Summer vacations always had a special kind of nostalgia in our family — the smell of mangoes, the laziness in the air, and the excitement of visiting our village, Bhavnagar, Gujarat. It was our yearly tradition. My grandparents would start packing two weeks before the trip; my mom would make endless lists of things we'd probably forget anyway, and I — being me — would procrastinate until the last minute. Summer vacations meant lazy mornings, long nights, and absolutely zero sense of routine — my kind of paradise.
But there was one thing that made the trip truly worth it: Kiara Kapoor, my older sister, my personal drama partner, the most mature human I had ever met and always put-together version of me. Basically, the yin to my utter chaos.
Kiara lived in Bhavnagar, and every time we visited, she would come stay with us. So naturally, the moment we reached the village, and as soon as we settled in, I threw my bag on the bed and grabbed my phone like a detective ready for a mission. Without a second thought, I dialed her number.
"Hiiii babyyy!" I yelled dramatically as soon as she picked up, sprawled across the bed like an actress from an early 2000s soap opera. "You don't remember me, do you? You forgot your favorite sibling!. Do you even know that your beloved little sister is back? Because I'm starting to think you've replaced me with your college friends! I'm back, bitch!"
I could practically see her rolling her eyes through the phone. There was a small pause before Kiara's calm voice floated through the receiver. "Misha, you're screaming in my ear. And language, please."
I gasped dramatically, clutching my imaginary pearls. "Wow. Not even a hello? This is why I have trust issues," I said, throwing myself back on the bed as if deeply wounded by her lack of affection.
"Oh please," she replied, clearly unimpressed. "I know that tone — what do you want?"
Rolling onto my stomach, I kicked my legs up like a five-year-old. "Nothing major," I said sweetly, "just your soul, your attention, and your suitcase because you're coming here to stay with me."
"What? I can't— I have college tomorrow!" she protested, her voice laced with the kind of responsibility that irritated me to my core.
"Excuse me? Did I just hear an excuse?" I pressed a hand to my chest in mock offense. "You've changed. College has corrupted you. Next thing I know, you'll stop watching Bollywood movies and start paying taxes voluntarily."
Her laugh echoed through the phone, warm and familiar. "Misha, you're insane."
"Insanely adorable, yes," I corrected. "Now come here. I'm giving you exactly one hour. If you don't, I'm calling Mom and telling her you've joined a cult."
"A cult?!" she exclaimed, somewhere between amused and horrified.
"Yes," I said confidently, pacing the room. "It's called People Who Ignore Their Sisters. Membership is free, but emotional guilt lasts forever."
"You're impossible," she sighed, and I could practically see her pinching the bridge of her nose.
"And yet, you love me. Don't deny it, peasant," I teased, flipping my hair dramatically even though she couldn't see it.
"You're my only sister, I don't have a choice. You are still the same menace." she sighed. "Fine, you little manipulator. I'll come by evening. Happy?" she said dryly.
"Ecstatic," I replied dramatically. "Now come fast before I lose my sanity! Bye, loser," I said triumphantly, already knowing I had won.
"Ungrateful brat," she muttered before hanging up.
I grinned, tossing my phone aside. Mission accomplished.
After the call, I freshened up, helped Mom with some chores (by "helped," I mean broke two cucumbers while trying to peel them), and waited. The rest of the day passed in a blur of unpacking, chatting with my grandparents, and nearly tripping twice (which, honestly, was a personal best). By evening, I was practically glued to the door. Evening came, and with it came chaos — and that's when she arrived.
The moment she arrived, it was chaos — dramatic, loud, beautiful chaos.
I heard her voice before I saw her. "MISHA!"
I turned dramatically, gasping. "KIIIARAAA!"
And just like that, we ran to each other like those long-lost lovers from Kuch Kuch Hota Hai. We hugged tightly, screaming and laughing like maniacs. It felt like one of those overly emotional Karan Johar reunion scenes — complete with the background music that only existed in my imagination. My grandmother peeked from the kitchen, shaking her head with a smile. "These two have lost it."
After enough hugging and squealing to wake the neighborhood, the tears (and laughter) dried up, we headed straight to the street food stalls. Pav bhaji, pani puri, bhel, ice cream — name it, and we devoured it. Between mouthfuls of spicy pani puri, Kiara said, "You haven't changed a bit."
"Rude," I said, wiping my hands on a tissue. "I've matured. Just yesterday I didn't cry when my cookie broke in half."
She giggled. "That's... progress?".
We talked about everything — annoying relatives, weird childhood crushes, and who could eat more pani puris without dying.
By the time we reached home, our stomachs were full, but our energy was unmatched. That's when I suggested the most dangerous idea of the day — "Let's cook dinner together!"
At first, everything seemed fine. Kiara took charge like the self-declared head chef, and I, naturally, was her "creative assistant."
Now, here's the thing: when Kiara and I cook together, it's less MasterChef and more Mission Impossible. Within ten minutes, we had flour on the ceiling, a suspiciously burnt smell coming from the oven, and my mom yelling from the living room, "Do I smell smoke?".
Kiara was trying to flip a paratha while I was searching for the salt. "Where's the salt?!" I asked, opening every cabinet like a maniac.
"In your hand, you idiot!" she screamed, pointing to the packet I was already holding.
"Oh," I said innocently, "I was testing your observation skills."
"Please don't touch that," she warned as I grabbed the oil bottle.
"Relax! I know what I'm doing!" I said confidently — right before the oil splattered and made a pop sound.
We both screamed, ducked, and somehow managed to knock over half the spice rack.
"OH MY GOD, MISHA!" Kiara yelled, trying to grab the spoon.
"I SWEAR IT WAS SELF-DEFENSE! THE OIL ATTACKED FIRST!" I argued, holding a burnt spatula like a sword.
The kitchen looked like a battlefield — flour on the counter, onions rolling across the floor, and a suspicious smell of something burning. We both stared at it for a second... then burst into uncontrollable laughter.
"Mom's going to kill us," Kiara wheezed.
"She'll kill you. I'm her favorite," I said, smirking.
She threw a towel at me, and I dodged it, still laughing.
Eventually, we somehow managed to eat what we cooked — which, considering the disaster, felt like a Michelin-star meal and then, finally, we climbed up to the terrace. The night sky stretched wide above us, filled with stars, and a soft breeze made the air feel magical. We stood with mugs of tea, our legs crossed, wrapped in thin shawls, the chaos of the kitchen now replaced by calm laughter.
I leaned back, sighing. "You know, if there was a contest for kitchen disasters, we'd win first prize."
Kiara laughed. "You'd win. I'd get a lifetime supply of anxiety."
We fell silent for a moment, just listening to the faint hum of the night. Then, as usual, we started gossiping about relatives.
"Did you see aunty's WhatsApp DP?" I said with a grin. "She literally used the dog filter again."
Kiara groaned. "Don't even remind me. And uncle? He still thinks forwarding those 'Good Morning' quotes counts as socializing."
We laughed until our stomachs hurt, drifting from one topic to another — from gossip to dreams, and eventually, to her college life.
"So," I asked casually, "how's college? You've been suspiciously quiet about your friends."
Kiara smirked. "You mean my family away from family? Okay, brace yourself."
I turned to her, intrigued.
"First, there's Rudra Oberoi — walking chaos in human form — always joking, always pulling pranks. If there's trouble in college, nine times out of ten, he's behind it. He once convinced our professor that aliens hacked his project. He also asked the canteen lady if she believed in aliens. She just gave him free samosas and walked away."
I burst out laughing. "Sounds like my soulmate, I need to meet this man.".
"Please don't," she said, laughing. "Then there's Advik Singhania — the responsible one, the mom of the group. He keeps everyone alive — makes sure we eat, attend class, and don't die of stupidity. Honestly, he's the reason we haven't been expelled yet."
"Every group needs a mom friend," I nodded.
Kiara smiled fondly, something in her tone changed — not serious, but softer. "Then there's Kabir Patel — socially awkward, adorable, says the most random things. He says random things out of nowhere, like once during a serious class discussion he just said, 'Do you think pigeons ever get confused?' And everyone went silent. But he's sweet and kind, even if he's a bit awkward."
I blinked. "Wait—what?!"
She was already laughing. "Yeah! According to him, pigeons also have emotions."
I laughed so hard I nearly fell off the terrace ledge. "Oh my God, your friends sound like walking memes."
"Pretty much," she said, shaking her head with an sigh. "Then there's Aarav Malhotra."
I turned to her. "Ooooh. Then there's Aarav, huh? That sounds suspiciously dramatic. Tell me everything."
Kiara rolled her eyes, trying to hide the small smile tugging at her lips. "Relax, filmy queen. He's not like that. Aarav's just... easy to be around, you know? He's funny without even trying, sarcastic in the most charming way, and somehow always ends up calming everyone down — even when he's the one who started the chaos."
I gasped dramatically, pretending to take notes on my invisible notepad. "So, a menace wrapped in chill energy?"
"Exactly!" She pointed at me, laughing. "He'll tease everyone, pull stupid pranks, and then turn around and help the professor fix the projector like some sort of hero from a rom-com."
I tilted my head, pretending to analyze. "Mmm, sounds like a walking contradiction. My favorite flavor of human."
Kiara gave me a look that screamed I know you too well. "You'd probably get along with him. He's got that same reckless sparkle you have — minus the dramatic entrances."
I gasped again, pressing a hand to my chest. "Excuse you. My dramatic entrances are art."
She burst out laughing, shaking her head. "Yeah, tell that to the time you tripped while trying to make one."
"Low blow," I muttered, grabbing a peanut from the bowl and throwing it at her. She dodged it effortlessly, looking way too pleased with herself.
We lay on our backs, staring at the stars again, our conversation drifting from college to dreams, to life, to nonsense. Somewhere between our laughter and the calm night breeze, I realized how much I'd missed her — her warmth, her teasing, her steady presence that always balanced my chaos.
As the stars twinkled above, I whispered, "You know, Kiara... life feels more like a movie when you're around."
She smiled softly. "That's because with you, Misha, there's never a dull scene."
By the time we finally went to bed, my cheeks hurt from smiling. I didn't know it then, but somewhere in the middle of that conversation, amidst laughter and stories about her friends, a single name had quietly settled into my heart.
And just like that, I found myself oddly curious about the boy who could apparently fix projectors and chaos at the same time.