The morning sun filtered softly through the sheer cream curtains, casting golden lines across the marble floor. The ceiling fan above whirred with a low hum, steady and rhythmic, as the scent of sandalwood agarbatti lingered in the room—blending seamlessly with the aroma of masala chai and warm, buttered toast from the kitchen.

"Mummy, main school ja rahi hoon," Srishti called out, her voice echoing into the corridor.
("Mum, I am going to school," she called out.)

From the kitchen, amidst the soft clang of steel utensils and the rising whistle of the pressure cooker, her mother's voice responded with practiced urgency.
"Beta, ruk ja. Anvi bhi aa rahi hai. Dono saath mein jaana."
("Wait, dear. Anvi is coming too. Go together.")

Srishti's hand paused on the latch. She exhaled, her jaw tightening slightly. It was always like this. She turned around slowly, frustration flickering in her eyes.

"Nahi mummy," she muttered under her breath, loud enough to be heard,
"Didi mujhe bas jab dekho tab late karti rehti hai. Yeh nahi ki kabhi jaldi bhi ready ho jaaye aur jaldi school chale."
("No, Mum. Didi always makes me late. It's not like she ever gets ready early or leaves for school on time.")

Footsteps approached behind her—the soft shuffle of socks against tile. Anvi appeared from the hallway, blazer slung over her shoulder, hurriedly tying her hair with one hand and balancing her watch in the other. 

"Mummy," Anvi called out with a casual air, not bothering to look at Srishti,
"Main to sahi time par hi ready hoti hoon. Yehi jaldi ready hoke baith jaati hai."
("Mum, I'm always ready on time. She just gets ready early and then sits around doing nothing.")

The usual argument. Familiar, harmless, and as much a part of the morning routine as the smell of toast and the ticking of the wall clock. Their mother smiled faintly from the kitchen, already knowing how the next few lines would go—because in this house, even the chaos had a rhythm.

Before the argument between the sisters could escalate further, a familiar voice echoed from the hallway—calm but unmistakably authoritative.

"Beta, tum dono zyada shor mat karo," Rajveer said as he stepped out of his study, adjusting the collar of his sky-blue shirt.
("Girls, don't make so much noise," he said.)

"Aur shaanti se school chali jaao. Jab dekho, subah-subah chillati rehti ho."
("Go to school quietly. Every morning, the house turns into a shouting match.")

Both girls fell momentarily silent, caught mid-sentence. Srishti glanced toward the shoe rack, pretending to fix her shoelace. Anvi rolled her eyes with exaggerated innocence and grabbed her half-packed bag.

Rajveer picked up his car keys from the console near the entrance and gave his daughters a pointed look—equal parts love and resignation—before walking past them toward the door. His polished black shoes tapped lightly against the marble floor as he exited, the sound fading into the hum of the city waking up outside.

Inside, the chaos was far from over.

Anvi suddenly turned toward the kitchen, her voice rising with fresh urgency.
"Yaarrr mummy! Mujhe socks nahi mil rahe. Pata hai kya aapko ki kaha rakhe hain?"
("Ughh, Mum! I can't find my socks. Do you know where they are?")

From behind the kitchen counter, Shivangi's hands paused mid-motion as she stirred the boiling milk. She didn't even turn around before replying with familiar irritation,
"Beta, kitni baar kaha hai ki school se aake dress ek jagah rakha karo. Par nahi, tum dono ko toh kapde idhar-udhar hi fekne hain."
("How many times have I told you to keep your uniform in one place after school? But no, both of you keep throwing your clothes around like anything.")

Her tone wasn't angry—just weary from repetition. The cabinets above her were neatly stacked, spice boxes labeled in bold, and a half-packed tiffin rested beside her on the granite slab.

Anvi appeared in the kitchen doorway, one sock in her hand, hair still slightly messy, and an exaggerated pleading expression on her face.
"Yaar mummy, please bata do na kaha hai. Aap taana baad mein de dena. Main pakka kal se sahi jagah rakhoongi. Promise!"
("Mum please, just tell me where they are. You can scold me later! I swear I'll keep them properly from tomorrow. Promise!")

Shivangi finally turned, one eyebrow raised in amused disbelief.
"Beta, tu na... das saal se yahi bol rahi hai."
("Dear, you've been saying that for the last ten years.")

A laugh escaped Srishti from the hallway, and Anvi sighed dramatically, continuing her one-sock search mission.

In the middle of the commotion, Anvi stepped into the hall, her one foot socked and the other bare, clearly in a state of panic. Her hair was only half tied, and her school tie hung loosely around her neck like a tired ribbon.

"Oyeee," she called out, glaring at Srishti who was now seated comfortably on the edge of the sofa, acting far too relaxed for a school morning. "Tu zyada mat daant dikha, agar tujhe pata hai toh bata de mere socks kahaan hain!"
("Don't act so smart. If you know where my socks are, just tell me!")

Srishti's lips curled into a mischievous grin. She blinked innocently and replied, her tone overly sweet, "Mujhe nahi pata didi... sachchi."
("I really don't know, sis... promise.")

But her eyes—those expressive, guilty eyes—betrayed her. Anvi narrowed her gaze, crossing her arms as she slowly stepped forward like a detective closing in on her prime suspect.

"Ab toh pakka mujhe lag raha hai... isne hi kahin rakhe hain. Iski shakal dekh ke hi samajh aa gaya," Anvi muttered under her breath, jaw tightening with growing suspicion.
("Now I'm sure... she's the one who hid them. Just look at her face.")

She took another step forward and demanded, "Bata de! Late mat karwa. Tu toh ready ho gayi, main kya mooh leke jaun bina socks ke?"
("Just tell me already! Don't make me late. You're ready, but how do I go to school without socks?")

Srishti held her hands up in mock surrender. "Theek hai, bata dungi... par aap gussa nahi karogi," she said with exaggerated caution.
("Okay, I'll tell you... but only if you promise not to get angry.")

Anvi raised an eyebrow. "Tu bata rahi hai ya tere do thappad lagau?"
("Are you going to tell me or should I slap you twice?")

Srishti flinched playfully, then mumbled sheepishly, "Vo... vo  mujhe mere nahi mil rahe the na mere... toh maine aapke socks pehen liye."
("Umm... I couldn't find mine... so I wore yours.")

There was a beat of silence.

Anvi's eyes widened. She glared at her younger sister, her breath catching in disbelief. Then, slowly, her jaw clenched and she gritted her teeth like a volcano simmering under control.

"Yaarrr mummy!" she called out, voice half a whine, half frustration. "Ye Srishti hamesha aise hi karti hai! Ab main kya pehnu? Ghar ke socks pehn ke gayi toh Mam bohot daantengi!"
("Ughh Mom! Srishti always does this! What do I wear now? If I wear home socks, Mam will scold me badly!")

She looked genuinely distressed. Her school uniform was neatly pressed, but that one missing sock had the power to throw her whole confidence off balance. She paced a little, shoes still open, looking toward the kitchen in hopes that some miracle would roll out along with the steam from the boiling tea.

Right then, Shivangi entered the hallway with the calmness of someone who had seen this morning madness a hundred times before. She held a  navy-blue socks in her hand, one slightly wrinkled but clean enough for war.

"Le, ye raha tera socks," she said flatly, tossing them onto the sofa. "Kuch cheez nahi milti inn ladkiyon ko... pata nahi kya padhne jaati hain school mein."
("Here, your socks. These girls can't find a single thing... I really wonder what they even go to school for.")

Anvi rolled her eyes dramatically as she picked up the socks. "Mummy," she muttered under her breath, tying her shoelaces in fast circles, "school mein socks thode hi dhoondhne jaati hoon, padhne hi jaati hoon."
("Mom, it's not like I go to school to hunt for socks... obviously I go there to study.")

Her voice had a tone only a teenager could manage—sarcastic, defensive, and half-amused.

She stood up, finally fully ready. Shirt tucked in, hair fixed, shoes tight, bag hanging neatly on one shoulder. She took a moment's breath, her usual rush now settling into a soft routine.

Then she walked toward the small mandir in the corner of the drawing room—two brass diyas sat quietly beside a framed photo of Lord Krishna. The marigold garland from last evening had slightly dried at the edges.

Anvi joined her palms, closing her eyes just for a second. Her lips moved silently—and said to god " bhgwaan mere sath school chlna or apna aashirwaad humesha bnaye rkhna "

She touched the edge of the mandir lightly to her forehead in respect and turned back quickly, slinging her water bottle over her shoulder with practiced ease.

The front door creaked open as Shivangi called out behind her, "Tiffin le liya beta,
("Don't forget your tiffin, dear.)

"ha mummy Le liyaaa," Anvi called back, already halfway out.

Anvi narrowed her eyes at Shristi and muttered,
"Chal ab,
("Come on now.")

As they stepped out of the house, Shristi, with a sly smile, added,
"Didi, aap na thoda jaldi tayaar ho jaya karo... roz ka late latif mat bano."
("Didi, you should get ready a little earlier... don't be late every day.")

Anvi rolled her eyes dramatically, her school bag bouncing slightly on her back.
"teri wajah se hi late hui hu bdi aayi"
("i am late because of you ") she mumbled under her breath, shaking her head.

With light steps and never-ending chatter, the two sisters began walking toward school, the narrow lane echoing with their bickering and giggles—just like every other morning.

********************************************************************

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