Okay, so here's the thing about lunch at St. Mary's. It's not just eating. It's survival. You've got thirty minutes to claim a table, defend your food, negotiate trades, and somehow not get your tiffin ransacked by vultures disguised as classmates. Riya's good at this. Like, really good. Me? I'm tucked in her bag, pages pressed against a half-empty Kurkure packet, listening to the chaos unfold. And trust me—it's always chaos.
The bell rings at 12:45. Instantly, the hallway explodes. Shoes squeak on tile. Backpacks swing like weapons. Someone yells, "MOVE!" and nearly takes out a sixth-grader. It's like a stampede, except everyone's running toward food instead of away from danger.
Riya doesn't sprint. She's learned that sprinting makes you look desperate, and desperate people get their samosas stolen. Instead, she walks. Slow. Confident. Hoodie sleeves pulled over her knuckles, ponytail already half-falling out, humming some song she heard on the radio last night.
She's ready.
The cafeteria smells like fried pakoras, spilled chutney, and that weird lemony cleaner the janitor uses. It's loud—so loud. Steel tiffins clattering, spoons scraping, laughter bouncing off the walls.
Riya scans the room. Target acquired: the window table.
It's the best spot. Good lighting (Megha's obsessed with natural light for her "aesthetic"), decent airflow (so you don't sweat into your rice), and far enough from the teachers' table that you can actually talk without getting shushed. But there's a problem. Naina's circling it like a shark. Her little squad—two girls with matching water bottles and color-coded lunchboxes—are already hovering near the chairs, ready to pounce.
Riya narrows her eyes. Oh, hell no.
She speeds up. Not a sprint. Just a purposeful walk. Megha appears out of nowhere, sliding into step beside her.
"We claiming the window table?"
"Obviously."
"Naina's gonna fight you for it."
"Let her try."
They reach the table at the same time. Naina's hand is on the back of a chair. Riya's tiffin is already slamming down onto the table surface. For a second, they just stare at each other.
Then Riya smiles. Sweet. Dangerous.
"We were here first."
Naina's jaw tightens. "I don't see your name on it."
"You want me to write it? I've got a Sharpie."
Megha barely hides her laugh behind a cough. Naina glares. Her squad exchanges nervous looks. Then, finally, she huffs and turns away. "Whatever. Enjoy your carbs."
Riya watches her go, then flops into the chair.
"Victory tastes like butter."
Megha grins, pulling out her phone. "I'm posting this. 'Conquered the window table. Enemies defeated. Lunch is served.'"
"You're so dramatic."
"Says the girl who just had a standoff over a chair."
Fair point.
Riya pops open her tiffin. Instantly, the smell hits. Golden parathas. Still warm. Aloo subzi with just the right amount of spice. A little container of mango pickle that's so tangy it could wake the dead. And—oh, thank you, Aunt Sunita—a samosa. Crispy. Perfect. Probably still hot.
Riya's mouth waters.
Megha leans over, eyes wide. "Is that—?"
"Yes."
"Can I—?"
"No."
"Riya. Bestie. Light of my life—"
"You're on a diet. You told me yourself."
"Diets don't count during lunch. That's a rule."
"That's not a rule."
But Megha's already reaching for the samosa, and Riya smacks her hand away. "Get your own food!"
"I have food!" Megha holds up a sad-looking salad. Lettuce. Cucumbers. Some mysterious dressing. "But it's boring."
Riya sighs. Breaks off a corner of the samosa. Hands it over.
Megha's face lights up. "You're the best."
"I know. Now leave me alone."
Varun shows up thirty seconds later. Of course he does.
He drops into the seat next to Riya, grinning like he's about to cause problems. "After-noon, didi."
"It's literally lunchtime."
"Whatever. What's for lunch?"
"Nothing you're getting."
But his eyes are already on her tiffin. Specifically, the pickle.
"Is that—?"
"Don't even think about it."
"I'm not thinking. I'm just looking."
"Varun, I swear—"
He lunges. Riya's faster. She snatches the pickle container and holds it out of reach, glaring at him.
"Touch my food and you're dead."
"You always say that."
"And one day I'll mean it."
He backs off, laughing. "Fine, fine. Stingy."
"Survival of the fittest. You should've brought your own lunch."
"I did. I just like yours better."
Typical.
Across the cafeteria, Kabir's in his usual spot. Corner table. Sketchbook open. Pencil moving.
Riya doesn't have to look to know what he's drawing. It's her. It's always her.
Megha notices, nudges Riya's arm. "Your boyfriend's staring again."
Riya chokes on her paratha. "What?"
"Kabir. He's literally sketching you right now."
"He's not my—"
"Sure, sure. Keep telling yourself that."
Riya glances over. Kabir's eyes flick up. They make eye contact for half a second. Then he looks back down at his sketchbook, smirking.
Riya's face heats up. "I hate him."
"No you don't."
"I will if he keeps drawing my face without permission."
Megha laughs. "You love it. Don't lie."
Riya doesn't answer. Just shoves another bite of paratha into her mouth.
The next disaster comes in the form of a trade negotiation. Some kid from the cricket team—Rohan, maybe?—walks over, holding a pakora.
"Hey. Riya."
She looks up, suspicious. "What."
"I'll trade you this pakora for some of your aloo subzi."
Riya squints at the pakora. It's a little burnt. Definitely cafeteria-made.
"That's a terrible deal."
"Come on. I'm starving."
"Not my problem."
"Please?"
She sighs. Scoops a tiny bit of subzi onto a napkin. Hands it over.
He grins. "Thanks!"
"You owe me."
"I'll remember that."
He better.
Then Naina decides to ruin everything.
She's sitting at the next table over, stabbing her cucumber slices like they personally offended her. Her friends are whispering, shooting glances at Riya's table. Finally, Naina looks over. Loud enough for half the cafeteria to hear, she says, "Some people treat lunch like a party instead of preparing for the physics test."
The cafeteria goes quiet.
Megha freezes, paratha halfway to her mouth. Varun smirks, sensing drama. Riya slowly lowers her samosa. She looks at Naina. Smiles.
"Oh, Naina. I am preparing. Just preparing my stomach first. Priorities."
A few people snicker.
Naina's face flushes. "Some of us actually care about our grades."
"And some of us know how to have fun. Balance, you know?"
More laughter now. Even a couple of Naina's friends are trying not to smile. Naina's jaw tightens. She looks like she wants to say something else, but instead she just turns back to her lunchbox, stabbing her cucumbers with renewed aggression.
Riya takes a triumphant bite of her samosa.
Megha grins. "You're evil."
"She started it."
"Still. Evil."
Riya shrugs. "Maybe. But I'm fun evil."
The bell rings way too soon. Lunch is over.
Riya packs up her tiffin—empty now, except for a few crumbs and a smear of pickle. She's full. Happy. Victorious. Megha's already fixing her hair in her phone camera. Varun's stealing someone's leftover chips on the way out. Kabir's still sketching, probably finishing whatever masterpiece he started.
And Naina? Still glaring.
Riya catches her eye on the way out. Gives her a little wave.
Naina doesn't wave back.
Good.
Later that night, Riya's sprawled on her bed, staring at the ceiling. Her stomach's still full. Her hoodie smells faintly like parathas. She's tired, but the good kind of tired.
She reaches for me, opens to a blank page.
Dear Lunch Box,
Today I defended my table, my samosa, and my honor. Naina tried to come for me and failed. Megha stole half my food. Varun almost stole the other half. Kabir's probably drawing me eating right now, which is weird but also kind of flattering? I don't know.
Lunch is exhausting. But also kind of the best part of the day.
Tomorrow I'm bringing extra pickle. Just in case.
—
I soak up the ink. The little doodle of a samosa she drew in the corner. The smudged fingerprint from the mango pickle.
And I think: Yeah. This is her kingdom. Thirty minutes. One tiffin. A whole world.