Mornings in Delhi had a rhythm of their own. The metallic clatter of utensils from the kitchen, the crackling radio from a neighbor's window, the honk of a passing school bus - all stitched together into the kind of chaos you stop noticing after a while.
I wasn't special - not the smartest, not the strongest, definitely not the most popular. Just an ordinary guy: normal height, black hair that refused to behave, a brown complexion deepened by years under Delhi's sun, and a habit of blending into the background without really trying. My name's Shivam.
Home was a small, typical setup - just the four of us. Dad was a police officer - strict on paper, soft in practice. His tired eyes always seemed to be scanning, even at home, like he was still solving a case nobody else could see. Mom was a housewife, the glue that somehow kept all our madness stitched together with nothing but chai, scoldings, and silent sacrifices. And then there was my younger brother, Dikshant - two years younger, a lifetime of arguments. He had perfected the art of not listening to me, treating every word I said like background noise.
Mornings were a battleground. Mom trying to pack lunch, me trying to find missing socks, Dikshant accusing me of stealing his tiffin box - and Dad quietly sipping tea while pretending not to notice.
By the time I stepped out of the house, shirt barely tucked in and bag half-zipped, Delhi had already come alive. Vendors shouting, autos zigzagging, sunlight bouncing off cracked concrete, and the early hints of summer hanging heavy in the air.
School was the usual. Attendance mumbled through sleepy mouths. Teachers writing notes half-heartedly on the board. Friends talking more with their eyes than their mouths, planning how to survive the day.
I wasn't the center of any group. Maybe a few people knew me enough to wave at. Most didn't notice. And honestly, I liked it that way.
Among the usual faces, there was Aman - a middle-bencher, tall, athletic, the basketball guy who somehow looked lazy even when he was sprinting across the court. Naina - the perfect student, the one who remembered tests before teachers did, a bit of a teacher's pet but not annoyingly so. And Aanchal - a realist, clever and quick-witted, with a mischievous glint in her eye that always made you double-check if your bag was still zipped.
The first two periods passed without drama - a blur of yawns, mindless copying, and clock-watching.
Then, around 10:30 AM, just as the sun outside had started turning the classroom into an oven, the announcement came.
Our Hindi teacher - the one with that dangerous smile that always meant extra work - walked in and said casually:
"Everyone must submit your notebooks before dispersal."
Just one sentence. Enough to turn my stomach into a knot.
I froze.
Notes? Completed? Fully updated?
I was finished.
Years of last-minute scrambling had finally come to collect their dues. While the others groaned and flipped open their bags to check their work, I sat there calculating how much I could fake in how little time.
I knew one thing for sure - if I didn't act fast, there was no way I was walking out of school without a phone call home waiting for me.
While Naina neatly stacked her notes and Aanchal grinned at my panicked face, I made my move.
I slipped out to an empty classroom, dumped my bag onto a desk, and started copying like my life depended on it.
Two periods. That's all it took. A whirlwind of scribbles, underlines, half-legible diagrams - good enough to pass a casual glance. I slipped back just in time to hand my notes in with the others.
No one noticed. Crisis averted. At the time, I thought I'd survived the worst of my day. I had no idea the real disaster hadn't even started yet.