Interlagos woke up humming.
Friday mornings in Brazil were unlike anywhere else on the calendar. The locals had already claimed their fences, flags waving as early as sunrise. Some had camped out overnight just for a glimpse of their heroes. Samba music drifted down the streets and through the paddock gates. There was color. There was life. And above all, there was anticipation.
Sukhman sat in the driver's briefing room, bouncing his leg in rhythm with the music playing faintly from someone's phone. He'd always liked Fridays. Low stakes, high learning. He could experiment, push, adapt—without the burden of points hanging over him.
But he isn't just racing the track today.
The paddock buzzed after yesterday's unofficial one-on-one duel with Daan Vermer. Word had spread quickly, and clips had already hit social media. Two generations of drivers, going toe to toe. Equal machinery. No politics.
And Sukhman had won. Just barely.
His team principal, Raghav Satyanarayan, isn't interested in the praise. "Today's what matters," he said, placing a hand on Sukhman's shoulder before FP1. "No sentimental races. Let's talk real laps."
"Yes, sir."
---
Free Practice 1 – 11:30 AM
The sun was sharp by the time FP1 began. Heat shimmered off the track. Rubber from junior series sessions had laid down a thin black line on the ideal racing path. In this session 16 drivers took part. Callum Graves, Ryan Brooks, Dafyyd Morgan and Aiko Fujimura.
Sukhman was one of the first out. His car hummed with life, slicing through Sector 1 with confidence. He had studied every onboard lap from the past three years—he knew which curbs could be mounted and which ones bit back.
In the garage, data engineers nodded at one another.
"He's quite quicker than our sim runs projected."
"Sector 2 is still a touch too cautious," noted his race engineer.
"Yeah, but he's learning. Watch his entry into Ferradura next lap. He's adjusting live."
By the time FP1 ended, Sukhman was fourth on the timing sheets. Only Ayanda, Omar, and Luciana Fernandez — the home hero — were faster. And even then, not by much.
When he stepped from the car, sweat clinging to his undersuit, the team greeted him with satisfied nods. Not exuberant celebration. Just respect.
"You know where you are?" Ulrich asked.
"Fourth."
"No. You're inside their heads. Keep it up."
---
Free Practice 2 – 3:00 PM
Clouds rolled in by FP2. The temperature dropped slightly, bringing better engine performance but trickier grip conditions. Several drivers had lock-ups into Turn 1. The wind had shifted.
But Sukhman adapted.
He ran two long stints, one on the mediums, one on the softs. His race pace on the mediums drew eyes from rival garages. Lap after lap, consistent deltas. No sudden falloff. His tire management is now becoming a strength.
On his push lap with softs, he slotted into P2—just 0.078 behind Ayanda.
"What'd I tell you?" his engineer grinned in the cooldown room. "You're dancing now."
"I want P1."
"Tomorrow."
Back in the garage, Daan stopped by. "Nice pace," he said. "You didn't let up."
"You didn't either yesterday."
Daan smiled faintly. "Let's give them a show this weekend. All of us."
"You planning to make them eat their words?"
"I plan to make them choke on them."
They exchanged a nod of mutual respect.
---
That night, Sukhman lay in his hotel bed. The window overlooked the lit-up São Paulo skyline. Engine hums echoed in his ears like aftershocks. But beneath all that, there was a different kind of restlessness.
His phone vibrated.
Harinder Calling...
He froze for a moment. It had been a month.
He picked up.
"Hal*lo?"
A pause. Then:
"Oye tu ghadda! Finally picked up, huh?" (You idiot!)
Sukhman smiled, already choking up.
"I've been busy... you know, just... racing stuff."
"Haan haan, jaanta hoon... duniya jeet raha hai banda." (Yeah yeah, I know… the guy's busy conquering the world.)
There was silence for a beat. Then laughter.
"Kya haal hai be?" (How are you, man?)
Sukhman exhaled. "Thak gaya hoon. Magar zinda hoon." (I'm tired. But I'm alive.)
"Aur kaise race jeeta Daan ke saath, haan? Style maar raha hai tu toh." (And how did you win that race with Daan, huh? You're showing off now!)
Sukhman chuckled. "Bas thoda sa... rookie luck." (Just a bit of rookie luck.)
"Luck mera chaata, tu toh sheer hai. Dil se sheer." (Luck my foot—you're a lion. A lion at heart.)
"Tu kaisa hai?" (How are you?)
"Main theek hoon yaar. Bas tere call ka intezaar tha. Roz news dekh ke tujhe yaad karta tha." (I'm okay, man. Just waiting for your call. Watching the news daily, thinking of you.)
Sukhman's throat tightened. "Miss kiya maine bhi." (I missed you too.)
There was silence again. Comfortable. Old friend silence.
"Tu Brazil mein hai. Soch... tu Brazil mein hai!" (You're in Brazil. Imagine that! You're in Brazil!)
"Soch raha hoon. Roz." (I'm imagining it. Every day.)
"Kal pole maarna. Tera time aa gaya." (Take pole tomorrow. Your time has come.)
"Haan. Ab nahi toh kab." (Yeah. If not now, then when.)
"Aur jab jeet jaaye na... toh camera mein mere liye hath hilaa dena." (And when you win... wave to the camera for me.)
"Promise."
"Chal, good night mere champ." (Alright, good night, my champ.)
"Good night, bhai." (Good night, brother.)
Sukhman put the phone down slowly. Then he looked at the ceiling, exhaled deeply, and let the silence fill the room.
Tomorrow is Qualifying.
And he isn't alone.