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The soft morning light filters through the curtains, bathing the Tripathi home in a warm, golden glow. It's one of those peaceful moments when the world seems to be waking up slowly—except the Tripathi household is anything but calm.

A tornado, in this case, is five years old, with big green eyes full of mischief and curls that bounce with every wild step.

Rudra Tripathi is, quite frankly, a tiny storm in a half-tucked school uniform.

His tie is crooked, his hair's a mess, and he's zooming through the living room, giggles bubbling out of his body uncontrollably.

"Rudra! Baby, come here!"

A voice floats through the house, soft but tinged with the unmistakable mix of love and exasperation that only a mother chasing her little tornado can master.

Siya Tripathi, the mother of this whirlwind, pauses for a moment in the kitchen, her hands busy closing the lid on Rudra's lunchbox.

She listens to the sound of his rapid footsteps, the telltale thump-thump-thump of a five-year-old who seems to believe he's faster than the speed of light.

A smile tugs at the corner of her lips, though she knows that within seconds, she'll need to gather all her energy to wrangle her boy into some semblance of order.

"Rudra, we don't have time for this," she calls again, her tone softer now but still firm, like a gentle warning wrapped in affection.

But Rudra, being the unstoppable force of nature that he is, only increases his speed, darting behind the couch with a laugh that could brighten even the most chaotic morning.

Siya sighs, wiping her hands on a towel before stepping into the living room. It's these moments, she thinks to herself—these mornings that are equal parts madness and joy—that she'll miss one day.

But right now, her focus is on getting her little hurricane to sit still long enough to straighten his tie and comb through those unruly curls.

"Ru, please. We need to leave soon," she says, a touch of pleading in her voice as she approaches him slowly, like she's trying not to spook him.

And Rudra, sensing the chase is about to end, makes a dramatic leap over a cushion and takes off again, his laughter echoing through the cosy room.

"No, mama! main bohat too fast hoon!" he yells, a triumphant grin plastered across his face as he dodges her outstretched hands.

His small feet carry him around the coffee table, weaving in and out of the narrow spaces with the kind of reckless abandon only a child can possess.

Siya watches him with a mix of amusement and exhaustion, her heart swelling with a love that, at times, feels too big to contain. Despite the madness of the morning rush, she wouldn't trade these moments for anything.

She knows how quickly time slips away—how one day, these chaotic mornings will be memories, and the boy running circles around her now will be grown and moving through life in ways she can't yet imagine.

But for now, she's here, in this moment, with a curly-haired five-year-old who seems to be powered by nothing but joy and endless energy.

She quickens her steps, her heels clicking against the floor as she tries to catch up with Rudra, who is now halfway through what seems to be an impromptu obstacle course of scattered pillows and overturned chairs.

His giggles fill the room, echoing off the walls in a way that makes the space feel alive, like the house itself is in on the joke.

"Rudra, I mean it! We're going to be late!" Her voice holds a playful warning, but there's no real threat behind it.

She knows the morning routine has become something of a game for him, a last-minute sprint before the structure of school takes over his day.

And in a way, she envies him—this freedom to be wild and carefree, to turn even the simplest tasks into grand adventures.

As Rudra rounds the corner of the sofa, Siya sees her moment. With one quick, practised lunge, she snags the back of his shirt, slowing him just enough to pull him into her arms.

"Got you!" she exclaims, laughing as she lifts him up. The victory feels sweeter than it should at this hour.

Rudra squirms dramatically—because of course he does—but not with much conviction. He knows the game is over for now.

"No, Mama! Let me go!" he protests weakly, but his grin stretches wide, eyes sparkling with that mischievous glint she knows all too well.

His boundless energy starts to fizzle the moment her arms wrap around him, like somehow this was his destination all along.

With a quiet sigh, he rests his curly head against her shoulder, as if being caught isn't the worst thing that could happen.

"Alright, my little racer," Siya says, pressing a kiss into his mop of curls. His hair smells faintly of shampoo, mixed with that sweet, warm smell that only little kids seem to have.

For a split second, she almost forgets they're late. "Time to get you ready for school."

Rudra, in typical fashion, flops in her arms like a sack of potatoes, making sure to maximise the drama of it all.

"Noooo," he groans, stretching the word as long as his five-year-old lungs will allow. "I don't wanna be a racer! I wanna be a cricketer!"

Siya raises a brow at her baby, "Cricketer? Aap mama ko yeh batao, ki Cricketer kyu bana hai?" [Cricketer? Tell mama, why you wanna be a Cricketer?]

She already knows the answer. Cricket isn't just a passing phase for Rudra—it's his entire world.

From the moment he first picked up a bat, it's been his obsession. If he had his way, every day would be spent out on the street, tennis ball in hand, as if the fate of Indian cricket somehow rested on the tiny shoulders of a five-year-old.

The second he steps outside, the neighbourhood boys—most of them twice his size and well into their teens—seem to sense his arrival, their heads snapping up the moment they catch sight of those bouncing curls making their way down the driveway.

And here's the funny part: Rudra isn't just the cute little kid they humour by letting him play. Somehow, in that way only five-year-olds can manage, he's become their not-so-secret weapon.

The moment he shows up, everything changes. "He's here!" they shout, like Sachin Tendulkar himself has decided to make a surprise appearance for a street match.

Suddenly, the boys are all over the place, scrambling to call dibs, practically arguing over who gets him on their team.

It's ridiculous, really—watching these teenagers act like their chances of victory hinge on this pint-sized cricketer, who still needs help tying his shoelaces half the time. But the thing is, Rudra doesn't just tag along; he owns it.

Rudra stands in the middle of it all, glowing with a joy so pure it seems to light him up from the inside out, his grin stretched so wide that Siya sometimes wonders if his face might actually split in two.

Anytime someone from the neighbourhood asks the older boys why they let a five-year-old play in their serious cricket matches, they always respond with the same straight-faced reply: "He's got pace."

Siya has to stifle a laugh every time, watching these teenagers act like they've uncovered the next big thing in Indian cricket—like Rudra, with his untied shoelaces and grass-stained knees, is destined for international stardom.

From her spot by the door, she watches as Rudra steps up for his favourite shot—a pull shot, naturally—and sends the ball soaring straight into the sky. There's a loud crash in the distance, and she can already guess another window is gone.

But no one minds.

The whole neighbourhood, even the white families who grumble at the kids, absolutely adore Rudra. Maybe it's the curls, maybe it's his cuteness—whatever it is, the kid's got them all wrapped around his little finger.

And then, just as Siya is thinking it's time to get him home, something changes. Rudra hits the 100, all of a sudden, he's serious. Gone is the playful energy, replaced by something almost... fierce.

Off comes the helmet, clutched tightly in his small fist, and then he's tearing down the pitch at full speed. His legs pump furiously, and with the helmet raised high above his head, he's actually airborne for a second—suspended in mid-leap, like he's taking flight.

Then comes the roar. Rudra punches his helmet into the air and lets out a shout so loud, so full of energy.

And just like that, the wild energy fizzles. Rudra slows down, his victory yell fading into the soft, satisfied grin of a kid who's given it his all.

Without a word, Rudra reaches under his shirt and pulls out the small Shiv trident and rudraksha necklace that Siya had placed around his neck the day he was born.

He cradles the beads in his hand for a moment, then bends down to press a soft kiss to them. It's always the same small ritual, a brief, quiet moment of reverence amidst the whirlwind of his days.

Siya watches him with a smile tugging at her lips, but her mind wanders. Where does all that energy come from?

It's a question she's asked herself almost every morning for the past five years. How could this little human, who barely comes up to her waist, summon so much energy from thin air?

And if there was a way to bottle even a fraction of it, she would gladly take some—maybe all of it—just to make it through the day.

She knows that if she tried to match his enthusiasm, she'd last five minutes tops before collapsing on the couch with a pillow over her face, or worse, falling asleep right in the middle of the living room.

But Rudra? He could go on like this forever, unstoppable, laughing like the world outside his little bubble didn't exist.

His passion was just like Shu...

No. She shut that door quickly, refusing to open it. This wasn't the time to let her mind drift to places she had learned not to go, places that felt too heavy, too dark.

Not when the present was bright and demanding her full attention, not when Rudra's laughter filled the house with so much life, so much joy that it was impossible not to get swept up in it.

She was about to snap back into the moment when two small, sticky hands landed firmly on her cheeks, pulling her out of her thoughts with all the subtlety of a five-year-old on a mission.

"Mama," Rudra was right in front of her, eyes wide and serious, his breath warm and still a little sweet from breakfast.

He leaned in closer, like he was about to tell her the world's biggest secret. "Mama, I really don't want to go to school today. Mera project is not done hua." [Mama, I really don't want to go to school today. My project is not done.]

Siya closed her eyes for a moment, taking in a slow, steady breath. Oh God, his Hindi. Where did he even pick this up?

She sighed, feeling that familiar mix of exasperation and amusement swirl together in her chest.

Haye Ram, she thought. Agar papa Rudra ka yeh half-English, half-whatever-this-was sunte toh...

[If Papa heard Rudra's half-English, half-whatever-this-was...]

She stopped the thought before it could take root. No point going there. Rudra was a linguistic force of nature, and honestly, Siya had learned to pick her battles.

"Mera project is not done hua?" she repeated, her lips twitching as she tried—and failed—not to smile. "Rudra, you mean apka project done nahi hua," she corrected, gently sweeping a stray curl from his forehead. [Rudra, you mean your project is not done?"]

Not that it mattered. She knew as well as anyone that this particular language mashup was here to stay.

The kid was like some sort of walking, talking Google Translate experiment gone slightly wrong, and Siya had long since made her peace with it.

Rudra, naturally, wasn't fazed in the slightest. Without missing a beat, he let out a sigh so dramatic it could've won an Oscar.

His whole body seemed to deflate, slumping theatrically against her. His head flopped onto her shoulder with a groan that was muffled by her shirt but still loud enough to make his feelings crystal clear.

"Mama, pleeease," he whined, dragging out the word as though it took every ounce of his five-year-old energy just to get it out.

The drama was palpable, almost impressive, and Siya had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing outright.

Instead, she pressed a soft kiss into his curls, still wild and tangled from his morning adventures around the living room. "Maine apka project kar diya tha, meri jaan," [I completed your project, my jaan.]

her tone soothing, though she knew full well that her patience was likely to be tested again before they even made it to the front door.

Rudra lifted his head from her shoulder, his eyes going wide with disbelief, like she'd just told him he could skip school for the rest of his life.

"Really?!" he squealed, his face lighting up in pure, unfiltered joy.

Siya smiled, amused at how easily her little whirlwind could swing from despair to elation, all within seconds.

"Yes, really," she replied, brushing a rogue curl out of his eyes. "Maine kal raat ko hi finish kar dia tha. But meri jaan, apne toh kaha tha ki aap meri help karo ge?" [I finished it last night. But my love, didn't you say you were going to help me?]

Rudra blinked, his expression turning serious for a moment, as if searching his memory.

But then, just as quickly, those big green eyes widened again, switching to full-on puppy mode, which—let's be honest—he didn't even need to try for, considering how naturally his eyes could melt anyone's heart.

His curls bounced slightly as he tilted his head, adding to the effect, because why not?

"I was going to, Mama," he said, dragging out the words, his voice a mix of innocence and a tiny bit of guilt, like he'd just realized he'd promised something but wasn't entirely sure how to follow through. "But...I'm tired ho gaya tha."

Siya stifled a laugh. "Hmm, tired ho gaye the, haan? Kaam karne se pehle hi?" [Hmm, you got tired, huh? Before even starting the work?] she teased, raising her eyebrows in mock suspicion. "Aur ab, jo mama ko kaam karne ke liye akela chhod diya, uske liye saza toh milegi." [And now, for leaving Mama to do all the work alone, there will be a punishment.]

The word "saza" landed like a bomb. Rudra's eyes went huge, his lips parting in shock, as if this was the first time in his entire life he had ever heard the concept of punishment.

"Saza?!" [punishment?!] he repeated, his voice so full of exaggerated drama that Siya had to fight to keep a straight face.

"Haan," she said, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning.

She watched as he squirmed in her arms, his little mind probably racing to figure out what this "saza" could possibly be.

She let the suspense hang for a moment longer, just enough to make him sweat a little, before finally continuing in a stern, mock-serious tone, "Apko yeh pura glass doodh ka peena padega!" [You have to drink a glass of milk!]

Rudra froze, his face a mix of horror and betrayal. "Doodh?!" [Milk?!] he practically wailed, like she had just suggested the most unreasonable, unbearable punishment known to mankind.

"Mujhe doodh don't like hai!" [I don't like milk!] He pulled back slightly, looking at her as if she'd completely lost her mind.

Sensing that his usual tactics weren't working, Rudra shifted gears, his face softening into the most pitiful expression he could muster. His bottom lip jutted out, and his eyes grew impossibly wider.

He even gave a little sniffle for added effect. "Mama," he whispered dramatically, "I won't ever leave you alone again. Bas doodh no peena." [I won't ever leave you alone again. Just don't wanna drink milk.]

Siya had to bite her lip to stop from laughing again. This was Rudra's classic move—when all else failed, he'd pull out the "I'll never do it again" card. And it always worked. She sighed, pretending to consider his plea.

"Hmm... theek hai," she finally said, pretending to relent. "Lekin iss baar apko yeh pura glass doodh pena padega. Warna apke bones strong kaise honge?" [But this time, you'll have to finish this whole glass of milk. Otherwise, how will your bones get strong?]

Rudra stared at her in complete disbelief, as if she had just rewritten the rules of his universe. His eyes darted to the glass of milk waiting on the kitchen island, then back to her.

"But, Mama!" he whined, dragging out the word, clearly horrified that she'd actually insist on such a thing.

She only smiled, reaching out to ruffle his curls. "Bas, ek glass. For your strong bones, meri jaan," [Just one glass. For your strong bones, meri jaan.] she said, her voice filled with the kind of calm patience only a mother could muster in the face of such drama.

Rudra sighed, the kind of deep, exaggerated sigh only a five-year-old could pull off, his whole body deflating as if he'd been handed the heaviest burden in the world.

He looked at the glass again, clearly resigned to his fate but not without making it known just how much this was costing him.

"I don't even like milk," he muttered under his breath, folding his arms tightly across his chest, his lips pressed into a thin line of defiance.

Siya smiled to herself, placing Rudra on the kitchen island, his little legs dangling off the edge as he crossed his arms in protest.

She turned and grabbed the carton of milk from the fridge, then rummaged through the pantry for the secret weapon she'd been saving for mornings exactly like this: chocolate syrup.

With a practised motion, she squeezed a generous swirl into the glass, stirring it slowly as Rudra watched, eyes wide with a mix of curiosity and suspicion.

"See?" she said, lifting the spoon to show him the rich, chocolate swirl. "It's your favourite."

Rudra remained stubbornly still, his arms still folded across his chest, but his resolve was visibly weakening. His gaze was fixed on the glass, and Siya could see the gears turning in his head as he tried to resist the lure of chocolate milk.

He leaned forward slightly, eyeing the glass like he wasn't entirely convinced it was worth his effort.

Siya, hiding her amusement, placed the glass in front of him with a little flourish. "Go on, meri jaan," she coaxed, her tone soft but encouraging. "Just one sip."

Rudra's eyes flicked between the glass and his mother, then back to the glass again. He hesitated, then finally—grudgingly—reached for it. His small hands wrapped around the glass as he lifted it to his lips for a cautious taste.

He paused, the chocolate flavour hitting his tongue. His brows furrowed in contemplation, and for a moment, Siya thought he might actually reject it on principle alone.

But then, with the tiniest of shrugs, he took a bigger gulp, draining almost half the glass in one go.

"Arre, dheere, dheere!" Siya laughed, her eyes widening as she watched Rudra down the chocolate milk like it was the elixir of life. "Leave some for the next sip at least!"

Rudra pulled the glass away from his mouth, chocolate milk smeared on his upper lip in a perfect little moustache. He gave her a satisfied, toothy grin, his earlier defiance melting away as the sweet flavour worked its magic.

"I was thirsty!" he declared, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand—much to Siya's chagrin.

Siya clicked her tongue in mild exasperation, shaking her head at her little tornado. She crossed the kitchen, grabbing a tissue from the counter with the grace of someone who had done this a thousand times before.

"Honestly, Rudra, you're a mess," she muttered, though her voice held more amusement than annoyance.

She bent down and began wiping the chocolate from his face, and to her mild surprise, Rudra sat still—well, at least for about two seconds before he started fidgeting.

"Mama, it's fine!" he groaned, trying to wriggle away from her gentle fussing. "Main toh bilkul clean hoon!" [I am completely clean!]

Siya raised one eyebrow, pausing mid-wipe as she took a good, long look at her boy. His cheeks were still sticky from the milk, his curls were sticking out in every direction like he'd been through a wind tunnel.

His half-tucked shirt was a mess, with his school tie dangling crookedly around his neck, more decorative than functional at this point.

"Oh, bilkul," she said dryly, her voice dripping with playful sarcasm. "The very definition of cleanliness, my little prince."

Rudra puffed out his tiny chest, beaming up at her like he'd just received the highest of honours. "See? I told you!" he declared proudly, taking her words as solid proof that he was, in fact, perfectly presentable.

Siya let out a soft laugh, unable to keep a straight face anymore. There was something about his unwavering confidence in the middle of all this chaos that warmed her heart.

"Yes, meri jaan," she said, shaking her head. "You're definitely ready to take on the world—after we fix that tie and maybe do something about your hair."

Rudra groaned dramatically, throwing his head back like this was the worst injustice he'd faced all morning.

"Mamaaa, it's fine! No one cares about my hair!" he protested, jumping off the high chair by the kitchen island. "And my tie looks cool like this!"

Siya chuckled softly, pulling him in closer despite his protests. "You're lucky you're cute, you know that?" she said, crouching down so she was eye-level with him, her hands already working to tuck his shirt in. "Otherwise, all the girls in your class might not like you if you keep showing up like this."

Rudra scrunched up his nose, the mere mention of girls seeming to flip a switch. "Ew, girls!" he exclaimed, shaking his head with all the indignation of a boy who hadn't yet discovered that cooties weren't actually real. "I don't care about them!"

"What about your kindergarten girlfriend? What was her name? Cara?"

Rudra's eyes widened in horror, and he shook his head so fiercely that his curls practically bounced in protest. "Mama! She's not my girlfriend!" he exclaimed, the tone in his voice a mix of disgust and embarrassment. "We just sit together sometimes! It doesn't mean anything!"

Siya smirked, enjoying the chance to tease him just a little bit. "Oh, really?" she said, raising an eyebrow. "Because I heard someone gave you a heart-shaped note last week."

Rudra's cheeks flushed pink, and he looked away, clearly mortified. "That was just for Valentine's Day," he mumbled, staring intently at the floor like it might save him from further interrogation. "And I didn't even want it!"

Siya found that hard to believe. Let's be honest—her son was already a little Casanova in the making, even if he didn't realize it yet.

She'd seen it at the park countless times—the way the little girls would trail behind him, giggling and whispering the moment he so much as looked in their direction.

And Rudra, for all his dramatic denials, didn't seem too bothered by it. He'd flash that lopsided grin, toss his curls, and go right back to his games, completely oblivious—or maybe not so oblivious—to the fact that he had his own tiny fan club.

Shaking her head, Siya smiled as she watched him now, huffing and puffing beside her, still wound up from the mention of Cara.

The way he was carrying on, you'd think she'd accused him of something far more serious than getting a Valentine's Day note.

But she knew her boy well enough to see through his little act. Sure, he'd protest, but it wouldn't be long before he was back to charming everyone with that mischievous smile and those wild curls that never seemed to sit still.

"Alright, alright," she said finally, holding up her hands in a gesture of surrender. "No girlfriends. Just... friends."

She stretched the last word out playfully, trying to keep a straight face as Rudra shot her that serious, almost offended look only a five-year-old could manage.

"Exactly," he replied with the kind of conviction that made him sound much older than he was, his small arms crossing over his chest like he'd settled the matter once and for all.

"Okay, meri jaan. Abhi chalo, aur apne shoes pehn ke aao. Fir hum aapke shoelaces tie kar lenge," [Okay, meri jaan. Now go, put on your shoes, and then we'll tie your shoelaces.] Siya said, her voice calm but with that familiar edge.

The one she used when things needed to get done, but she wasn't quite ready to lose her patience.

Rudra darted off toward the front door, leaving Siya standing in the kitchen, momentarily frozen in that half-breath where you just know the clock is ticking faster than you'd like.

She scanned the room—his school project still strewn across the dining table, his lunch box on the counter, her work bag in the living room, car keys nowhere in sight.

For just a moment, she let herself stand there, mentally sorting through the day ahead: drop-off, the meeting at 10, somehow squeezing in a grocery run before dinner.

Then, without a second thought, she kicked into autopilot. Her phone was the first thing she grabbed off the charger, then the car keys, and her work bag was slung over her shoulder in one smooth motion.

The lunch kit went into Rudra's backpack as she shuffled over to the front door, balancing the backpack, the project, and everything else she needed for the day in her arms.

By the time she reached Rudra, he was sitting on the floor, one shoe on and the other mysteriously missing, his shoelaces in a hopeless tangle.

"Mama," he called, looking up at her with big, expectant eyes, completely unbothered by the fact that they were running late. "Mujhe need help." [I need help.]

Of course, it had to be missing now, right when they were already on the verge of being late.

"Rudra," she said, half-laughing, half-exasperated, "why is it that one of your shoes always disappears exactly when we need to leave?"

Rudra, completely unconcerned by the ticking clock, shrugged in that carefree way only kids can—like this was just another one of life's mysteries, no big deal.

Missing shoes? Happens. Like how the last piece of cake always disappears before you can get to it, or why spinach never seems to taste as good as the cookies he loved.

His face was the picture of calm while Siya felt her stress creeping up with every passing second, mentally calculating how many minutes they had left before the school bell rang.

"Rudra," she said, trying to keep the frustration out of her voice, but feeling the laugh bubbling up anyway, "look down."

Rudra blinked, his small brow furrowing in confusion, before slowly tilting his head down to glance at the floor.

And there, right next to him, sat his missing shoe. Both shoes, in fact—just sitting there like they hadn't been causing chaos for the last five minutes.

"Oh," he said, his tone surprised, as if they'd magically materialized out of thin air.

Without a second thought, he grabbed the missing shoe and started shoving his foot into it, completely forgetting the previous crisis like it had never happened.

Siya couldn't help but chuckle, the whole situation so utterly ridiculous, but so completely normal in their daily routine.

She knelt down in front of him, placing the bag and the project down for a moment as she gently nudged him to sit on the plush white bench by the entryway.

"Okay, mister," she said, grabbing one of his shoelaces, "Kitni baar tum ko sikhana padega?" [How many times do I have to teach you?]

"Aap ho na." [You're here, right?]

Siya blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the simplicity of his answer. She had expected the usual excuse—the "I forgot" or "It's too hard." But this? This was new.

Before she could stop herself, a laugh bubbled up from her chest. "Ohhh, so that's the plan, huh?" she teased, shaking her head as she knelt down to untangle the shoelaces. "Just keep mama tying your shoes forever?"

Rudra gave a little nod, his legs swinging lazily from the bench as he watched her, completely unfazed by the chaos of their morning.

He was in no rush, no urgency in his tiny bones, just fully trusting that she would always be there to solve life's little problems.

His eyes followed her hands as they worked, and after a brief pause, he tilted his head slightly and asked, "Mama, why do shoes even have laces? Can't they just come with velly velly like my old ones?"

Siya bit back another laugh, biting her lip as she finished looping the laces into a neat bow.

She looked up at him, raising an eyebrow as she straightened up. "Velly velly, you mean velcro? Apni shaadi ke din bhi velcro wale shoes pehno ge?" [Velly velly, you mean velcro? Will you wear velcro shoes even on your wedding day?]

Rudra shook his head instantly, "No!" he declared, his face scrunching up in a mix of confusion and amusement at the very idea.

Siya raised her eyebrows in playful surprise. "No? Toh phir shaadi ke din kaise manage karoge, mister? Tab bhi mama tumhari shoelaces bandhe gi?" [No? Then how will you manage on your wedding day, mister? Will your mama tie your shoelaces then too?]

He paused, as if the thought had never occurred to him before. His small, serious face suddenly softened as he shrugged, like the answer was the most obvious thing in the world. "Haan," he said simply, "you'll be there."

Siya blinked, and a laugh she'd been holding onto slipping into something softer. "I'll be there, huh?" she repeated, touched with a tenderness that surprised even her.

Rudra nodded again, this time with a bit more conviction, his curls bouncing with the movement. "Of course, Mama. You'll tie them," he said confidently, as if that settled everything.

As if it didn't matter how much time passed, or how grown-up he became, there was no scenario where she wouldn't be there, ready to fix whatever small thing he needed.

Siya knelt down again, this time just to be at his level, her hands resting on his little knees as she smiled softly at him. "Rudra," she said, her voice light but full of affection, "by the time you get married, you'll know how to tie your own laces."

Rudra scrunched up his nose in playful defiance, crossing his arms over his chest. "Nahi," [No.] he insisted with a grin, shaking his head firmly. "I'll always need you, Mama."

Siya chuckled, her heart full now, no longer stressed about the ticking clock or the fact that they were very likely going to be late.

She brushed a curl away from his forehead and leaned in to press a kiss to his cheek. "We'll see about that, champ," she murmured. "But I have a feeling you're going to surprise me."

He grinned, satisfied with his victory, even if he hadn't entirely won. And for just a second, Siya let herself pause, taking in the sight of him—the mischievous smile, the messy curls, the way he looked so completely certain that she would always be there for him, no matter what.

"Okay, okay," she finally said, standing up and dusting her hands off. "Enough of this shoelace talk. Let's get going before we're late. Otherwise Mr. Windsor will be upset."

Rudra crossed his arms, his expression shifting into one of casual rebellion. "Who cares about Mr. Windsor?"

Siya stifled a laugh at the boldness in his voice, the way he said it as if Mr. Windsor, his rather stern and no-nonsense teacher, was just another minor obstacle in his day.

She raised an eyebrow, giving him a mock-serious look. "Oh, really? Who cares about Mr. Windsor, huh? Well, I care, because I don't want him calling me again to say Rudra Tripathi has arrived late for the third time this week."

Rudra groaned dramatically, rolling his eyes like the idea of facing Mr. Windsor was an unbearable burden.

"But he's always so boring, Mama. He only talks about rules and sitting still and...not running." He said the last part with a particular grimace, as if sitting still was the cruelest of all his teacher's rules.

Siya couldn't help but smile as she slipped his backpack over his shoulders, crouching down to fix the straps. "Well, Mr. Windsor may not be your biggest fan, especially after your no running in the halls stunt last week, but we still have to go, champ. Besides, we don't want to keep all your friends waiting, right?"

Rudra considered this, his face brightening slightly at the mention of his friends. "Sam told me we're playing cricket at recess today. I'm gonna hit a six!"

"I'm sure you will," Siya said, ruffling his curls as they made their way to the door. "But you won't hit anything if you don't make it to school on time. So, chalo, no more stalling."

With a small groan, she pushed herself up, readjusting her work bag on her shoulder, and gently tugged Rudra off the bench, who was still dragging his feet as though he had nowhere important to be.

She turned him around, placing his backpack on his tiny shoulders, the straps too big for him, making him look even smaller than he was.

"Stand still," she muttered, straightening the bag as Rudra wriggled underneath it, his arms squirming like he was a fish trying to escape a net.

She gave the straps a final tug and stepped back to inspect her work. "Perfect. Now, let's move before—"

"Mama, wait!" Rudra suddenly froze in place, his face turning serious in an instant, as if he'd just remembered something incredibly important.

Siya sighed, her hand already reaching for the door handle, but she turned back, one eyebrow raised in a mix of curiosity and impending dread.

"What now, Rudra?" she asked, trying to keep her voice calm but already anticipating some new delay—a forgotten toy, an urgent need for water, or another missing shoe.

He looked up at her, his eyes wide with panic. "I have to bathroom jaana!"

Siya blinked, her hand dropping from the door. Of course. The last-minute bathroom request—the crown jewel of every child's delaying tactics.

She let out a long, slow breath and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Rudra, we're already late..."

"But Mama, I really need to go!" he insisted, his voice suddenly full of desperation, as if this was a matter of life and death.

Siya stared at him for a beat, trying to decide if this was another clever ploy or if he genuinely had to go.

Either way, there was no fighting it. She sighed, stepping aside with a wave of her hand. "Fine. Quick. But no dilly-dallying."

Rudra darted off toward the bathroom like his feet were on fire, leaving Siya standing by the door, shaking her head.

She glanced at the clock on the wall, calculating how many minutes were left until the school gates would shut. Not many.

As she waited, the faint sound of Rudra humming to himself floated through the house, completely carefree as usual. Siya let out a laugh, despite herself.

A few moments later, Rudra came bounding back, wiping his hands on his pants, his usual grin firmly back in place.

"Done! Chalo, Mama!" He was already halfway to the door before she could respond, his earlier bathroom crisis completely forgotten.

Siya grabbed her keys, shaking her head with an amused smile as she watched Rudra dart out the door ahead of her.

"You're impossible, you know that?" she called after him, her voice warm with a mix of fondness and exasperation.

Rudra glanced back over his shoulder, his grin only growing wider, a cheeky sparkle in his eyes. "I know, but you love me anyway!" he shouted, as if it were the most obvious fact in the world.

Siya let out a soft laugh, her heart lifting in spite of the rushed, chaotic start to their morning.

"Yeah, well, don't push your luck, mister," she muttered under her breath, though she couldn't keep the smile off her face.

As they stepped out into the brisk London morning, Rudra's small hand slid confidently into hers.

In that moment, despite the whirlwind of to-do lists and the ticking clock, all she could feel was an overwhelming rush of love and pride for her little boy.

His endless energy and pure, unfiltered joy had this magical way of turning even the most hurried, ordinary mornings into something special.

Together, they walked into the buzz of the day, ready to take on whatever came their way, feeling light, happy, and entirely in sync.

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Hello, I hope you guys like the intro. Rudra kaise laga? And Siya? Please batana agar aacha laga toh.

Dhyan rakhna apna sab. Aur koi bhi bakcho- umm...maze karna

Chalo fir, milte hai, aur prem se bolo

Radhe Radhe🙏🏻