The sun filtered in gently through the white curtains of the rehabilitation center in Ludhiana.
After a month at Tokyo, he had been transferred here, to his home country, home land, Punjab. His father recently bought a flat in Ludhiana to make sure Sukhman can journey from home to center.
Birds chirped somewhere beyond the windowpanes, distant and dreamy, as if trying not to disturb the silence inside. Sukhman Singh lay on a soft blue mat in the center's therapy hall, beads of sweat forming along his forehead. His right shoulder was wrapped in a compression brace, his arm trembling slightly as he pushed a light resistance band forward under the supervision of his physical therapist.
"Slow and steady," the therapist reminded. "We're not racing anyone here. Okay?"
Sukhman offered a weak chuckle, more at the irony than the joke. Racing felt like a lifetime ago.
It had been almost two months since the accident in Tokyo. The season was over. Callum had gone on to win the championship for third consecutive year, though barely. Nandini had promised him updates, but Sukhman had stopped asking after a while. He didn't need to know. Not right now.
His world had shrunk, condensed into a small, quiet bubble — of daily rehab, short walks in the backyard, and dinners with his mother and sister. And oddly enough, he didn't mind.
---
Mornings with Manpreet
Every morning, Manpreet would accompany him to the center. His younger sister had taken a leave of absence from her college to ensure to give his big brother full support during his hard time.
"This is the last lap, Veerji," she often said, tightening the straps on his shoulder brace or helping him tie his shoelaces. "Not on the track. In life. You just need to finish it strong. So stay strong and motivated."
She was his anchor — bright, stubborn, fiercely protective. They joked, they argued, they reminisced about childhood bike races through narrow streets and how he once won a mango ice cream by racing a scooter on a BMX.
On more difficult days, when the pain returned in harsh pulses or he struggled to move his arm even an inch, she sat beside him, reading aloud from their old comic books or playing folk songs from their childhood. Her presence was the constant warmth in his days of chill.
---
Baljeet Kaur's Tears and Turmeric Milk
His mother, Baljeet, had aged in those few weeks he'd been unconscious, or so it felt. Her eyes carried an extra layer of fear now, as though every time he so much as stepped outside, the world might steal him away again.
She cooked relentlessly — dal makhani, paneer sabzi, fresh rotis with ghee — refusing to let anyone else take over the kitchen. "He's lost enough weight," she would argue.
In her quiet moments, Sukhman caught her looking at his shoulder, her hand trembling slightly as she touched the scar peeking out from under the brace. Once, he overheard her praying softly in the other room: "Waheguru, please don't test him anymore. He is still so young. Please Waheguru I beg you."
He never said anything about it. Just sat beside her during television soaps, sipping turmeric milk, their fingers sometimes brushing.
---
The Harjeet Singh Silence
His father, Harjeet, was a different story altogether. A tall, burly man with a weather-beaten face and the quiet strength of a mountain, Harjeet hadn't spoken more than ten sentences to Sukhman since he'd returned.
He didn't hug him. Didn't say, "Glad you're alive."
But Sukhman noticed how the old man cleaned his scooter every morning before dropping off Manpreet at the center with him. How he replaced the broken bulb in Sukhman's room without saying a word. How he left an envelope of cash by the bedside when he found out Sukhman needed a new shoulder brace not covered by insurance.
And one evening, as Sukhman struggled to open the lid of a medicine bottle with his left hand, Harjeet walked over silently, took the bottle, opened it with ease, placed it on the table, and walked away.
That was his way of saying, I'm here.
---
Sleepless Nights and Silent Healing
Despite the love around him, there were nights Sukhman couldn't sleep. The explosion played over in his mind like a reel stuck on repeat. The sound of cracking metal, the feeling of weightlessness, then impact, darkness, and a silence more terrifying than death.
His therapist said recovery isn't just physical healing — it is about the healing of your mentality too. And she was right. There were nights he sat outside under the stars, his right arm propped up in a sling, wondering if he'd ever get behind the wheel again. If he'd ever feel the roar of the engine vibrating through his bones. If he wanted to.
His manager, Nandini, called once a week.
"The team's restructuring," she had said last time. "Siddharth's still shaken. He's taken a sabbatical."
"What about Yudhvir?" he'd asked.
"In custody. Awaiting final sentence. So far evidence clearly shows that he is guilty."
Sukhman had gone quiet. It still hurt — more emotionally than physically. The betrayal had left something like a hole in his chest. Someone he had trusted like an older brother, someone who had cheered him on from the pit, had tried to take him out for money.
Nandini had added gently, "He's broken too, Sukhman. People do terrible things when they think no one's watching."
---
A Letter on the Table
One day, Manpreet brought in a letter and placed it beside his lunch.
"It's from him," she said simply.
Yudhvir's handwriting was unmistakable—angular and hurried. Sukhman stared at the envelope for a full minute before opening it.
> Sukhman,
I don't expect you to forgive me. I probably wouldn't if I were you. But I wanted to write to you before the final sentencing.
_I've watched your races more times than I can count. You reminded me of what it felt like to dream again. That's why it hurts even more to know I was the one who crushed your dream.
If I could go back, I would. Every second of every day. I don't deserve your understanding, but I hope, years from now, you'll remember me not for my end, but for how much I once believed in you.
Keep racing. For both of us.
– Yudhvir
He didn't say a word about it to his family. He folded the letter and placed it inside his bedside drawer.
---
Hope on the Horizon
One late afternoon, while walking with Manpreet in the garden, he asked, "Do you think I'll race again?"
She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she bent down, plucked a yellow marigold from the bush, and tucked it into his hoodie pocket.
"You always knew the track better than any of us," she said. "You know the turns. The danger. The thrill. But only it's you who can decide if it's still your road."
Sukhman looked at the sky — soft, orange-tinted, endless.
Maybe his road had forks ahead. Maybe his shoulder wouldn't be the same. But the spirit… it isn't broken. Just healing.
And healing, he'd come to learn, is a race too. One that needed patience, and family. And sometimes, forgiveness — not just for others, but for himself.