By the time I turned three, I had accepted two undeniable facts:
I was stuck in the early 2000s, and
My cheeks had more power than my actual words.
It was both a blessing and a curse, really. I'd walk into a room and grown adults would melt like Amul butter left out in the sun.
"Look at her eyes! She's so sharp, na?"
"So expressive! Did you see how she tilted her head when I said 'apple'?"
"She understands everything!"
Ma, Dadi, and the neighborhood aunties were convinced I was some kind of child prodigy. Not because I was actually doing anything spectacular—but because I had what I call the "Silent Judgement Baby Face." You know, that still, unimpressed stare that screams, Your voice hurts my brain but I have no power to stop you.
Apparently, people think that's intelligence.
No one suspected I was a full-grown twenty-something trapped inside a preschooler's body. Not even when I recited all of "Ek Chatur Naar" in perfect rhythm to troll my annoying cousin Arjun at a family function. They just clapped and called me "gifted."
If only they knew.
Our family lived in a sleepy village on the outskirts of Punjab. Our house was surrounded by fields, mango trees, and the occasional rogue cow with the IQ of a carrot. It was simple, warm, and always smelled like turmeric.
My Dadi, queen of backhanded compliments and kitchen domination, ruled the house like a benevolent dictator. She had silver hair wrapped in a tight bun, permanently suspicious eyes, and a soft spot for only two things: mythological TV serials and me.
"She's like a goddess," she declared one day, squishing my cheeks while I sat motionless like a hostage. "So well-mannered, so graceful."
Yeah, Dadi. If a goddess ever threw her socks across the room because someone switched her cartoon mid-episode, then sure.
My Dadu was the opposite. Calm, quiet, and always seated on the veranda with a newspaper in one hand and chai in the other. He'd wink at me sometimes, like he knew I was smarter than I let on.
Then there was Chachu, my 20-year-old uncle who still hadn't figured out whether he wanted to be an engineer, a DJ, or a full-time disappointment. He spent most of his time adjusting his hair in the mirror and complaining about "slow internet."
I liked him though. Mostly because he was too distracted by his own mediocrity to notice my weirdness.
Preschool started when I was three.
Ah, preschool. A lawless land of Play-Doh, mismatched socks, and accidental pee puddles. My first day, I walked in with zero expectations and even less patience. My plan was to lay low, observe, and not accidentally expose my adult brain.
Spoiler: that failed in under twenty minutes.
The teacher, Miss Komal, asked everyone to draw a tree. I drew a coconut tree with proper coconuts, shading, and a squirrel on one branch.
I missed one thing.
TODDLERS IN THE 2000s WERE FUCKING STUPID.
The class went silent. I tried to play it cool. "I like squirrels," I said with a shrug.
Miss Komal squatted to my eye level. "Ahana beta, where did you learn to draw like this?"
Oh no. She was suspicious. Abort mission.
I widened my eyes, dropped my crayon, and said, "I saw it in a cartoon."
Which was technically true. I just didn't mention it was a Bob Ross video on YouTube from my previous life.
By the end of the week, word spread that I was some kind of genius.
"Did you hear she asked where the rain comes from?"
"She told me to stop shouting because it would damage my 'developing eardrums'!"
"She reads upside down! Like a foreigner!"
Yup. I had accidentally become The Chosen One of preschool. The Sarcastic Baby Yoda.
I didn't even know how smart I came across—I just thought I was being normal. It was only when I overheard Miss Komal whispering to the principal, "She's either a prodigy or possessed," that I realized I had to dial it down.
But here's the thing about being a three-year-old with adult-level sarcasm: You will become a spectacle. People were both terrified and obsessed with me. One minute I was reciting the alphabet backwards for a snack, the next I was lecturing a classmate on personal space.
And then came… The Incident.
His name was Varun. Short, pudgy, and with the emotional stability of a wet tissue. He had a habit of offering his lunch to me, which—listen—I never asked for. But one day, he brought two guavas and plopped one on my table like it was a diamond ring.
"I like you, Ahana," he said, fidgeting. "I told Mummy I want to marry you."
Pause. Blink.
Everyone in earshot froze.
I looked up slowly from my coloring book, made direct eye contact, and said in my most diplomatic voice:
"Varun, we're three. We don't even have all our teeth yet."
He blinked.
"And you smell like glue," I added for good measure. "So let's revisit this in about… fifteen years. Maybe."
He burst into tears. Full-blown, snot-filled, soul-crushing sobs.
Was I sorry? Kind of. But mostly annoyed.
Miss Komal rushed over, cradling Varun like a soldier fallen in battle. "Ahana! What did you say to him?!"
"Only the truth," I replied, blinking innocently. "You always say we should be honest."
She opened her mouth, paused, and then said, "Let's go back to drawing flowers."
Good call.
Despite my harsh approach to toddler romance, I was surprisingly popular. Maybe it was the mysterious aura, maybe the big eyes, or maybe because I once explained how clouds work using a paper napkin. Either way, people liked me. A lot.
But none of them mattered.
Because my real mission was in motion.
Phase One: Obtain a Device.
Phase Two: Start a YouTube Channel.
Phase Three: Build clout. Move to Korea. Rescue Eunwoo.
Simple, right?
Except I needed a phone.
Now, asking for a mobile phone in 2006 (yes, it's 2006 now—time flies when you're being emotionally blackmailed by kindergarteners) was like asking for a spaceship. Especially at age three. But I had an advantage: I was cute. Like dangerously cute. I could weaponize a pout and make it lethal.
So one evening, as Dad was sipping his chai and fixing a loose fan blade, I climbed into his lap like an innocent squirrel.
"Papa?"
"Yes, gudiya?" he said, ruffling my hair.
"I want a phone."
He blinked. "A toy phone? I can get you a pink one. It even makes beeping sounds—"
"No. A real one."
He laughed. "You're three!"
I sighed dramatically. "Exactly. I need to start early. You always say time doesn't wait for anyone. Also, how else will I call Dadi when she's downstairs?"
He raised an eyebrow. "You want a phone… to call Dadi. In the same house."
"And to learn new things. The world is going digital, Papa. You don't want me to be left behind, do you?"
I knew I'd struck gold with that line. My father was a firm believer in the "early bird gets the worm" philosophy. And I was the bird. Hunting a very specific Korean worm.
A week later, he brought home a box. Inside it—cue dramatic K-drama music—was a second-hand Nokia phone.
No camera. No internet. But it was a start.
"I'll upgrade it if you prove you're responsible," he said.
I hugged him. "Papa, you won't regret this."
Within a month, I had "borrowed" Chachu's desktop computer and figured out how to upload videos through a makeshift USB connection. I started a YouTube channel under the name "Ahana" Because subtlety is for losers.
My first video? A toddler cooking tutorial featuring me making imaginary tea using toy cups and exaggerated eye-rolls.
It got 73 views.
My second video? A dramatic reading of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" in a British accent.
123 views.
I was slowly becoming a thing. And most people thought my parents were the ones behind it, which worked in my favor. I didn't correct them.
I had a long way to go. But it was happening.
I was moving toward Eunwoo.
But then… came the dream.
It wasn't vivid or detailed. Just a flicker. A moment. My father's voice, echoing like wind.
"I'll be right back, beta."
And then—silence.
I woke up sweating. Panicked. Shaken in a way I hadn't been since that night I saw a cockroach fly in 2022.
Because I remembered.
This was the year.
The year everything changed.
The year my father… died.
Suddenly, the phone didn't matter. The YouTube views didn't matter. Even Eunwoo didn't matter.
My plan had a countdown clock now. And I had no idea how to stop it.