Peep peep! Honk honk!"
As the sun rises, its golden rays spill over the streets of Pakistan's bustling heart, painting Lahore in beautiful hues and waking the city.
"Watch out! Rickshaw coming through!"
"Bhai, can you move a little to the left?"
"Fresh samosas! Get your hot samosas here!"
"Where are you headed? The market's that way!"
"Just trying to catch a ride, yaar!"
It's a typical morning in Pakistan, where everyone is up at dawn, offering prayers and diving into their daily routines. The city is alive with the energy of a fresh start, everyone waking up in hope of a good day.
As the scene shifts from the bustling streets, the sun's rays find their way to a modest three-story house. The light filters through a window, landing on a large bed where someone, despite the hustle outside, is still fast asleep—clearly, the laziest person in the entire city.
Knock, knock.
"Wake up!" comes a voice from the door. After getting no response, the door creaks open, and a small head peeks in like a curious little kitten. "You're gonna get Mom angry, Bhai. Wake up, you lazy bum!"
The so-called lazy Bhai remains dead to the world, completely oblivious. Seeing this, the person enters the room, and now we get a clear view—wait, it's not a "he," it's a "she!" A small, angelic girl stands there. As the sunlight touches her face, it reflects off her large brown eyes, which gleam like molten gold. Her delicate features are so perfect they could have been crafted by a jeweler.
She gazes at her older brother, who is still snoring away. "He's still sleeping, hmm…" she mutters. Suddenly, a mischievous grin spreads across her face. "Buhahahaha!"
Afternoon!
The midday sun now blazes over the busy streets, casting a golden glow on everything below. Schoolchildren of all ages peer through their school gates, eager to spot their parents, taxi drivers, or rickshaw wallahs waiting to take them home. As the school bell rings, the gates swing open, and the kids charge out, some like wild horses, including one boy who, sensing his mother's "Desi Angry Bird" mood, is already making a run for it.
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" echoes a shriek so loud it could make you think Pakistan just won the World Cup. (We both know that's nearly impossible, but hey, "Tum jeeto ya haro, humein tumse pyaar hai!")
Meanwhile, back at the three-story house, we find the teenage boy standing in front of a mirror, staring at his reflection with a mix of horror and disbelief. Normally, he's just your average, above-average-looking guy, but right now... well, let's just say things are not going well. His lips look like they belong to a giant baboon, his eyes are outlined with so much mascara it could start its own ad campaign, and his hair—oh boy—his hair is braided into tiny pigtails, with "Daddy's Little Princess" written across his forehead in bright pink marker.
In short, he looks like an alien desperately trying to fit in at a human wedding. Even his own mother would have to do a double-take.
"Begairat!" comes a furious yell, followed by the sound of rapid footsteps, dhuk dhuk dhuk. The boy turns towards the door, terror in his eyes. His heart races like he's trapped in a horror movie, and the monster is on its way—except this time, the monster is very real. It's Mom.
Suddenly, there's a deafening silence. So silent, even the narrator in the fourth wall shouts, "Arrey, itna sannata kyu hai bhai?!"
BOOM! The door slams open, and in strides the creature feared by children and husbands alike across every culture and religion—the Mother. And in her hand, she wields her most powerful weapon: the unbeatable CHAPPAL.
This chappal is a legend, an heirloom passed down through generations of mothers, known for its deadly accuracy. And today, its target is locked—the boy standing frozen in front of the mirror.
"Begairat!" she hisses, eyes blazing. "You didn't even wake up for Fajr, and now, thanks to your screaming, I missed the most intense part of my favorite drama! YOU. ARE. DEAD."
With that, her loyal chappal flies through the air like a missile, striking the boy right on the face with such precision that the audience whistles in appreciation.
Fast forward five minutes.
We find ourselves in the TV lounge. The mother, now much calmer, is sitting on the sofa, trying—and failing—to suppress her laughter. Her son, meanwhile, stands there holding his face, which has turned a rather strange shade of red.
"Okay, okay, I'm sorry!" she says between giggles. "Stop looking at me with those eyes! I won't be able to control myself! Hahahaha!"
The boy says nothing, but the fiery look in his now mascara-smudged eyes says it all. His little sister had pranked him, turning him into a living, breathing clown—and he wasn't the type to let this go easily. Revenge was brewing in his mind.
Knock, knock.
"WHO'S THERE?!" he yells, ready for anything—or so he thinks...