Rhea's pov
Hindi period.
Which should've been calm.
Which never is.
Ma'am walked in, already mid-thought, and wrote today's topic on the board in neat, flowing Hindi.
Something deep. Poetic. Emotional.
I read it once.
Understood it.
Didn't feel ready for what was coming.
Samar leaned back and sighed. "Ah yes. Another chapter where everyone is either suffering or spiritually enlightened."
Neel nodded. "And somehow both."
Ma'am began explaining—metaphors, भावार्थ, hidden meanings.
Proper literature mode.
Kabir was actually listening, pen moving smoothly.
Yuhan too—quiet, focused, occasional nod like yes, makes sense.
And then—
Ma'am asked, "So what is the central idea of this stanza?"
Before the class could breathe, Samar's hand shot up.
"Yes, Samar?"
"With all due respect," he said politely, "why are Hindi poets allergic to happiness?"
The class laughed.
Ma'am paused. Then smiled despite herself.
"Because pain creates depth."
Neel immediately added, "So happiness creates… marks?"
Ma'am gave him that look.
I was trying not to laugh.
Then she asked me to explain a line.
I stood, explained clearly—metaphor, symbolism, context.
Ma'am nodded approvingly. "Good. Well explained."
I sat down, smug for exactly three seconds.
Because Samar leaned over and whispered,
"देखा? Trauma works."
Kabir muttered, "Please stop speaking."
Then came debate mode.
Ma'am asked, "Do you agree with the poet's perspective?"
Yuhan raised his hand. Calm. Thoughtful. Gave a balanced answer—agreed but questioned the extremity of emotion.
Kabir followed up with a sharp counterpoint. Logical. Precise.
Ma'am looked impressed.
Then Samar raised his hand again.
"Yes?"
"What if," he said thoughtfully, "the poet just needed sleep?"
The class exploded.
Even I lost it.
Ma'am tried to stay serious. "Literature isn't that simple."
Neel nodded gravely. "True. But neither is insomnia."
Grammar section followed.
समास. संधि. अलंकार.
We knew them.
We knew them.
But Samar decided peace was overrated.
He answered every question correctly—with extra commentary.
"Ma'am, this is रूपक अलंकार, but emotionally it's also suffering."
Ma'am sighed. "Answer accepted. Commentary not required."
Bell rang.
Ma'am left shaking her head, half-smiling.
Kabir closed his notebook. "We embarrassed ourselves."
Yuhan shrugged. "Worth it."
I leaned back, laughing quietly.
Topper class.
Smart answers.
Still absolute chaos.
Perfect balance.
Done with school chaos.
So naturally—
home chaos activated.
Dinner cleared. TV murmuring in the background.
Carrom board placed in the middle like a battlefield.
Papa cracked his fingers. "Let's play."
Mumma narrowed her eyes. "No cheating."
My brother smirked. "That's what cheaters say."
Game started.
Coins flying. Strikes missing. Commentary louder than the actual game.
Papa played calmly like a retired champion.
My brother took every shot personally.
I pretended I was bad and then suddenly won points.
Mumma… was struggling.
She missed a strike.
Then another.
Then another.
She stared at the board. Slowly. Suspiciously.
"You all are ganging up on me," she declared.
We froze.
"WHAT?" I laughed. "Mumma, the board is not biased."
Papa coughed. "Maybe it is."
Mumma gasped. "Even you?"
She leaned back dramatically. "Fine. I'll remember this. When you all ask for anything."
My brother panicked. "Mumma—no—don't bring future favors into this."
She missed again.
"I raised you," she said emotionally. "Fed you. And this is how you repay me."
I was crying laughing.
Papa tried to help her. "Aim slowly."
She glared. "So now you're coaching the enemy?"
The game ended.
Mumma lost.
Silence.
Then—
"I don't even like carrom," she announced, standing up. "You all forced me."
We lost it.
Brother bowed dramatically. "Justice for Mumma."
She walked away, smiling despite herself.
Roasting resumed. Laughter filled the room.
Same house.
Same love language.
Chaos—
But ours. 💛