If you want to know what chaos sounds like, wake up in the Sharma household at 7:30 a.m.
Actually, scratch that. 7:15. Because by 7:30, the chaos has already happened, and now everyone's just dealing with the aftermath.
The kettle's screaming. Varun's yelling about his math homework (which—spoiler—he definitely didn't do). Mrs. Sharma's flipping parathas with one hand and shouting at Riya with the other. And Mr. Sharma? He's sitting on the sofa with the newspaper, yawning like he's trying to swallow the sun.
Welcome to mornings. They're a disaster.
And right in the middle of it all is Riya, face-down in her pillow, pretending the world doesn't exist.
"RIYA! Get up! You're going to be late!"
She groans. Pulls the blanket over her head.
"Five more minutes..."
"You said that twenty minutes ago!"
I'm already on her desk, pages open, listening to the symphony of a family that's definitely not a morning family. Sometimes I think about just closing myself and pretending to be asleep. But then I'd miss the show.
Mrs. Sharma bursts into the room, holding up a floral kurti like it's evidence in a crime scene.
"Change. Now. You are not wearing that hoodie again."
Riya lifts her head just enough to squint at her mom. "It's clean."
"It's the same one you wore yesterday!"
"Yeah, because I washed it."
"Riya—"
"Mom. Please. It's 7:30 in the morning. I don't have the energy for this."
Mrs. Sharma throws her hands up and storms out, muttering something about "kids these days" and "when I was your age." The kurti gets tossed onto the bed. Riya looks at it. Looks at her hoodie hanging on the chair.
The hoodie wins. Obviously.
She pulls it on—oversized, black, soft as a hug—and immediately feels better. Like armor. Like she can survive whatever garbage the day's about to throw at her.
Downstairs, Varun's shoving bread into his mouth while simultaneously scrolling through his phone. He looks up when Riya walks in, smirks, and says, "Morning, Motu."
She throws a chapati at his head.
He ducks. Barely. "Someone's grumpy."
"Someone's about to die."
Mr. Sharma doesn't even look up from his newspaper. Just mutters, "No murder before breakfast."
Riya slumps into a chair, grabbing a paratha. It's still warm. Her mom might drive her crazy, but the woman makes killer parathas. Buttery. Crispy on the edges. Worth waking up for.
For about thirty seconds, it's quiet.
Then—
"RIYA! Where's your water bottle?"
"I DON'T KNOW!"
"You need to keep track of your things!"
"I'M EATING!"
Varun snickers. Riya glares at him.
And just like that, the peace is over.
Riya's rushing now. Hair half-tied, bag slung over one shoulder, shoelaces untied because who has time for that?
She bolts out the door and immediately sees the problem.
The school bus. Already at the stop. Engine running.
And Varun—that little demon—is standing next to the driver, grinning like he's just won the lottery.
"Oh, didi," he calls out, voice dripping with fake innocence. "You're late. Should we leave without you?"
Riya's blood pressure spikes.
She runs. Bag bouncing against her back, hair flying everywhere, one shoelace whipping around like it's got a personal vendetta.
"DON'T YOU DARE!"
The driver looks bored. Starts inching the bus forward.
"WAIT—"
She lunges. Grabs the railing. Hauls herself onto the step just as the bus lurches into motion.
Her chest is heaving. Her ponytail's completely sideways now. But she's on the bus.
She turns to Varun, who's still smirking.
"You," she pants, "are dead to me."
"Worth it."
She shoves past him, finds a seat, and collapses into it. A few kids snicker. Someone whispers, "Did she just—?"
Riya doesn't care. She's on the bus. That's a win.
Small victories.
Of course, the universe isn't done with her yet.
Halfway to school, the bus makes this horrible grinding sound. Like a dying robot. Then it just... stops.
Smoke's coming out of the engine.
The driver sighs, gets out, pops the hood. Everyone groans.
"Seriously?" Megha mutters, checking her eyeliner in her phone camera. "I have a Reel to post before first period."
"Your Reel can wait," Riya says, already grabbing her bag. "We need to get to school."
They pile out onto the road. It's hot. The sun's already doing that thing where it feels like it's personally angry at you. And now they're stranded.
Riya spots an autorickshaw and waves it down.
The driver slows. Looks at the crowd of students. Shakes his head.
"Full hai."
Riya peers inside. One old lady. Two small kids. A goat. She blinks.
"Full? Seriously?"
The driver shrugs. "Goat paid extra."
Riya crosses her arms. Stares him down.
"Fine. I'll sit with the goat."
The old lady inside cackles. The goat bleats. The driver looks like he's reconsidering his life choices.
"Fine, fine. Get in."
Riya climbs in, wedges herself between the goat and one of the kids. The goat smells weird. The kid's eating a samosa and not sharing.
But she's moving. That's what matters.
Megha squeezes in next to her, wrinkling her nose. "This is so going in my Stories."
"Your followers don't need to know I carpooled with livestock."
"Too late. Already typing the caption."
By the time Riya stumbles into class, she's exhausted.
Hair: disaster.
Hoodie: slightly sweaty.
Shoelace: still untied.
Dignity: questionable.
But she made it.
She drops into her seat, and Megha immediately leans over.
"Okay, so I was thinking—"
"No."
"You don't even know what I'm going to say!"
"If it involves eyeliner, the answer's no."
Megha pouts. "You're no fun."
"I'm tired, Megha. There's a difference."
Across the room, Kabir's already sketching. Riya can see his pencil moving, even from here. She doesn't need to look at the page to know what he's drawing.
Her.
Probably mid-yawn. Or with her hair sticking up in six directions. He's got a thing for drawing her at her worst.
"Does he ever get tired?" she mutters.
Megha follows her gaze. Grins. "Oh, honey. That boy does not get tired of looking at you."
Riya's face heats up. "Shut up."
"I'm just saying—"
"Don't."
But Megha's already giggling, and Riya's trying very hard not to glance at Kabir again.
Then Professor Sharma walks in. Her dad. Her teacher.
The human equivalent of Ambien.
He's carrying a stack of papers that he'll probably never grade, shuffling to the front of the room like he's walking through molasses.
"Good morning, class," he says in the most monotone voice ever created.
Half the class mumbles back. The other half's already zoning out.
Riya slumps lower in her seat. Kill me now.
"Today," he continues, "we'll be discussing the Mughal Empire."
Someone in the back row fake-snores. Riya hides a smile behind her hand.
Her dad doesn't notice. Or doesn't care. Hard to tell.
He starts talking. And talking. And talking.
Riya pulls out a notebook. Starts doodling. A samosa. A goat. Megha's eyeliner wings.
Megha leans over, whispers, "If I fall asleep, don't let me drool on the desk."
"No promises."
It happens during break.
Riya's minding her own business, eating a packet of chips, when Megha appears out of nowhere with that look on her face.
The look that means she's about to do something terrible.
"Riya. Bestie. Light of my life."
"What do you want?"
Megha pulls out a tube of eyeliner. Neon green.
Riya's eyes go wide. "Absolutely not."
"Come on. Just a little! It'll make your eyes pop."
"Pop like what? A traffic light?"
"Trust me!"
"I've trusted you before. It never ends well."
But Megha's already dragging her toward the bathroom, and Riya's too tired to fight.
Five minutes later, she's staring at herself in the mirror.
She looks like she got electrocuted.
Neon green streaks across her eyelids. Smudged. Uneven. Bright.
"Megha."
"Yes?"
"I look like Shrek's cousin."
"You look edgy!"
"I look like I lost a fight with a highlighter!"
Megha tilts her head, considering. "Okay, maybe I went a little heavy on the—"
"A little?"
But it's too late. They're already walking out of the bathroom, and the entire hallway is staring.
Varun's there. Of course he is.
He takes one look at Riya and loses it.
"DIDI! What happened? You look like you stuck your face in a—"
"Finish that sentence and I'll end you."
But he's already laughing too hard to care.
Even Kabir looks up from his sketchbook. Studies her for a second. Then—
"Interesting."
Riya blinks. "Interesting?"
"Yeah. Like... abstract art."
"I swear to god, Kabir—"
But he's smirking now, and she knows he's messing with her.
The whole hallway's laughing. Naina's smirking from her seat. Even the teachers are doing double-takes.
Riya wants to melt into the floor.
But then she remembers something. She's Riya Sharma.
She's survived a goat-sharing auto ride. She's survived her mom's kurti ambush. She's survived Professor Sharma's lectures.
She can survive this. She straightens up. Tosses her messy ponytail over her shoulder. And says, loud enough for everyone to hear:
"Laugh now. But when neon makes a comeback, remember—I started the trend."
A beat of silence.
Then someone in the back starts clapping. Then someone else.
And just like that, the tension breaks.
People are laughing with her now. Not at her.
Megha grins. "See? Told you you'd rock it."
"I hate you."
"No you don't."
And honestly? She's right.
That night, Riya collapses onto her bed. Pulls me out. Opens to a blank page.
Dear Lunch Box,
Today was a mess. Like, genuinely a disaster. I fought with my mom, almost missed the bus, shared an auto with a goat, and let Megha turn me into a neon nightmare.
But also?
I kind of loved it.
Not the eyeliner part. That was horrifying. But the part where I just... didn't care. Where I made people laugh instead of letting them laugh AT me.
Maybe that's my thing. Maybe I'm the girl who turns disasters into jokes.
Also, Kabir called me "abstract art." I don't know if that's a compliment or an insult. I'll ask him tomorrow.
Or maybe I won't.
Anyway. Tomorrow's another day. Let's see what fresh chaos it brings.
—
I soak up the ink. The smudged letters. The little doodle of a goat she drew in the corner.
And I think: Yeah. This girl's going to be fine.