This is SPARTA.

I am red-lining a Lamborghini Gallarado while I keep the steering in full lock as I exit the right, next to South block leading to Rajpath. I stomp on the accelerator pedal as the tyres scream harder than a physical education teacher. The smoke rises from spinning tyres, as they struggle for grip, totally obscuring the marching column of cavalry behind me. As the automatic gearbox struggles to find the correct ratios to slot the gear in and tame all the torque and wheel spin, I have no problem in finding the Oakley lying on the next seat. I put on the shades while the clouds just move to soak me and the neoprene seats in the January sun. The public on left and right have their jaws so wide open that I can count the calories they are chewing. I have just counted two that the president gets up to salute a yellow Gallarado Spyder, so does the guest of honour. I don’t like pompous state festivities like these, but the call was straight from Rashtrapati Bhawan itself, and they promised a Hot Chocolate Fudge, so I couldn’t refuse. That’s totally off the record though, so don’t quote me on it. As if timed with a Breitling a Su-30 swoops down and does a 180. As a rule I don’t mind taking off my shades but 5 seconds after I have put them on is expecting a life time of bull run in the market. So I press the nitro and it pushes me ahead of the goddamn frigging sun-obscuring Su-30. But not before I stick a post-it, on the windshield of that $60 million
inverted bird, for that son of a gun pilot, nothing threatening just “Get a life show-off”. At 240 Kph I slow a little to exit sideways onto the circle at India Gate.

Have you ever dreamt something like this?

If you haven’t, save your 150 bucks and don’t go for 300.