The Classy Thirteen

I live for lava baby.

Shayar’s POV

If someone had told me last night that my Wednesday morning would start with sitting cross-legged on a hard rehearsal hall floor, listening to Ms. Falcon’s dramatic lecture about responsibility, I’d have laughed. But here I was—half awake, fighting the urge to yawn, surrounded by my friends who looked just as miserable.

The sunlight streaming through the tall rehearsal room windows didn’t help. Too bright, too cheerful for the mood inside. Everyone sat in a rough circle, trying their best to look repentant. Except Reyan—he leaned back lazily against the wall, arms folded, smirk already threatening to break loose. Trouble magnet, that one.

“Annual function bas paanch din door hai,” Ms. Falcon announced, her sharp British-accented Hindi cutting through the room. “Aur tum sab do hafte gayab the. Hod se permission le liya tha, but that doesn’t excuse the irresponsibility. Practice ka time waste ho gaya hai.”

“Humari absence me yeh kitni achhi hindi bolna seekh gayi.” Reyan whispered into Sarthak's ear, loud enough that I could hear it.

I tried to nod with the right level of guilt. My acting skills would be useful here.

“Mam, we’re sorry,” Vivaan spoke up, tone smooth as ever. “We promise paanch din mein sab taiyar kar lenge. We won’t disappoint you.”

Ms. Falcon wasn’t convinced. She adjusted her glasses, tapping a pen against her clipboard like it was a gavel. “Dance performances will not be enough. Indian traditional dances are difficult to master in such a short time. French audience ko impress karna hai. Risk nahi le sakte.”

She paused for dramatic effect. We held our breaths.

“So… Ramayana play it is.”

A collective groan echoed around the room.

From my right, Reyan muttered just loud enough for us all to hear, “Function wale din tak inka yahi chalta rahega dekhna. Aaj Ramayana play karenge. Kal Mahabharata. Parso Bhangra troupe. Same cycle repeat.”

I bit my lip to stop myself from laughing, but Ms. Falcon’s hawk-like ears caught him. She snapped her head in his direction.

“No, Reyan. This one is final. Scripts are already prepared. Today, memorize them. Tomorrow, costumes. Aur agle teen din—non-stop rehearsals.”

Reyan gave a mock salute. “Ji haan, Maharani Falcon.”

Ayra elbowed him so hard that his salute turned into a flinch.

Prerna, sitting cross-legged beside Sara, raised her hand like she was about to ask a Nobel-prize-winning question. “But mam, our roles?”

Finally, the moment of truth.

Ms. Falcon began distributing scripts like they were destiny scrolls. I unfolded mine, bracing for disaster.

Ayra—Narrator and Anchor. Figures. She had the perfect voice for it.

Vivaan—Ram. Of course. He already had the Maharaj aura.

Me—Lakshman. Hmm. Not bad. Protective younger brother? At least I wasn’t a tree in the background. But in the previous casting, I was Ram. But it's alright.

Mayank—Hanuman. Honestly, fitting. With his energy levels, he could fly across the stage without wires.

Sara—Urmila. Nice. Sweet, bubbly, her vibe matched.

Sarthak—Bharat. Solid choice.

Rakshita—Sita. Interesting. This was going to fuel gossip for weeks.