was grief. Grief for the career that might never resurrect. For the identity slipping through his fingers. For a country that had moved on before he could even stand again.
A loud beeping from a nearby monitor jolted him slightly. He looked up, then back down, biting the inside of his cheek. His father's life hung in the balance and no sponsors, no teammates, no federation had reached out.
India might be cheering for racing now, but it wasn't cheering for him.
And maybe it never had.
UNKNOWN NUMBER
He hesitated, then picked up.
"Hello?"
"Is this Yudhvir Singh?" the voice on the other end was smooth, too professional.
"Yes. Who is this?"
A slight pause. "Let's say I'm someone who admires talent. And yours, Mr. Singh, is extraordinary."
Yudhvir frowned. "What do you want?"
"I'll be direct. We know your financial situation. Your father is in operation. Two surgeries are required, one lakh rupees short, yes?"
The blood drained from Yudhvir's face. "Who are you?"
"Someone who can help," the voice said calmly. "Two lakh rupees. Instantly. Transferred to your account."
"What do you want in return?"
"Only a file. A blueprint. The latest engineering layout of the Vaayu GP car."
Yudhvir stood up, looking around, pulse racing. "Are you insane? That's illegal. That's betrayal."
"Loyalty," the man on the phone said softly, "is a beautiful thing. But it doesn't pay hospital bills. Or bring your father out of the ICU. India doesn't even remember you, does it?"
Yudhvir didn't answer. The man continued.
"You gave ten years to this sport. Where was your country when you needed them? Sponsors ignored you. You raced with old tires while others had full pit crews. You got no backing, yet you carried their flag. And what did you get?"
His throat tightened. "Don't twist this."
"I'm not twisting anything. I'm just asking— what is the price of your loyalty?"
Yudhvir's hands trembled.
"Two lakh. That's it. No one will know. You send us the design file, and you walk away. You never speak of this again. And your father lives. Isn't that a small price?"
The call disconnected.
Yudhvir stared at his phone. Sweat gathered on his brow, heart pounding.
He knew he should report it. Immediately. But his fingers hovered above the contact list. Then dropped.
His legs felt heavy as he walked back into the ICU hallway.
His father lay still, machines blinking rhythmically. Nurses walked by, paying him no attention. To them, he was just another helpless son.
He took the hospital bill from his backpack and unfolded it. His account balance flashed in his mind: 60,000 INR salary. Rent. Daily costs. He had nothing left. No savings. And no backup.
No sponsors.
No headlines.
No country behind him.
Only a father who needed him to save his life.
He slumped into the chair again, covering his face.
His silence had never felt louder.