Wet Floors and Wounded Egos, A Morning Unraveled

The clock ticked 6:15 AM, and the second-floor house was a warzone. Shilpa stood over a gleaming, wet floor, her mop a scepter of fury. Sweat plastered her unkempt hair to her forehead, streaks of dye glinting like battle scars. “Stop stepping on the mopped area—I’m bloody tired of you!” she bellowed. Her target: Vikas, her 10th-grader, who’d just trudged in, math book in hand—an enemy he loathed more than Monday mornings.

Vikas froze, sneakers squeaking traitorously on the tiles. Shilpa’s eyes blazed. “Your dad thinks he’s Rahul Gandhi, tossing money at me each month to fix democracy!” The political barb landed oddly, but Vikas barely registered it. “I have no hopes for you—you’re a loser!” she spat, her voice a blade. That did it. “Stop yelling!” he fired back. “Math isn’t everything—AI will save me when I’m grown. Who mops when we’re still here?” He stormed off, wet footprints trailing defiantly to his room.

Kāḷa, the German Shepherd, perched by the sofa, ears twitching like radar dishes. His dark eyes tracked the chaos, silently praying Shilpa’s wrath wouldn’t pivot to him. Then Santosh strolled in, all sunshine and denial. “What a beautiful morning, and you’re fighting!” Shilpa cut him off: “Spare me your political drivel. You’ve spoiled these kids with choices—my mom slapped us into discipline!”

Santosh blinked. “What did I do? Vikas needs his bathroom—what’s he supposed to do, levitate?” Kāḷa nudged his leg, begging for a walk, but Santosh pressed on. “Why drag Rahul Gandhi into this?” Shilpa's hand flew to her hip. “I hate Congress—it’s the only way to sting you. You’ve failed as a husband, CTO or not. You’re all MCPs!” The accusation—Male Chauvinist Pigs—exploded like confetti.

“Shilpa, it’s 6:30 AM—neighbors!” Santosh pleaded. She roared louder. “You screamed at my parents yesterday, pushing Congress over their Modi love. Who are you to preach?” Santosh gaped. “I was explaining Hinduism versus Hindutva—warning them about propaganda!”

Just then, Vivek, the 6th-grader, shuffled in.

“It’s 7:15, Appa—what’s AI versus ‘I’?” (Artificial Intelligence vs Intelligence)

Santosh grinned. “AI’s like Sadhus—mixed wisdom, untested. ‘I’ is real, felt knowledge.” Shilpa groaned. “Sadhus now? You’re insufferable!” Kāḷa tilted his head, still waiting, as the family’s morning unraveled—wet floors, wounded egos, and a dog who just wanted his walk.

The room stilled. Shilpa stood over the wet floor, her hands trembling around the mop handle, her chest tight with a fury she could no longer contain. The morning had unraveled like every other—Vikas's careless steps smearing her efforts, Santosh's hollow optimism grating against her exhaustion, and the weight of a house she carried alone pressing down harder with each shout. She saw her son’s defiance as a mirror of her husband’s failures—his grand lectures on politics and AI echoing the same arrogance that left her unheard, unseen, a servant in her own life. The dog’s quiet stare only deepened her isolation; even Kāḷa seemed to judge her. Her parents’ faces flashed in her mind, their voices drowned out by Santosh's smug reasoning the night before, and now this—her home a battlefield where discipline had crumbled, where her screams were the only weapon left to pierce the indifference. She wasn’t just tired; she was breaking, and no one cared enough to notice.

Kāḷa tilted his head, waiting by Santosh’s side, a patient witness to a family unraveling. The wet floor gleamed beneath them, a silent testament to Shilpas’s labor and their fractured bonds.