I was lying on the floor of our veranda, sipping mango Rasna out of a plastic cup shaped like a bunny (because, obviously, that's the only cup adults trust with a toddler), when it came to me. The memory. Unprompted. Sharp. Painful.
It was a Tuesday. July 5, 2006.
Rainy day. Roads slick. Dad took his bike to the post office because he said, "I'll be quick, beta. Won't take more than ten minutes."
He didn't come back.
It was a truck. Skidded around a corner. They said it wasn't anyone's fault. A "freak accident." I remember Ma screaming. Dadi fainting. Chachu punching a wall like that would .
Even now, in this tiny three-year-old body, the ache wrapped around my ribs like a vice.
But this time, I knew. I remembered. I could change it.
"Not this time, Papa," I muttered under my breath, clenching my bunny cup like a war general holds a battle plan. "I'm rewriting the script."
I had a few weeks until July 5.
I didn't have a lot of power—can't exactly ground your dad when you can't even tie your own shoelaces. But I had charm. And guilt-tripping eyes. And the ability to scream at pitches that could disrupt satellite signals.
So I started testing strategies.
Like the "Innocent Snuggle Trap."
"Papaaaa," I'd coo, crawling into his lap dramatically. "You work too much. I don't like it when you go out. Stay home all the time, okay?"
He chuckled. "Arre, gudiya. If I stay home, how will I earn money?"
"Ask Dadu. He's rich," I said immediately.
He laughed harder. "Where do you learn these things?"
From trauma and the internet, I wanted to say. But instead, I just pouted.
Another day, I faked a dream.
"I saw a monster outside the post office, Papa. It was huge. With wheels. Don't go there, okay?"
He blinked. "Monster with wheels?"
"Yup. And it eats people who wear red shirts and have mustaches."
He looked down at his red shirt and paused.
Small victories, people. Small victories.
Meanwhile, something weird was happening online.
My YouTube channel—which started as a desperate attempt at visibility—was now actually… growing.
A video I posted last week called "Toddler Reacts to Lame Fairy Tales" hit 1,000 views. Then 3,000. Then 7,000.
The comments? Gold.
"Whose kid is this? She has better sarcasm than my ex."
"I want to adopt her and also get roasted by her daily."
"This baby girl just called Cinderella a 'freeloader with no backbone.' I'm subscribing."
It was the kind of validation I didn't realize I craved.
Because here's the thing: in my last life, I never really stood out. I was sarcastic, yes, but not brave enough to use it. Not in public. Not where people could see me.
But now, behind the curtain of toddler innocence, I could say what I wanted—and people loved it.
It felt good. Like maybe I could do more than just reach Eunwoo. Maybe I could actually be someone before I even hit puberty.
At home, things were changing too. Ma was acting… weird.
Not bad weird. Just—glowy. Hungry. Weepy.
"Are you okay?" I asked one day as she cried over an ad for cooking oil.
"Just hormones," she sniffled.
I narrowed my eyes. "You're pregnant, aren't you?"
She choked on her tea. "How do you know what that means?!"
"You said 'hormones.' And you cried when a rotli puffed perfectly."
She blinked. "You're… very observant."
"No. You're just very obvious."
And just like that, I knew: Kabir was coming.
In my old life, Kabir was my annoying, loud, hyperactive little brother who ruined my makeup palettes and drew unflattering stick figure versions of me on the walls.
Now, knowing I'd get to meet him again—watch him be born, grow up, before the destruction—hit me differently.
"Congratulations," I said to Ma later, completely deadpan. "You've unlocked Bonus Child Mode."
She glared. "Ahana."
"Just saying."
I still got a biscuit for being "cute."
They really were easy to manipulate.
Preschool, though?
A different jungle.
Now that word had spread that I was not just a prodigy but also a YouTube star (thanks, Chachu, for showing the principal), everyone wanted to be near me.
I was the Beyoncé of the snack table. People tried to trade their orange slices for a single Cheerio from my tiffin just to sit next to me.
One kid brought me a drawing that said:
"To Ahana, the funniest queen of the universe."
Though it looked cursed and deformed,I accepted it graciously. "You're not wrong."
But fame has its price.
Like people expecting me to perform 24/7.
"Say something funny!"
"Do the voice again!"
"Roast Aryan's lunchbox!"
I started to feel like a monkey in a glittery hat. Cute, yes. But trapped.
So I developed what I called the "Sarcasm Shield."
Any time someone came too close with weird expectations, I'd raise an eyebrow and say something like:
"You're ugly."
"My mouth hurts."
Works every time. Being a toddler has its own perks.
Back at home, Ma's belly was slowly growing. Dadi was already knitting sweaters and Dadu was whispering sweet nothings to the future fetus like it could already understand.
I walked past them with my arms crossed. "You all do realize it's just a bean right now, right?"
"Bean or not, it's still a blessing," Ma said gently.
"Sure," I muttered. "A loud, crying blessing that'll take over my room eventually."
But later, when no one was looking, I placed my palm against Ma's belly and whispered, "Hey Kabir. Get ready. You've got the coolest sister in the multiverse."
As July approached, my nerves tightened.
I became Papa's shadow. If he so much as looked at his motorcycle, I'd scream like I'd seen a ghost. Which, in some sense, I had.
On July 4th, I pulled out the big guns.
"Papa, can you stay home tomorrow?"
"Why?"
"I want to do a special video. A 'Father-Daughter' skit. For YouTube."
He blinked. "On a weekday?"
"I need you. It's viral potential," I said solemnly. "Think of the likes. The engagement."
He laughed. "Okay, okay. I'll take a leave."
I almost cried with relief. But I nodded coolly. "Good. I have the script ready. You'll play 'Clueless Papa Who Can't Use a Phone.'"
He smiled, ruffled my hair, and said, "You're something else, gudiya."
No, Papa. I'm everything. And I'm not losing you again.
The next day, July 5, 2006, dawned rainy—just like before.
I barely slept. I kept checking the clock. 8:00 a.m. He's home. 10:00 a.m. Still home. 12:30 p.m. He's eating lunch and watching me perform a sketch with sock puppets.
At 4:00 p.m., I finally let myself breathe.
I'd done it.
I CHANGED FATE.
I wanted to scream, cry, and punch the clouds in joy. But instead, I just curled up beside him and pretended to nap while he hummed a tune and sipped chai.
My Papa. Alive. Safe.
That night, I uploaded our silly skit to YouTube. Titled: "Papa Can't Text and It Shows."
It was chaotic, grainy, and full of jump cuts—but authentic. And funny.
By the next morning, it had 12,000 views.
People loved our chemistry. Called us adorable. Said we were "refreshingly real."
I read the comments one by one.
"This kid's comedic timing is better than mine and I'm 28."
"The dad is giving major Dilwale Papa vibes."
"Subscribed just to see more of this duo!"
I turned to look at Papa, who was snoozing on the sofa, TV remote balanced on his belly.
And for the first time since waking up in this life, I didn't feel like I was running out of time.
So yeah.
Life's weird.
I'm three. Famous. Secretly an adult. A sister-in-waiting. A time traveler. And, oh yeah—on a mission to meet my idol before he becomes a superstar.
But today?
Today, I'm just a little girl who saved her dad.
And that's enough.
For now.