“Mmm… not so close… unless you’re giving me fries…” Ayana murmured in her sleep, lips twitching in a dreamy smile.
It was raining in her dream. Not the drip-drip boring kind—Hollywood-level hurricane rain. And there she was, soaked, clinging to someone’s shirt collar under a flickering streetlamp. His jawline? Carved by angels. His eyes? Criminally intense. His voice?
“AYANA! MOLE! WAKE UP! IT’S 8:15!”
The romance disintegrated. The rain vanished. The hero evaporated. And reality barged in Amma’s banshee voice, the smoke alarm wailing, and the smell of burnt-to-hell dosa.
Ayana groaned like a dying goat and rolled over, blanket cocooned. “Why, Amma… I was just about to kiss my future…”
Amma, storming in with a half-burnt spatula and murder in her eyes: “Unless your future is this dosa, GET. UP.”
Ayana peeked out, disheveled hair like a haunted Barbie. “It wasn’t the Korean guy this time, okay?! It was a desi man—rugged beard, deep voice, eyes like trauma—”
“Brush your teeth, Mole!” Amma barked. “May the Lord protect whichever man ends up with you.”
Ayana clutched her pillow dramatically. “He’ll be the luckiest man alive!”
Amma: “He’ll need therapy
Ayana descended the stairs like a queen in panda slippers—only to witness her 15-year-old brother Aaron screaming at the toaster like it had committed treason.
“I SAID GOLDEN BROWN! NOT ASHES OF MY HOPE!”
Ayana, sipping from a Hello Kitty mug: “Still losing to basic kitchen appliances? Adorable.”
Aaron scowled. “Don’t you have lectures to attend stupid ?”
Ayana grinned. “You know me. Fashionably late and academically confused.”
Appa was in the corner reading the newspaper upside down, sipping chai like a retired philosopher.
“Good morning, Appa,” Ayana cooed, skipping over to kiss his cheek . “You’re glowing today. Like a wise coconut.”
Appa chuckled, “Still trying to butter me up for pocket money, ah?”
“Not true! I just love you the most in this entire house,” she said, shooting a smug look at Aaron.
“Traitor,” Aaron mumbled.
Amma clapped her hands. “This isn’t a family soap opera! Eat and leave before I use this spatula for non-cooking purposes!”
Ayana winked at her dad. “See? Amma’s love language is violence. Yours is snacks.”
“I’ll take snacks,” Appa nodded proudly.
Ayana burst into class like a dramatic breeze late, as usual, with zero guilt and a samosa in hand.
“MISS Troble maker IS HERE!” someone yelled as she strolled in like she owned the place.
Her two partners in crime, Nidin and Aryan, were already slouched in the back row. Nidin was drawing aliens on his notebook. Aryan was asleep with one eye open. Classic.
“Guess who got kicked out of this morning?” Ayana said, flopping between them.
“You?” Nidin and Aryan chorused.
“No! Amma kicked me out of the kitchen. Apparently burning dosa isn’t a vibe.”
Aryan yawned. “You need professional help.”
“I have Appa. That’s enough therapy.”
“Your dad would probably adopt us if you asked,” Nidin muttered.
“Because he knows I'm the golden child,” Ayana smirked.
Just then, the professor walked in a man who smiled once in 1998 and regretted it since.
“Page 42. Silence,” he said, voice flatter than a dosa under Amma’s wrath.
Five minutes later, Ayana had already mentally planned her wedding, her dog's name, and what dress she'd wear on Koffee With Karan.
“Psst. Nidin,” she whispered. “If I become rich, will you be my manager?”
“Sure,” he said. “But first survive this semester.”
Professor: “AYANA.”
She froze mid-whisper.
“Yes, Sir?”
“Out.”
“Out where?”
“Outside.”
“Why?!”
“Because I said so.”
“Okay, fascism. Cool.”
She packed her bag with theatrical sighs. “This is oppression. I am the Rosa Parks of this class.”
Outside, she dramatically slumped on the steps, writing invisible poetry about being misunderstood.
Aryan appeared five minutes later.
“You too?” she asked.
“I laughed when you said Rosa Parks.”
“We’re going to fail beautifully.”
“Tragically.”
“Poetically.”
They both nodded solemnly—and then burst into giggles.
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