Ravi’s grip tightened on the car’s steering wheel. His jaws clenched. The furrow between his brows deepened, mirroring his thoughts.

His foot pressed harder against the accelerator, but his mind was elsewhere. He wasn’t driving towards anything. Just away.

Why won’t they move with me?

By the time realization dawned, it was too late. The express highway sprawled endlessly, with no U-turn for another hundred kilometers.

With a sigh, he switched on the radio. The melody of ‘Papa Kehte Hain Bada Naam Karega’ floated through the speakers.

Instantly, childhood memories surged through him. He had sung this song in a school competition at the age of seven. His father’s encouragement had pushed him to practice tirelessly. The judges had loved it, awarding him first place. From that day on, it became the family’s favorite song. 

As he grew up, he had vowed to make his father proud.

The music faded, replaced by an overly cheerful ad—'Star Masalas—the secret to every great meal!’ Ravi winced. He had once fallen for those ads, but the masalas never lived up to their promises.

The advertisement tugged at another memory.

Before he had left for his MBA, his mother had pleaded with him to learn the basics of cooking. At first, he resisted, but soon loved the art. As a PG, he cooked for himself, grateful for the independence it gave him. Watching his friends struggle with bland, ready-made food only deepened his appreciation for his mother’s lessons.

He had landed a job through campus placement, in a big city. He had expected his parents to move with him, but to his surprise, they refused.

"We’re comfortable in this house and city. We don’t want to adjust at this age."

"There won’t be adjustments, I promise."

"You go ahead and see the world." 

"I want to see the world with you." 

"We raised you to be independent. Our home is here."

At the U turn, a dhaba appeared. Its neon letters glowed against the dusky sky. He pulled over. Inside, the air smelled of fresh bread.

He noticed a lone elderly man, humming happily.

He struck up a conversation with him, and inquired, “Why are you alone?”

The old man responded, "My son works in a different city. He wanted me to move, years ago. But my life is here—my laughter club, my friends, my routine. I raised him to fly, but my nest is here."

The heaviness in Ravi’s chest melted away, replaced by a quiet understanding. His parents weren’t rejecting him. They were choosing the life they had built, their own independence. 

He didn’t need to uproot his parents. He needed to meet them where they were, to cherish the home they had created. 

When Ravi maneuvered the car around the express highway, his fingers relaxed around the wheel. His favourite melody spilled softly from his lips. A smile emerged, as his fingers drummed to the beat, carrying acceptance.

He reached home, leaving the highway, and his doubts, behind.