Mornings at the Sharma household are a circus of shouting aunties, flying pillows, and autorickshaw standoffs with goats. But lunch break at St. Mary's? That's a battlefield. A glorious, chaotic battlefield where steel tiffins clash, samosas are currency, and Riya Sharma reigns supreme. I'm Lunch Box, her diary, her vault of secrets, her silent hype-man. I've got a front-row seat to the drama, tucked in her bag next to a crumpled Kurkure packet, and let me tell you: lunch isn't just food. It's survival. It's strategy. It's Riya's kingdom, and she rules it with a paratha in one hand and a grin that could disarm a dragon.
The bell rings at 12:45 p.m., and St. Mary's erupts like a pressure cooker left too long on the stove. Sneakers squeal against the tiled floors, backpacks swing like medieval flails, and someone's yelling, "Save me a spot!" as if the cafeteria's about to vanish into a Bollywood montage. Riya's already survived the morning's gauntlet: the Hoodie War with her mom, Varun's bus-stop betrayal, and that autorickshaw duel where she stared down a driver and a goat. Now, she's ready for the main event. She doesn't sprint like the others—her stomach's growling louder than Professor Sharma's snores—but she struts, hoodie sleeves pulled over her knuckles, humming a half-remembered tune from last night's radio. Speed gets you to the food. Swagger gets you the crown.
I'm nestled in her bag, pages brushing against a sticky mango pickle stain, catching every moment. The cafeteria is a sensory overload: the air smells like fried pakoras, spilled chutney, and the faint sting of sanitizer. Steel tiffins snap open like war drums, spoons clatter, and laughter ricochets off the walls like stray cricket balls. The usual suspects are already here, each staking their claim in this lunchtime jungle.
Megha, the Fashion Diva, is perched at a prime table by the window, where the light makes her highlighter glow like a neon sign. She's holding her spoon like it's a makeup brush, checking her eyeliner in its shiny curve. "Riya, this place smells like a deep fryer had an existential crisis," she groans, but her eyes are already locked on Riya's tiffin. Megha's all about low-cal smoothies and Instagram reels, but Aunt Sunita's cooking? That's her kryptonite.
Kabir, the Quiet Artist, is in his usual corner, sketchbook open, pencil dancing across the page. The boy's got a knack for capturing shadows, smiles, and the exact curve of Riya's messy ponytail. Today, he's sketching the chaos before it even unfolds—spilled crumbs, a half-eaten pakora, the way Riya's dimples deepen when she laughs. Creepy? Maybe. But I've seen his sketches of her, tucked in the back of his notebook, and they're not just drawings. They're proof he sees her—the real her, not just the "chubby girl" label.
Varun, the Annoying Cousin, is the wildcard, sliding into the scene like a cockroach you didn't see coming. His hair's a mess, sticking up like he lost a fight with a ceiling fan. "Oi, didi," he grins, eyeing Riya's bag, "I call dibs on the pickle. Hand it over." Riya slaps his hand mid-air with the precision of a cricket fielder. "Touch my food, and you're sleeping on the terrace with the pigeons."
And then there's Naina, the Overachiever, at the next table, guarding her lunchbox like it's a vault at the Reserve Bank of India. Cucumber slices, sprouts, a protein bar—her meal's so color-coded it could star in a nutritionist's PowerPoint. She flicks her eyes toward Riya's table, then away, like she's above the chaos. But I know the truth. Naina's perfect grades and polished shoes can't hide the storm behind her glasses. She's jealous—of Riya's laughter, her ease, the way people orbit her like she's the sun.
Riya plops her tiffin down like she's planting a flag on Everest. The lid pops open, and out comes the treasure: golden parathas, flaky and buttery; spicy aloo subzi that smells like home; a dollop of mango pickle so tangy it could wake a coma patient; and—praise Aunt Sunita—a stolen samosa, crisp as a fresh rupee note. The aroma hits like a bomb, and suddenly, the table's a war zone. Megha leans in with a "Just one bite, bestie, I'm on a diet," Varun's fingers dart like a pickpocket's, and even the backbenchers nearby start sniffing the air like hungry wolves.
Riya's ready, though. She's been training for this since Varun swiped her gulab jamun at age six and lived to regret it. "Back off, vultures," she says, brandishing her spoon like a sword. She's a general in a hoodie, orchestrating the chaos with a mix of charm and menace. She trades a limp cucumber slice for Megha's extra chutney, deflects Varun's grabby hands with a glare that could curdle milk, and somehow convinces a kid named Rohan from the cricket team to swap a pakora for a sliver of paratha. It's not just eating—it's diplomacy, combat, and a stand-up comedy routine rolled into one.
The first skirmish comes fast: the Seat War. The best table—by the window, where the light's perfect for selfies but not so hot you sweat into your subzi—is under siege. Naina's GPA gang is circling like vultures, books already dumped on chairs. Riya spots it, and so does Naina. It's on. Megha slides across the bench like she's in an action movie, hair flying. Varun flings his bag like a grenade, claiming a corner. Riya just smirks, tossing her tiffin onto the table with a thud. "We were here first, Naina," she says, voice calm but eyes daring her to argue. Naina huffs, "In spirit, maybe." Riya leans in, dimples flashing. "Too bad bodies count." The GPA gang retreats, and Riya's squad claims the table. Score: Riya 1, Naina 0.
Next up: the Snack Raid. Aunt Sunita's samosa sits like a crown jewel, and Varun's eyes are glowing with mischief. He lunges, but Riya's reflexes are sharper—she snatches it back and takes a dramatic bite, crumbs flying like confetti. "Family heirloom," she declares, and Varun groans, clutching his heart like he's been stabbed. Megha, pretending she's above it all, sighs, "Calories are evil, but fine—one piece." Riya negotiates like a bazaar pro: half Megha's chocolate bar for a bite of aloo subzi. Even Kabir gets roped in when Riya slides him a sliver of paratha. "Payment for not drawing my cheeks this time," she teases. He just smirks, pencil already sketching the samosa's golden crust.
The final blow comes from Naina, who can't resist a jab. She leans over, voice loud enough to cut through the chatter: "Some people think lunch is a party instead of studying for the physics test." The cafeteria quiets. Megha freezes, chutney dripping from her paratha. Varun smirks, sensing blood. Kabir's pencil pauses, his eyes flicking to Riya. But Riya? She lowers her samosa, flashes that slow, dangerous smile—the one she saves for aunties who ask when she'll "start her diet"—and says, "Oh, Naina, I'm topping the chutney charts. Physics can wait."
Laughter explodes. The backbenchers hoot, Megha chokes on her paratha, and even the canteen uncle cracks a grin. Naina's cheeks flush the exact shade of her beetroot sprouts, and she buries her nose in her lunchbox, defeated. Riya doesn't gloat—she doesn't need to. She's already won, not with grades or looks, but with the kind of charm that makes a cafeteria feel like a festival.
The war winds down as the bell looms. Riya leans back, wiping her hands on her hoodie, her cheeks flushed from laughing too hard at Varun's latest dumb joke: "If Megha's eyeliner wings are sharp enough, can we use them to cut samosas?" Megha glares, "Keep talking, and I'll test them on you." Riya wheezes, nearly snorting pickle out her nose. "STOP—my stomach hurts!" Kabir, in his quiet corner, sketches faster, capturing the curve of Riya's smile, the frizz of her hair in the humid air. Naina's still sulking, her cucumber slices untouched, her envy a storm brewing behind her glasses. And Megha? She rolls her eyes but grins, muttering, "Riya, you laugh like a truck horn, but it's iconic."
As they pack up, Riya scoops the leftover pickle into her tiffin like it's gold, humming under her breath. The cafeteria's a mess—crumbs on the table, chutney stains on napkins, a stray pakora abandoned like a fallen soldier. To everyone else, this was just lunch, a thirty-minute blur of eating and chaos. But to me, Lunch Box, it's Riya's stage. Her kingdom. Where she doesn't just eat—she shines.
Later that night, when the Sharma household is quiet and Varun's finally stopped stealing her pens, Riya flops onto her bed, opens me to a fresh page, and writes:
"Dear Lunch Box, today I learned Naina's not as perfect as she thinks, and samosas are worth fighting for. Also, Kabir's sketches are starting to make me look... cool? Don't tell him I said that. And don't tell Megha I'm keeping this hoodie forever. P.S. Aunt Sunita's samosas could end wars."
I don't need to tell anyone. I see it all—her messy ponytail, her smudged kohl, the way her dimples deepen when she laughs. The world might see the "chubby girl" in the oversized hoodie, but I see the girl who turns a cafeteria into a stage, a lunch into a legend. Riya Sharma isn't just surviving school. She's rewriting the rules of it, one paratha at a time. And I, Lunch Box, am her mirror, guarding her secrets, her dreams, and the occasional ketchup stain between my pages.
But the day's not over yet. After lunch, the battlefield shifts to the classroom, where Professor Sharma—yes, Riya's dad, the human equivalent of a sleeping pill—shuffles in with a stack of papers he'll probably never grade. The air still smells faintly of pickle, and Riya's still buzzing from her cafeteria victory, but now she's got to survive a history lecture that could bore a statue to death. She slumps in her seat, hoodie pulled tight, and whispers to Megha, "If I fall asleep, poke me. Hard." Megha smirks, already doodling lipstick swatches in her notebook.
Kabir's in the back, sketching again—probably Riya's hoodie this time, or maybe the way her hair escapes its bun like it's staging a jailbreak. Naina's up front, hand raised before Professor Sharma even asks a question, her pen moving like it's hooked to Wi-Fi. Riya catches her eye and winks, just to mess with her. Naina flinches, and Riya hides a grin behind her textbook.
The lecture drags, but Riya's mind is elsewhere—replaying the lunch wars, the laughter, the way Kabir's pencil never stops when she's around. She pulls me out, scribbling in the margins: "Dear Lunch Box, is it weird that I kinda like being the center of chaos? Also, I think I owe Aunt Sunita a hug. Or a shrine." I soak up the ink, the crumbs, the truth: Riya's not just the "funny girl." She's a force, a firecracker, a universe. And I'm the lucky one who gets to hold her story.