Mehra Bhawan
The sun over Mumbai was already blinding at 9:30 a.m., turning the cream walls of Mehra Bhawan into a postcard glow. The glass windows caught the light like they were showing off. Inside, though, it wasn’t serene at all.
It was Sunday, which in the Mehra household meant three things late breakfast, louder arguments, and Ananya Mehra pretending she was in a Bollywood movie… again.
The living room was massive two-storey ceilings, a chandelier that Namrata Mehra swore “added grace” but Dev claimed “looked like an overgrown upside-down diya,” and a space in the middle that Ananya had unofficially claimed as her dance floor.
And there she was now.
Barefoot, hair in a loose braid, wearing an oversized white T-shirt with a faded Kuch Kuch Hota Hai logo on it and pastel shorts. The Bluetooth speaker blared the familiar flute intro, and Ananya’s face lit up like she’d been waiting for this her entire life.
🎵 Mere khwabon mein jo aaye… aake mujhe chhed jaaye… 🎵
She didn’t just dance, she performed. Every eyebrow raise, every spin exaggerated, dramatic, filmy. She leapt onto the cream rug, twirling until her braid slapped her back, then pointed to an imaginary lover like a 90's heroine.
From the staircase, Dev leaned on the railing, coffee mug in hand, smirking.
“Bas yahi reh gaya tha… Sunday morning pe mere saamne Kajol ka sasta remake.”
Nisha padded into the room in her socks, yawning and carrying a half-eaten banana.
“Bhai, ignore her. She’s been like this since she woke up. I literally brushed my teeth to this song.”
🎵 Bata do tum kaun ho… mere dil mein kyun ho… 🎵
Ananya blew a kiss toward the staircase, very much in character.
“Toh kya hua, tum dono mere Rahul-Anjali ke mix ho.”
“Main Rahul? Na baba, main toh Shah Rukh se zyada doctor banne ka acting karta hoon,” Dev replied, walking down the stairs. He plopped onto the sofa and started scrolling through his phone, pretending not to watch but his eyes flicked up every time she twirled dangerously close to the glass coffee table.
Namrata Mehra’s voice rang from the kitchen, “Ananya! Are you dancing in the living room again?”
“Again?” Dev muttered. “Jaise kal bhi yehi chal raha tha.”
“Main practice kar rahi hoon, Matashri!” Ananya yelled back, spinning and almost colliding with Nisha.
Nisha caught her wrist just in time. “Oye, careful! Agar tu gir gayi na, mujhe tujhe uthane ka kaam milega.”
Vidyut Mehra walked in at that exact moment, The Economic Times in one hand, spectacles sliding down his nose. He took in the scene daughter dancing like she’s in K3G, one son sipping coffee, the other daughter chewing a banana like it’s the most urgent task in the world and sighed.
“Family hai ya film set, samajh nahi aata.”
🎵 Aaye haaye… aaye haaye… 🎵
Ananya leapt into a fake slow-motion move, hair flying, eyes dreamy.
Nisha muttered, “Mujhe laga slow motion sirf serials mein hota hai.”
Dev finally couldn’t resist. “Bas kar, Anu. Tu soch rahi hai tu heroine hai… reality check, tere baal oil mein chipke hue hain.”
Ananya gasped, hand to her chest, scandalised. “Tum dono mere art ko samajhte hi nahi.”
“Art? Beta, yeh art hota toh mujhe headache nahi deta,” Vidyut deadpanned, moving to his armchair.
And yet, nobody stopped her. Because that was the Mehras noisy, dramatic, teasing each other like it was a sport, but secretly loving the madness.
If you are thinking this is madness ,this is just the starting... let's move to shergill's
Shergill Sadan
If Mehra Bhawan had sunlight and pastel elegance, Shergill Sadan was warm in brick and wood. The kind of bungalow where the front gate was always half-open because someone was either leaving or arriving, and the garden had mismatched chairs because no one ever bothered to make things “aesthetic.”
It was 10:15 a.m., and from the outside, you’d think it was peaceful. The gulmohar tree was swaying in the breeze, the front porch had two dogs (Caramel & Rocky) lazily stretched out, and somewhere inside, a radio was playing an old Kishore Kumar song.
Step inside, though… and peace took one look at the Shergills and ran away.
“Ayeee! Ishaan! Tere chappal mere kamre mein kaise aaye?!”
That was Aisha Shergill, eldest daughter, first-year MBBS student, standing at the top of the stairs in pink pajama pants and a bun that screamed no-nonsense elder sister energy.
From the living room, Ishaan all of 16, tall for his age, and grinning like he’d just invented trouble yelled back, “Woh toh tere kamre ko hawa lag rahi thi, main fresh air ke liye bhej diya.”
Before Aisha could reply, Prem Shergill, broad-shouldered, 12th-grade science topper, and unofficial peacekeeper walked past with a plate of parathas in one hand. “Ishaan, stop instigating her. Aisha, stop threatening him. Mom just made parathas, don’t ruin the vibe.”
From the kitchen, Vikram Shergill’s deep voice boomed, “Exactly. Sunday ko ladayi allowed nahi hai, sirf khana allowed hai.”
Vikram was the kind of father who looked intimidating in his crisp white kurta but was secretly the biggest softie for his kids. Anuraadha Shergill, on the other hand, didn’t believe in “secret” softness she’d scold you, feed you, and hug you in the same breath.
She emerged now, wiping her hands on her apron. “Prem, serve the achar. Aisha, come eat. Ishaan, chappal apni sambhal le warna main hawa mein uda dungi.”
“I’m coming!” Ishaan called, but instead of going to the dining table, he jogged up the stairs and whispered something in Aisha’s ear.
Whatever he said made her eyes narrow dangerously.
“ISHAAAN SHERGILL! TUMHARI TOH—”
Prem was quick to intervene, stepping between them. “Aisha, you’re gonna be a doctor. Doctors don’t commit murder.”
“Brothers don’t breathe if they value their life,” she snapped, but the corner of her mouth twitched.
The thing about the Shergills? They fought like wild cats but loved like wolves protective, loyal, and willing to go to war for each other.
Prem finally herded both siblings to the table. The dining room was chaos in itself mismatched mugs, newspapers, and the smell of fresh ghee on parathas filling the air. Ishaan talked with his mouth full, Aisha corrected his table manners, Prem ignored both, and their parents just smiled like this was their favorite Sunday soundtrack.They have signed up for this chaos , that too on loop
•───────•°•❀•°•────────•
Here's The 1rst chapter
Hope you like it
Happy reading 🌷
Write a comment ...