"Inna sona, inna cool, munda inna wonderful

Ainu vekhe je kudiyan to kehndi

O my god.. o my god.. o my god..

Ho..

Munda sab mein sabse best

Munda better than the rest

Ainu vekhe ke munde to kehnde

O my god..

O.. seena jeb sukud da

O.. munda 6 futt da

O.. dheere-dheere karta dhamaal sa

O.. munda kukkad kamaal da!!"

Morning arrived quietly in Delhi, carrying with it the delicate promise of April. The city still hovered between sleep and wakefulness, its streets wrapped in a thin veil of mist that clung like velvet to the air.

In one of the capital’s most prestigious neighborhoods stood an opulent bungalow—grand, silent, and steeped in luxury.

Inside its walls, the stillness was so profound it felt almost sacred.

In a lavishly furnished bedroom, a king-size bed dominated the space. Draped in pristine white silk sheets, a young boy—Shivaksh Raghuvanshi —slept deeply on his stomach.

One pillow was firmly trapped in the hold of his strong arms, as though even in sleep he refused to let go.

His thick black hair lay in unruly waves across his forehead, framing a face softened by rest.

Long eyelashes brushed his cheeks with every slow breath he took.

The faint glow of a night lamp spilled across his features, lending him a quiet, almost regal aura.

The calm shattered abruptly.

At exactly 5:00 a.m., the alarm clock pierced the silence.

Shivaksh stirred. His eyelids fluttered before opening fully, revealing eyes still heavy with sleep.

He stared at the ceiling for a moment, a serene smile curving his lips—as if the day ahead held no burden for him.

Stretching languidly, he felt his muscles tighten beneath his skin. With practiced ease, he reached out, silenced the alarm, and rose from the bed with composed elegance.

Routine defined him.

He made his way directly to his private gym, pushing open the door as a crisp wave of cool air greeted him.

The lights flickered on, illuminating rows of state-of-the-art equipment, all gleaming under the bright glow. Before stepping onto the treadmill, Shivaksh grounded himself—feet firm on the floor, posture flawless—as he executed a series of precise squats, followed by a deliberate stretch.

Moments later, the treadmill hummed to life. His footsteps fell into rhythm, steady and controlled.

Sweat soon beaded along his forehead as he transitioned smoothly into push-ups, lowering and lifting his body with relentless discipline.

Each movement spoke of control, of habit, of determination. By the time he finished, his chest rose and fell sharply, breath heavy—but satisfied.

He welcomed the ache in his muscles. It reminded him he was alive, moving forward.

After cooling down, he returned to his room, a white towel draped casually over his shoulder, and stepped into the shower.

When he emerged, droplets clung to his skin, his hair damp and tousled.

He dried it absentmindedly before slipping into his sharply pressed school uniform, every crease flawless.

Standing before the mirror, Shivaksh adjusted his collar, fastened his sleeve buttons, and smoothed his hair back with a confident hand.

His reflection stared back at him—composed, self-assured.

A crooked smirk appeared as he winked at himself, confidence gleaming in his eyes. Polished black shoes followed, their laces tied with care. He shrugged into his school jacket, tightened his tie, slung his bag over his shoulder, and descended the staircase with effortless poise.

Downstairs, warmth replaced silence.

The aroma of freshly cooked paneer parathas drifted through the house, rich and inviting.

In the kitchen, Tanuja ji was calling out sharply.

“Yashu! Uth ja nithalli! School ke liye der ho rahi hai.”

Shivaksh slipped in behind her, wrapping his arms around her affectionately.

“Maa… ye chudail abhi tak uthi nahi kya?”

A knowing smile tugged at Tanuja ji’s lips.

“Hamesha ka natak hai iska. Tu baith, main nashta lagati hoon.”

Taking his seat at the dining table, Shivaksh leaned back comfortably.

“Arey woh toh hai hi pagal. Aap batao, nashtay mein kya khaas hai?”

Before she could reply, Rishi ji walked in, his presence instantly filling the room.

His devotion to his daughter was no secret.

“Meri princess ko koi kuch nahi bolega!”

Placing the parathas onto the plate, Tanuja ji shot him a look.

“Aapne hi toh bigaad rakha hai use.”

Rishi ji’s gaze softened as he looked at his wife.

“Arey bhagyawan, aaj toh aap badi pyaari lag rahi hain!”

She flushed instantly, narrowing her eyes at him.

“Arey chup rahiye aap bhi!”

Unfazed, Rishi ji placed a dramatic hand over his heart.

“Haayyyy… aapki isi ada par toh marte hain hum!”

Shivaksh watched the familiar exchange with quiet amusement before clearing his throat pointedly.

“Ahem… ahem… main yahin hoon!”

Embarrassed, Tanuja ji hurried back into the kitchen.

Shivaksh finished his breakfast, rose, and bent to touch his father’s feet.

Rishi ji rested a warm palm on his head, pride evident in his eyes.

Their smiles mirrored each other—same curve, same confidence.

“Bye, Papa.”

Moments later, Shivaksh stood beside his sleek black sports bike, the engine rumbling to life.

Just then, Yashika burst out of the house, still tying her shoelaces.

She hugged her father, snatched the tiffin from her mother, planted a quick kiss on her mother’s cheek, grabbed a paratha, and sprinted outside like a rocket.

Seeing Shivaksh about to leave, she lunged forward, grabbing the back seat and hopping on.

Shivaksh turned sharply,

irritation flashing across his face—but before he could speak, Yashika shoved half the paratha straight into his mouth.

“Kutta bhaiya! Tu mere liye ruk nahi sakta tha kya?”

Mouth full, Shivaksh could only glare.

She patted his shoulder impatiently.

“Chalo-chalo, ab lecture mat do. Pehle hi late ho raha hai.”

He adjusted the rear-view mirror, sarcasm dripping from his tone.

“Haan-haan, Kumbhakaran ki tarah toh main hi so raha tha na?”

She muttered back,

“Ab kaun late kar raha hai?”

Catching her reflection, Shivaksh twisted the throttle sharply.

“Thodi sharam karle alsi kahinki, Jaldi so kar bhi jaldi utha nhi jata... Ekdam bhooki hai nind ki!"

The sudden jerk made Yashika clutch his shoulder tightly as she glare at him, pouting.

"Meri neend, Meri marzii... Or aj hi late huyi na, apki tarah thodi hun"

Grinding his teeth, Shivaksh muttered,

“Chhipkali kahin ki, Mujhe compair mat kr apne sath... I am far better than you okay?!”

Yashika giggled a bit, retearing her laugh back

"yeah yeah..."

Laughter, arguments, and cool morning air tangled together as the bike tore through the quiet streets—two siblings racing toward another ordinary day that held anything but ordinary destinies.