The first journey of a life is about twenty minutes long and is remembered for ever. It should be the gentlest twenty minutes the city has.
A rear-facing infant seat, fitted and checked before the car leaves for the hospital — never fitted at the kerb in a hurry. The law asks for a child to be secured, and the house keeps it.
Fewer potholes over fewer minutes; no sudden braking; the cabin a little warmer than usual, and silent.
The hospital bags, the flowers, the files, a grandmother’s arm at the step — the sarathi carries what you should not.
Someone you choose is told when you leave the hospital and when you are home, so the door is open before you reach it.
Inside every written figure: the car, your sarathi, fuel, every toll, parking at both ends and GST. Nothing is added on the day, and no meter runs.
Reserve the journey homeTurn on “We’ll need a child seat” and choose the youngest age.