We rolled out amid cheers and confetti, the lead car blasting “Badtameez Dil” from the speakers, setting the tone for the ride. The conversation flowed effortlessly, like old times amplified by the wedding buzz. “Remember that time in class 10 when we bunked school for the Ganpati festival and got caught by your dad, Himashu?” Pawan chuckled, glancing in the rearview mirror as he navigated Pune’s pothole-riddled roads. Himashu burst out laughing, slapping his knee. “Oh man, Vijay Uncle was furious! But he let us off with just extra chores at the printing press. Good times.” Mummy joined in, her laughter light and melodic. “You boys were always up to mischief. Akshat, you were the ringleader, dragging these two into your schemes. But look at you now—second-year engineers, on your way to big things.” We teased her back, sharing stories of her school-teaching days, how she’d catch us sneaking snacks during tuition sessions at home.
The music cranked up— a mix of classic hits like “Kajra Re” and upbeat tracks from recent films—turning the car into a mini dance party. Pawan drummed on the steering wheel, Himashu attempted ridiculous dance moves from his seat, and even Mummy swayed gently, clapping along. “This reminds me of our family trips to Lonavala,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “The hills, the rain, and all that singing in the car.” We were lost in the fun, the baraat stretching behind us like a festive snake, horns honking in rhythm. But Pune’s traffic had other plans. As we hit the Mumbai-Pune Expressway outskirts, the car jolted suddenly—a sharp hiss followed by a wobble. “What the—?” Pawan muttered, pulling over to the shoulder amid a chorus of groans.
Tyre puncture. Of course. In the middle of nowhere, with the wedding clock ticking. We tumbled out, the heat slamming into us like a wall. Pawan popped the trunk, rummaging for the spare, while Himashu and I helped jack up the car. Mummy stood by, fanning herself with her pallu, offering moral support. “Boys, be careful—don’t get your sherwanis dirty!” It took us a sweaty half-hour, tools clanging and sweat dripping, but we got it fixed, high-fiving like we’d conquered Everest. Back on the road, we were running late— the baraat’s energy now tinged with urgency. “Manoj’s going to kill us if we delay the pheras,” Himashu fretted, checking his phone for updates from the venue.
By the time we neared Pimpri, the sun was dipping low, casting long shadows over the highway. Thirst and fatigue set in, so we pulled into a roadside dhaba—a classic Punjabi spot with string cots, truckers lounging, and the aroma of fresh parathas wafting from the open kitchen. “Quick stop for water and a stretch,” Pawan announced, parking under a flickering neon sign that read “Highway King Dhaba.” We ordered cold drinks and chai, the break a welcome respite. Mummy, ever the practical one, headed to the wash area—a simple outdoor tap near the back, shaded by a peepal tree—to freshen up. “I’ll just wash my face; this heat is unbearable,” she called over her shoulder.