You know those stories where the protagonist travels back in time with a mission, glowing purpose, or some divine prophecy? Yeah, this is not that story.
I was literally lying on my bed in my oversized hoodie, eating stale banana chips and binge-watching Na Eunwoo's "Funny Moments Compilation #279" on YouTube. Subtitle errors, awkwardly cut scenes, and all. I laughed. Genuinely laughed. He was doing that weird thing where he tried to speak English and said "I am hot, spicy man" with a straight face.
Classic Eunwoo. My soft, squishy, occasionally cringey comfort human.
But then I saw that moment again—him spacing out in the middle of a group laugh, that glassy look in his eyes like he was everywhere but there. I'd noticed it a hundred times before. The way he blinked too slow, the forced half-smile, the subtle dip in his shoulders. Sad. So sad, and I had no idea why.
"I wish I knew you," I mumbled, balancing my phone on my chest. "Like, actually knew you. Before all the cameras and the makeup artists and the soul-sucking industry leeches."
Boom. Cue the blinding pain.
No, seriously. My head started throbbing like someone was using my skull as a dhol at a Punjabi wedding. I groaned and rolled over, except—ouch. My chest was tight, my vision blurred, and suddenly even existing was too much effort. Then, like some budget Netflix time-travel plot twist, my whole body felt like it was being wrung out and squeezed into a shot glass.
And then—darkness.
Pitch black. Not the good kind with ambient jazz and sleep. The "help, I think I just died" kind.
I woke up screaming.
Or at least I tried to scream. What came out was a wet, pitiful baby squawk.
"Oh my God, she's crying! Look at her, look at her!" a woman's voice shrieked over my head. She sounded both tearful and annoyingly loud.
I blinked. Or at least, I think I did. It felt like blinking through cling wrap.
Wait. Why is everything giant? Why does my hand look like a sausage? Why do I feel like I'm wrapped in cotton wool and dipped in milk?
Then came the second voice. "She has your eyes, Naina. Look at her. I swear to God, she's going to be a talkative one. Just like you."
I froze.
Not literally, because again—I was a newborn and my limbs were basically decorative noodles. But in my head, I froze.
Because that voice. That voice was Dad's. My actual Dad. Not the memory of him. Not the annual Facebook slideshow of photos we posted every year on his death anniversary. No. Real voice. Breathing. Speaking. Alive.
What in the emotionally confusing time-warp is going on?
I tried to focus, but my neck was about as useful as a toothpick in a sword fight. All I managed was a whimper, which sent both of them into a fresh wave of "oh-my-God-she's-so-cute" hysteria. Then Mom—or rather, Younger Mom, since her skin wasn't sagging yet from years of "life happening"—kissed my forehead, tears streaming down her cheeks.
"Welcome to the world, Ahana."
Ahana. Me. Still me. Only…newborn me. Which made no sense because last time I checked, I was twenty-two, chronically single, and semi-depressed over an idol I'd never met. Now I was… what? Zero? Negative chill and covered in baby slime?
And the calendar on the wall said: January 16, 2003.
Let me tell you something about being a baby. It sucks.
Everyone thinks babies have it easy. Eat, sleep, poop, repeat. Wrong. First off, you know nothing. You have no teeth, no bladder control, and if your sock slips off, you're basically screwed. Second, no one listens to you. No matter how clearly I cried "Please, not the boiled carrots again," all they heard was "waaaah."
Rude.
I spent the next few days trying to cope. At first, I thought this was a coma dream. Maybe a stress-induced hallucination brought on by dehydration and internet addiction. But nope. Every day, I woke up in the same room—with peeling yellow paint, the rattle of ceiling fans, and the faint smell of Dettol.
Our old house.
Our actual old house in the countryside. The one we left when Dad passed. Here he was, alive and humming old Kishore Kumar songs in the kitchen. Sometimes he'd pick me up and bounce me like a potato sack while singing off-key, and I'd be like, "Sir, I'm having an existential crisis, not a circus ride."
Mom was always around too—young, energetic, and not yet dulled by grief and bills. She'd coo and fuss and occasionally sing lullabies with the emotional intensity of a Bollywood heroine in act one.
And me? I lay there, plotting.
Alright, "plotting" is generous. I lay there thinking about diapers and Na Eunwoo.
Because that's the thing, right? Somewhere in Korea, a six-year-old version of him was probably learning to tie his shoelaces and falling off monkey bars. What do I do with that information? Do I wait eighteen years to meet him? Do I find a way to go to Korea sooner?
Can someone even get a passport as a literal baby?
Questions. So many questions. No answers.
Three weeks in, I finally cracked the baby code. The key to survival? Manipulate the parents.
Here's what I learned:
• Smile at Dad = he gives you rasgulla syrup on his finger when Mom isn't looking.
• Cry when Mom leaves the room = she returns instantly like a Bollywood Maa radar.
• Sneeze and look cute = people coo and forget you just peed on them.
I was basically a con artist in a onesie.
But every night, when the lights went off and the fan whirred above me, I'd stare at the ceiling and think of him. Eunwoo. Somewhere, not too far, just a time zone away. A little boy with soft hair and sad eyes, maybe sitting by a window, staring at stars.
Was it creepy that a baby was mentally simping for a six-year-old? Technically yes. But I wasn't a real baby. I was a fully grown, emotionally damaged woman in a baby's body. So… ethically grey?
I swear, the universe had a messed-up sense of humor.
Then one afternoon, as Mom rocked me to sleep on the swing, Dad came in holding a newspaper.
"Yaar, did you know there's a direct flight from Delhi to Seoul now?" he said, eyes scanning the page. "Some new airline. They're opening a cultural expo too. Korea's becoming a big deal."
My ears perked up like a Labrador hearing the word "walk."
Wait. Waitwaitwait.
Cultural expo? Delhi? Korea? Flights?
"Don't even think about traveling," Mom said without looking up. "You get tired walking to the vegetable stall."
Dad laughed. "I'm just saying. Maybe someday. We could go on a family trip. Imagine that, Ahana—your first trip abroad!"
I stared at him.
You have no idea, old man. No idea at all.
So here I am.
Baby by day. Schemer by night. Half the time I'm crying for milk, the other half I'm internally planning a way to get to Korea before I even start kindergarten. But one thing is certain.
This isn't random. It means something.
Maybe I can meet him. Help him. Save him before the world gets to him first.
But first… I need to learn how to walk.