If you want to know what chaos sounds like, step into the Sharma household at 7:30 a.m.
The kettle whistles like it's on strike, Varun is screaming because apparently he "lost" his maths homework (spoiler: he didn't even do it), and Mrs. Sharma is yelling at Riya for wearing that hoodie again.
Yes, that hoodie. The oversized black one that has become Riya's armor against the world. It's soft, it's comfortable, and it hides the samosa belly that the aunties at weddings keep reminding her about.
"Riya! Change into something decent!" her mom shouts from the kitchen, flipping parathas like she's auditioning for MasterChef.
Riya just groans, half her face buried in the pillow. "It's decent! Even monks would approve."
I, Lunch Box, am already sitting on her desk, wide open, listening to the drama. Sometimes I wonder why I don't just shut myself tight and pretend to be asleep. But then I'd miss out on all the fun.
Her dad, Professor Sharma (a.k.a. The Sleeper), enters with the day's newspaper, yawning so wide you could throw a cricket ball in. He peers at Riya and mutters, "Back in my day, girls wore tidy uniforms and polished shoes. Now… hoodies." Then he promptly sits down on the sofa and dozes off, newspaper still in hand.
And Varun? Oh, don't get me started on him. He barges into Riya's room with bedhead sticking up in six different directions. "Oi, Mona Lisa!" he grins, waving a sketch Kabir drew of her. "Look, you're famous!"
Riya throws a pillow at him, missing by an inch. "Give that back or I'll tell Aunt Sunita you finished the last samosa last night."
His face pales. "You wouldn't."
"Try me."
Breakfast is always the peace treaty. Aunt Sunita walks in with a plate of hot samosas like she's delivering treasure. The room goes silent. Even Varun shuts up. That's the power of her food.
Riya grabs one, takes a big bite, and mumbles with her mouth full, "This is why you're my favorite human, Sunita Aunty."
And in the middle of it all, there she is—grumpy, hoodie-wrapped, still somehow glowing.
----
By the time Riya makes it to school, she's already fought three battles:
Battle One: The Hoodie WarIt begins in her bedroom. Her mom storms in, holding a floral kurti like it's a weapon."Change into this. You'll suffocate in that black hoodie!"Riya clings to her hoodie like a knight to her armor. "Over my dead body.""Don't tempt me," Mrs. Sharma mutters, yanking at the sleeve. Riya dodges, rolling across the bed, clutching the hoodie dramatically. Finally, she escapes out the door, victorious, hoodie still on. Score: Riya 1 – Mom 0.
Battle Two: The Varun TrapOutside, Varun is waiting with a devilish grin. "Oh, didi, you're late," he singsongs, waving at the school bus driver. "Better leave without her!"The driver, a grumpy uncle with no patience, revs the engine. Riya bolts forward, hair flying, bag bouncing. "Don't you dare!" she shouts.In a desperate leap, she lands on the bus step just in time, glaring daggers at Varun. "You are officially on my hit list."Varun smirks, completely unfazed. "Worth it."
Battle Three: The Autorickshaw DuelOf course, the bus ride isn't enough. Halfway, the bus breaks down, coughing smoke like an old dragon. Everyone scrambles for autos. Riya flags one down, but the driver shakes his head. "Full hai, beta."She peers inside. One grandma, two kids, and a goat. That's it. "Full? Seriously? Unless the goat paid extra."The driver shrugs, unmoved. Riya crosses her arms. "Fine. But I'm sitting on the goat."The grandma inside cackles, the goat bleats, and the driver gives in with a sigh. Score another win for Riya.
By the time she finally struts into class—hair in a messy bun, shoelace untied, me (Lunch Box) tucked safely in her bag—she looks less like a student and more like a survivor of a morning apocalypse.
And yet… somehow, she still glows.
Now, here's the thing about classrooms. They're jungles. You've got predators (the toppers who raise their hands before the question is even finished), prey (the backbenchers who live in fear of being called on), and then you've got Riya.
Riya doesn't fit into any of those. She floats. She laughs. She eats. She exists with a kind of energy that makes people notice—even if she doesn't realize it.
Take Megha, for example. The Fashion Diva. The moment Riya walks in, Megha gasps dramatically, as if she's been personally offended. "Riya Sharma! Did you really just wear that hoodie again?"
Riya flops into her seat. "Yes. And I'll be buried in it too. Write that in your fashion blog."
Megha sighs, flipping her shiny hair. "One day, I'll save you from your hoodie addiction. You'll thank me when you're trending."
On the other side of the room, Naina—Miss Topper™—is already scribbling notes like her pen is connected to Wi-Fi. She side-eyes Riya's casual slouch and whispers to her friend, "Some people really don't care about their future."
But let me tell you a secret: Naina cares a little too much. She notices Riya's laughter. She notices how easily people gather around her. And maybe, just maybe, she's jealous of how Riya doesn't need grades to shine.
And then, there's Kabir. The Quiet Artist. He sits by the window, sketchbook open, pencil moving like it has a mind of its own. Most of the time, people forget he's even there. Not Riya though. Because somehow, some way, she always ends up in his sketches.
"Seriously?" she mutters, walking past his desk. "Don't you get tired of drawing my round cheeks?"
Kabir doesn't look up. Just smirks. "They're easy to shade."
Riya gasps. "You did not just—"
But before she can roast him further, Professor Sharma (yes, her dad—God save her dignity) shuffles into class, carrying a stack of papers he'll probably never grade. Half the class groans, half cheers (nap time, after all).
Now, you'd think Riya's biggest challenge today would be surviving her dad's lecture (snore-fest, 100%). But nope. Fate had bigger, spicier plans.
It all started when Megha decided Riya needed a "makeover moment.""Trust me," Megha whispered during break, eyeliner in hand, "a little neon green will make your eyes pop."
Riya squinted at the liner. "Pop like what? A firecracker? A traffic signal?"
"Shut up and sit still."
And so, five minutes later, Riya Sharma walked out of the girls' washroom looking like… well, let's just say the Hulk's long-lost cousin. Neon green streaks on her eyelids, smudged just enough to make her look electrocuted.
Of course, who had front-row seats to this? The boys. Varun (why was he even near her class?), Kabir, and half the cricket team.
Varun cackled. "Arre, look! It's Jalebi 2.0—after lightning strike!"
Riya wanted to sink into the floor. But Kabir? He tilted his head, studying her like she was some rare painting. "Hmm. Not bad. You look… interesting."
"Interesting?!" Riya yelped, snatching Megha's compact mirror. One look, and she groaned so loud the pigeons outside flew away. "I look like Shrek's fashionable niece!"
The entire hallway burst into laughter. Even Naina smirked behind her stack of books. For Riya, humiliation level = 100.
But here's the thing about her. She doesn't stay down for long. She squares her shoulders, tosses her messy bun back, and says loudly enough for everyone to hear:"Fine. Laugh now. But when neon comes back in style, remember—I started it."
And just like that, the laughter softened into chuckles, a few claps, and even a cheer from the backbenchers. Megha grinned, Kabir smirked again, and Riya—well, she walked off like a queen, smudged eyeliner and all.
Later, when she flopped onto her bed at night, she grabbed me, opened my first blank page, and wrote:"Dear Lunch Box, today I learned one thing: never trust Megha's eyeliner. Also, I might secretly enjoy making people laugh—even if it's at my expense. Maybe that's my superpower."
And I, Lunch Box, couldn't agree more.
Because.....,That was just Day One.