The music cranked up louder—a vibrant mix of classic hits like the seductive “Kajra Re” with its rhythmic allure, alongside upbeat tracks from recent Bollywood films—transforming the car into a lively mini dance party on wheels. Pawan drummed energetically on the steering wheel, Ravi attempted ridiculous, exaggerated dance moves from his seat that had us all in stitches, and even Mummy swayed gently in rhythm beside me, clapping along with elegant poise. “This reminds me so much of our family trips to Lonavala,” she reminisced, her eyes sparkling with nostalgia as she glanced my way. “The winding hills, the refreshing rain showers, and all that singing and laughter in the car together.” We were utterly lost in the fun, the entire baraat stretching out behind us like a festive, colorful snake winding through the city, horns honking in playful rhythm. But Pune’s unpredictable traffic and roads had other plans in store. As we merged onto the Mumbai-Pune Expressway outskirts, the car suddenly jolted with a sharp hiss followed by a noticeable wobble. “What the—? Tyre puncture!” Pawan muttered, expertly pulling over to the shoulder amid a chorus of collective groans from inside.
Of course, it happened in the middle of nowhere, with the wedding timeline ticking urgently. We tumbled out into the blazing heat that slammed into us like an invisible wall. Pawan quickly popped the trunk, rummaging for the spare tyre and tools, while Ravi and I helped position the jack and loosen the lug nuts, our sherwanis soon bearing the marks of honest labor. Mummy stood gracefully nearby, fanning herself delicately with the edge of her pallu, offering words of encouragement and moral support. “Boys, be careful now—don’t ruin your handsome sherwanis with all that grease and dust!” It took us a sweaty, determined half-hour of clanging tools, strained muscles, and shared jokes to get it fixed, but we succeeded with triumphant high-fives, feeling like we’d conquered a small Everest together. Back on the road, we were now running noticeably late, the baraat’s energy shifting from pure joy to a more urgent hustle. “Manoj’s going to kill me if we delay the pheras even a bit,” Ravi fretted, repeatedly checking his phone for frantic updates from the venue ahead.
By the time we finally neared Pimpri, the sun was dipping lower on the horizon, casting long, dramatic shadows over the highway and bathing everything in a warm, golden hue. Thirst and fatigue had begun to creep in after the exertion, so we made a quick decision to pull into a classic roadside dhaba—a quintessential Punjabi-style spot complete with charpoys under shady trees, truckers lounging with relaxed camaraderie, and the mouthwatering aroma of fresh parathas, dal makhani, and tandoori delights wafting from the open kitchen. “Quick stop for cold drinks, chai, and a much-needed stretch,” Pawan announced, parking the car under a flickering neon sign that proudly proclaimed “Highway King Dhaba.” We ordered refreshing lassis, bottled waters, and steaming chai, the break providing a welcome respite from the journey’s chaos. Mummy, ever the practical and composed one, excused herself briefly and headed toward the wash area—a simple outdoor tap setup near the back, shaded by a large, ancient peepal tree—to freshen up. “I’ll just splash some water on my face; this heat is truly unbearable after all that excitement,” she called over her shoulder with a light wave.
