Hii! Readers! This is our first story, And we hope you all enjoy it😊. But before diving into the story we want to tell you, that there will be some dialogues in Hindi. And if we made a mistake in writing grammars. Please forgive us for that.

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Yaad hai school ke woh din... when waking up early felt like a saza? Maybe not for everyone, but for us — mornings were a literal nightmare.

Yaad hai school ke woh din... when waking up early felt like a saza? Maybe not for everyone, but for us — mornings were a literal nightmare.

It was just another typical school morning in the Khanna household also known as India's unofficial Olympic training ground for morning chaos.

The clock struck 6:30 AM, and the house instantly came alive like a well-rehearsed orchestra, except everyone was playing a different tune.

From the kitchen came the familiar battle cry of Kashvi Khanna, the mother and commander-in-chief of this operation.

"Rishu, jaldi uth jaa! Late ho jaayegi!" she shouted, her voice slicing through the air along with the aroma of burnt toast and overboiled tea.

In the living room, Viren Khanna, the father, was engaged in his own morning marathon, searching for his tie with one hand, while scolding his son with the other.

"Nirvan! how can you forget to pack your bag every single day?!" he barked, half-bent under the sofa, hoping his missing tie had somehow crawled there overnight.

And amidst all this poor Trisha, their eldest daughter, sat at the dining table, hair half-tied, face half-awake, already regretting the cruel fate of being born on a weekday.

For her, the real villain of life wasn't school. It was the 6:30 AM alarm, that soul-crushing sound that made her question every life choice, including the one that led her to the Khanna family gene pool.

Classes? Meh.
Teachers? Double meh. Unless, of course, they announced a surprise holiday, then they were instantly promoted to the rank of national heroes.

The Khanna battalion was finally out the door, spilling into the neighbourhood street, a place that had its own rhythm, its own life.

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The road to school was less of a route and more of a living, breathing organism. Rickshaws honked like an orchestra gone rogue. Cycles zigzagged between puddles. Kids shouted at each other about forgotten homework and surprise tests that no one had studied for.

Every day, the same characters appeared, the toppers walking briskly as if they had the syllabus tattooed on their shoes, The 'no worries' gang, stopping for ₹10 aloo patties and acting like time was just a social construct, And the earphone-wearing loners, already looking like they had declared war on group projects and small talk.

And right in the middle of all this, Trisha, dragging her feet with the energy of a deflated balloon, flanked by her little brother Nirvan and her younger sister Vritika. Together, the three of them looked less like school kids and more like a travelling circus of mild chaos.

Just when Trisha thought the morning couldn't possibly get louder.

"Chalo Didi! We'll be late!" came the shrill yet determined voice of Vritika, running up the lane, balancing her tiffin and schoolbag in one hand while dragging along her sulking brother with the other.

The street around them was alive with tiny, familiar details, the comforting scent of masala chai from the corner tea stall, drifting through the cool air like a warm hug; the distant whistle of the milkman's cycle, the thap-thap sound of someone beating dust out of a rug on a balcony above.

The sky glowed in soft shades of orange and pink, calm and beautiful, a quiet contradiction to the storm inside Trisha's head.

"Bas aa rahi hoon! Don't rush like you're catching a train!" Trisha called back, breathless, her half-wet hair sticking to her cheeks, her shoelaces untied.

Nirvan, with all the dramatic flair and grumpy energy that came naturally to a 14-year-old, trudged along the sunlit lane, his schoolbag slung half over one shoulder. 

His brows were furrowed in eternal protest as he muttered under his breath, "Why do we even walk every day? Papa has a car! Why can't we just—"

Before he could finish, Vritika, his ever-practical elder sister, cut him off with a sharp glare and the kind of eye-roll that could win medals. 

"Because Papa wants us to be independent, that's why," she said, mimicking their father's voice with just the right mix of irritation and authority.

Trisha, walking slightly ahead, let out a dramatic sigh. "Independent nahi, hume tandoor banana chahte hain iss garmi mein," she muttered, wiping sweat from her forehead with her tiny polka-dot handkerchief. 

Her uniform collar was sticking to her neck, her ponytail was lopsided, and her patience had already evaporated with the morning heat.

"Wahi toh!" Nirvan immediately jumped in, seizing the opportunity to complain. Tossing his imaginary long hair like a Bollywood hero, he declared, "Mujh jaise handsome ladke ko paseene mein bheegna padta hai... at least meri image ka toh sochte Papa!"

Trisha snorted so loudly that a few passing kids turned to look. "'Ch-ch pe badi ee ki matra – chii!' Sab yeh kehte hain tujhe dekh ke," she shot back, giving him a side-eye sharp enough to cut glass.

She reached over and gave him a light smack on the shoulder. "Kisne keh diya tu handsome hai? Dekh, kuch log tujhe handsome kehke behkaayenge... lekin unke baaton mein nahi aane ka. Roz apna thobda sheeshe mein dekhne ka, galatfehmi bhagane ka. Samjha kya?"

"Oye!" Nirvan protested, clutching his bag like a wounded hero. "Main bahut handsome hoon, samjhi? Apni baat mat kara kar mera naam lagake! Jab khud ki shakal acchi na ho na... toh baat acchi kar leni chahiye, Moti!"

Trisha's eyes widened. "Moti?" she echoed, ready to launch into sibling war mode.

Before she could retaliate, Vritika stepped in like the self-appointed peacekeeper she always was. "Ho gaya tum dono ka drama?" she snapped, adjusting her neatly ironed uniform. "Now march! I'm not getting late on the first day because of your nonsense."

She grabbed both their arms, one in each hand and pushed them forward with military precision, her ponytail swinging like a command flag.

Trisha and Nirvan stumbled ahead, still bickering under their breath, while Vritika walked between them like the general of a very noisy, very uncooperative army.

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As the Khanna trio stepped through the tall blue gates of Mount Abu Public School, they came to a halt almost instantly.

Groups of students were scattered everywhere, some talking animatedly about their new classes, others laughing over inside jokes that hadn't aged well since last year. A few adventurous ones had already begun playing football on the dusty ground, completely ignoring the fact that it was the first day of school.

By the cycle stand, a small crowd had gathered, not for fun, but for battle. Two boys were arguing passionately with the watchman over who had the right to park in the shady spot under the banyan tree.

Across the courtyard, a group of girls compared their new haircuts and school shoes, while another bunch stood huddled over timetables that looked like ancient scrolls as they were trying to decode which classroom they were supposed to go to.

Trisha, Nirvan, and Vritika stood at the entrance like three stunned spectators watching a movie they hadn't bought tickets for.

Nirvan frowned, squinting at the crowd. "Yeh kya ho raha hai? Sab bacche khule saand ki tarah kyun ghoom rahe hain?"

Trisha folded her arms, her detective instincts kicking in. "Aur woh bhi bag leke," she added dryly, eyeing a bunch of boys running past.

Vritika, of course, was the voice of logic, calm, composed, and already in 'class monitor' mode.

"Sab bacche bag leke isliye ghoom rahe hain kyunki aaj school ka pehla din hai... aur kisiko apni class nahi pata," she explained with a hint of smugness, as if she had already solved the morning mystery.

Trisha's eyes widened. "Abey haan! Hume toh apni class hi nahi pata!" She groaned, pressing her hand dramatically to her forehead. "Ab hume bhi ghoomna padega iss garmi mein?"

Her tone said no way, but the merciless sun and fate both said yes, absolutely.

Vritika checked her wristwatch which was a small pink one with a cartoon panda on the strap. 

"Assembly shuru hone mein abhi 10 minute hain. Sir assembly se hi sabki class announce kar denge," she said matter-of-factly.

"Bas 10 minute aur wait kar lo," she added, scanning the courtyard like a general surveying a battlefield.

Just then, a familiar voice rang out from across the field. "Oye, Viru!"

One of Vritika's friends was waving enthusiastically from near the notice board. "Idhar aa na! Udhar kya kar rahi hai?"

Vritika's face lit up instantly, her serious, responsible expression replaced by a bright smile.

"Byee guys! Main chali... and all the best for your beginning!" she said, giving a cheerful wave before dashing toward her friends.

"Byee Miss Time Table! All the best!" Trisha and Nirvan called out together in perfect mock unison, giggling as she disappeared into the crowd.

Moments later, Nirvan's radar switched on. His eyes darted around, scanning for signs of his own gang, the ones who'd probably already started a cricket match with a broken ruler.

"Yeh toh gayi. Main bhi chalta hoon. Apne doston ko dhoondhne mein bhi time lagega," he said, adjusting his bag like an explorer about to set off on a dangerous mission.

Then, with a grin, he added, "Byee, Moti. All the best!"

Trisha smirked, pretending to aim a punch at him. "Byee, suar. Tujhe bhi all the best!"

As Nirvan dissolved into the sea of blue-and-white uniforms and Vritika vanished with her crew of future CEOs, Trisha found herself stranded a single silhouette with a schoolbag, swallowed by what felt like a thousand strangers.

She stood very still for a beat, the crowd's chatter and the distant thud of a kicked ball filling the space around her. Then she did what anyone does when the world gets confusing. She looked left, looked right, and completed a full, very ungraceful 360-degree turn, like a compass that had forgotten north.

Where were they?

Her Param Sakhis. Her jaan. Her emotional support squad-slash-chaos creators. The people who made biology lectures bearable, assemblies feel like gossip sessions, and lunch breaks worth surviving for. The ones who turned ordinary school days into something resembling a movie.

"Abey yaar!" she muttered under her breath, scanning patchy groups and clusters with rising anxiety. Faces blurred together there were too many ponytails, too many backpacks, too many unfamiliar smiles. "Yeh log toh kahin dikh hi nahi rahe... Aaj aaye hi nahi kya?"

Her heart did a small, nervous bhangra in her chest.

"Nahi nahi... Think positive, Trisha!" she whispered to herself, pacing through the assembly area like a detective trying to reconstruct a crime scene. 

She circled a group of students pretending not to look lost, checked behind the notice board, and peered around the banyan tree where a cluster of seniors were smoking away their last vestiges of summer freedom.

"If these people had not come, how would I have survived in this cruel school? I would have died, seriously!" she told the empty air, switching between melodramatic and practical in less than three breaths. "No, no... Our plan was to come today. These people love me too much. I swear I will kill them!".

She stopped mid-pace, hand flying to her forehead in a theatrical swoon, the kind reserved for television heroines and very bored royals. 

"Itni boring entry toh kisi villain ki bhi nahi hoti..." she declared to no one in particular, and then, just to be extra dramatic, flopped onto the low wall beside the flagpole.

Just as Trisha was about to resign herself to a tragic, friendless first-day fate, two warm arms snaked around her shoulders.

"Kaun hai bey? Jo itni garmi mein chipak raha hai!" she barked reflexively, ready to deliver a karate-chop to whoever dared.

She spun around and the world immediately rewound into color. Her face exploded into a grin so bright it could have outshone the May sun.

"Oyeeeeeeeeeee!" she screamed, throwing herself at them like a heroine in a melodrama, arms wide and ridiculous.

There they were, Ira and Ridhima, her constants, her personal chaos architects, her official "let's-fail-this-together" squad. Seeing them was like finding the missing piece of a very animated puzzle.

She hugged them until both of them squealed. Trisha's grin was that same innocent, triumphant smile kids wear when they steal extra dessert and get away with it.

"Tum log aa gaye! I knew it — I KNEW it, 100% — that you people would come. You cannot live without me." She panted, words tumbling out in an ecstatic rush. "Do you even KNOW—" she gasped dramatically, hands pressed to her chest as if the sheer relief had physically stopped her heart for a second.

Her voice went theatrical. "I thought you two ditched me! Maine toh pura plan bana liya tha... dono ka khoon kaise karungi, kahan chhupaungi... sab! But dekh, Shree Ji aur Kanha ji kitne acche hain — they don't want blood on my hands!" She delivered the whole confession like a news anchor on triple speed, eyes wide and manic.

Ira and Ridhima dissolved into laughter. Ridhima clapped a hand to her mouth, giggling. "Now who's sticking around in this heat, hmm?" she teased.

"Emotional moment chal raha hai, Ridhi! Don't ruin it," Ira scoffed, though the corners of her mouth betrayed a smile. She looped an arm around Trisha and squeezed. "We missed you too, idiot."

Trisha's expression softened instantly; the bravado and melodrama fell away like a discarded shawl. "Bas yaar," she breathed, small and sincere. "Now it feels like the first day. Otherwise, I felt like I had come to jail."

The three girls were still tangled in their hug hangover when the old, cranky school microphone crackled to life that marked the beginning of every new academic year. It was a sound as traditional as the morning prayer and just as cursed.

Trisha winced before it even began. She could predict the exact moment when Mr. Gopal's signature "Good morning students" would fade into static and return sounding like it had travelled through three continents and a dust storm.

"Goo—khhhhhh—mor—khhhh—ning stud—ents."

Mr. Gopal, the school's eternal Admin Incharge and part-time destroyer of microphones. His voice carried the pure exhaustion of a man who had seen too many admission forms and not enough coffee.

"Please settle down. Today is the first day of the academic year, and class allocations will be announced shortly," he droned, sounding like even he didn't believe his own announcement.

The entire courtyard erupted in a synchronized groan, a chorus of despair echoing across the field.

"Bas shuru ho gaya," Ira sighed, straightening her pleated skirt and tucking a rebellious strand of hair behind her ear. She was the only one among them who still believed in looking assembly-appropriate on Day 1.

"Bhai, mujhe sirf yeh tension hai," Ridhima whispered, her voice trembling with mock fear. "If all three of us go to different sections... I'm going to fill out my transfer certificate."

Trisha gasped theatrically, clutching her imaginary pearls. "Same! Main toh group study ke naam pe group gossip karti hoon. If I'm left alone, I'll actually have to study!"

That horrifying thought made all three of them shudder simultaneously.

They pressed their palms together in the world's most unconvincing prayer pose, fingers joined neatly, but eyes darting sideways, scanning the crowd, silently begging the universe for mercy.

Up on the mic, Mr. Gopal began the long, slow, painfully bureaucratic roll call of class allotments.

"11-A... names are being sent to the class notice board. 11-B..."

The girls exchanged nervous looks. Each second stretched like chewing gum.

"11-C... Trisha Khanna... Ira Rao... Ridhima Shah..."

"WE'RE TOGETHER!" Trisha gasped, clapping a hand over her mouth like she'd just been crowned Miss Universe.

"We're in the same section??!" Ridhima squealed, her excitement echoing off the school walls.

Ira threw her hands dramatically toward the sky, half-prayer, half-Bollywood monologue. "Raam ji! Thank you—thank you—so much!"

The three of them broke into a barely-contained victory dance, small, shuffling steps and silent squeals, trying not to draw attention from the teachers still glaring at whispering students.

The mic let out another ear-piercing screech that made everyone wince and cover their ears, before the calm, practiced voice of the student leader floated through the static.

"All students, hands joined, eyes closed... Let's begin the morning prayer."

Some students joined their hands with saintly sincerity, swaying slightly like they were at a Bhajan Sandhya. Others half-heartedly pressed their palms together while still whispering to friends or fidgeting with their shoelaces. A few just stood there, eyes open, pretending enlightenment while secretly counting how many minutes until the torture ended.

Trisha sighed, tilting her head slightly toward Ira. "These school people just look for a chance to torture us with Sun in the morning," she muttered, squinting up at the blazing sky that showed no mercy.

Ira bit back a laugh, trying to keep a straight face. Before she could reply, Ridhima leaned in from the other side, one eye sneakily open. "Prayer toh theek hai," she whispered, "but why does the mic always sound like Mom's old mixer?"

Trisha and Ira almost burst out laughing but quickly disguised it as a cough when a teacher glanced their way.

They joined their hands obediently but their under-the-breath commentary carried on like a secret radio broadcast.

"See naa, it's the same prayer every year," Trisha whispered. "Why don't they change it a bit to lighten the mood? Yaar, thoda Bollywood vibes laao na taaki mood bhi fresh ho jaaye!"

Ira smirked. "Imagine everyone swaying to 'Om Shanti Om'," she quipped softly, earning a barely-suppressed snort from Ridhima.

They managed to hold it together just long enough for the prayer to end. The final "Thank you, God" echoed across the courtyard, followed by a collective sigh of relief that almost felt sacred in itself.

But before they could even exhale properly or sneak a joke, "Now, our respected Principal Sir will address the students."

That single line from the mic was enough to deflate the entire field. The air itself seemed to groan in despair.

You could practically feel hundreds of invisible eyes rolling in synchronized agony.

"Bhai, ab bajegi band saare mood ki," Ridhima muttered, already zoning out, her soul leaving her body in protest.

As Principal Sharma climbed up the stage, a wave of forced discipline swept across the crowd.

Half the students immediately straightened their backs, hands behind them like obedient soldiers. The other half perfected their the classic open-mouth-but-cover-with-hands move that fooled no one, especially not the teachers glaring from the sidelines.

The mic gave its usual pop, and then came the voice everyone knew by heart.

"Good morning, students," Principal Sharma began, dragging the words like he was narrating a national anthem. 

He paused dramatically, scanning the crowd with all the gravitas of a man delivering the Bhagavad Gita.

"Welcome to the new academic session. As we begin this year, I want each and every one of you to remember that discipline and dedication are the cornerstones of success..."

Trisha leaned slightly toward her friends and muttered, "Bhen, agar yaha '3 Idiots' ka Rancho hota, toh ab tak mic leke bol chuka hota,'Sir, aapka speech outdated hai!"

Ira bit her lip, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

She leaned slightly toward Ridhima, her voice barely above a breath. "Do you think he even changes a single line every year?"

Ridhima's eyes stayed fixed on the stage, lips curving into a smirk. "Maybe just the date," she whispered back. "For freshness."

The three exchanged a quick glance which was the perfect blend of exhaustion and amusement, while the speech droned on like an endless history lecture.

"...I expect punctuality, neatness, and full participation from all students..."

Trisha nudged Ira with her elbow, eyes still fixed on the stage. "Sir, Neatness aur Hum, 'ye rishta kya kehlata hai?'" she whispered.

Ira bit back a laugh, her shoulders shaking. "Punctuality pe toh hum Kabir Singh jaise hain, late but passionate," she muttered, earning a quiet snort from Trisha.

Ridhima clapped a hand over her mouth, trying not to giggle too loudly.

Principal Sharma, completely unaware of the silent comedy unfolding in the back rows, continued his monologue like a man on a mission. Each line was delivered with the same deep sincerity and the same 100% recycled enthusiasm.

Minutes passed. Then more. The air got heavier, the sun harsher, and Trisha began to wonder if this was all part of some secret endurance test.

Finally came the line everyone had been praying for, "Thank you. Have a productive day ahead."

The words were sweeter than a vacation announcement.

"Basss! Mukti mil gayi," Ridhima sighed in relief, giving a tiny clap under her breath.

The bell hadn't even rung yet, but the entire building was already buzzing like a beehive that had just woken up after summer break.

The smell of freshly cleaned floors mixed with the faint scent of chalk dust that always seemed to hang in the air. Teachers hurried past, arms full of registers and timetables that would probably be outdated by the next week.

Some students ran, their shoes squeaking on the tiles as they tried to find their new classrooms, others leaned against walls, gossiping like they hadn't met in decades instead of two months, and a million whispered "Bro, tu kaunse section mein hai?" echoing everywhere.

Amidst the swirl of uniforms, chatter, and excitement, Trisha walked down the corridor with Ira and Ridhima. The trio moved together like they always did, shoulder to shoulder, their laughter bouncing off the walls louder than the school bell itself.

Trisha clutched her bag's strap, a grin tugging at her lips as she looked around.

Same old building. Same blue-and-white uniforms. Same teachers glaring at noisy students.

And yet... something felt different.

Maybe it was because they were in a new class now, Maybe it was because everything suddenly felt bigger, louder, more real. Or maybe it was just the thrill of knowing that another chapter which were going to filled with jokes, fights, secrets, and inside stories was about to begin.

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