When Appa stepped out of the cabin, I let my eyes wander across the small office floor. Only the hum of ceiling fans and the rhythmic tapping of keys filled the air. Then I noticed one of the computers was suddenly free—the accountant's sister, who sometimes helped with clerical tasks, was standing up and stacking a few fabric swatches on her arm.
I walked over softly, almost hesitant, and said,"Akka, will your system be free for the next one hour? If possible, can I borrow it?"
She turned to me with that calm smile of hers and nodded."Sure, ma. What do you want to do? Do you need me to open anything?"
I shook my head quickly. "No, no. I just need to use Google and Word. I'll manage. But if I need to print something, I might need your help later."
"Alright," she said, setting the swatches on a nearby table. "Just call me if you get stuck."
I thanked her and watched as she stepped away, probably to do some fabric checking in the storage room or to follow up on some samples. Taking a deep breath, I slid into the chair. It felt strange—this simple office desktop in front of me, the plain keyboard slightly faded from years of use.
I opened Word and stared at the blank page. My mind drifted to the Student Voice magazine. In my past life, by this time, I was using Canva, Illustrator, and even some AI-based design tools that made layouts effortless. But here in 2013, none of those luxuries existed for me. Everything had to be done manually, slowly.
At first, it was almost irritating—my fingers hovered over keys, my mind searching for shortcuts that didn't exist yet. I had to relearn every basic step. Resizing images, aligning text boxes, adding borders—all of it felt clunky compared to the tools I was used to. But as minutes passed, the irritation faded. A rhythm built up. It was like learning to walk again after knowing how to sprint.
I started building the template for Student Voice, aligning headings, deciding on fonts that were available in this older system. I made little notes for myself in the margins of the draft. I even drafted a quick mail to Nishant:
Nishant, I might come to class tomorrow or the day after. Not sure yet. But I'm working on the Student Voice content from home. Let me know if you need anything from me.
I hit send and refreshed my inbox, not really expecting much. But to my surprise, there were already some responses from students—poems, essays, even a few sketches scanned and mailed. A warm rush of excitement filled me as I downloaded each attachment and sorted them into a folder.
Scrolling through, I felt a tug of pride. These kids trust me already. They want to share their voices.
Time ticked by without me noticing. At some point, I started browsing for worksheets on Chinese and Korean, just to keep my mind occupied. I bookmarked a few grammar sheets, thinking I could work on them later in the hostel. I even caught myself daydreaming—Should I check if there's a book fair nearby? Maybe I can pick up some reference books.
Nearly an hour had slipped by when I heard footsteps. The accountant's sister returned, wiping her hands on her dupatta."Need to print anything, ma?" she asked kindly.
"Yes, Akka." I showed her the folder where I saved the draft pages and asked if the system would still be available for a while.
She shook her head. "I just need to send a mail now. After that, it's free again until after lunch. Take your time."
I watched her work—she attached files, double-checked addresses, and clicked send with the careful precision of someone who takes pride in small details. It struck me then: When these people were here, this company was strong. Their discipline and care kept everything in line.
But I knew what was coming. In a few years, some of these reliable staff members would leave for personal reasons. The new ones we hired in my past life—some were careless, some dishonest. That's when cracks started forming. That's when my father's trust began to cost him.
I rested my chin in my hand, deep in thought. This time… when restaffing happens, I'll sit with Appa. I'll be there in the interviews. I'll make sure we pick people better than before.
But then another thought flickered: Even if I change one choice, what if it leads to some butterfly effect? The weight of rebirth, of time loops, pressed on me again. Apart from starting Student Voice, nothing major had changed yet. But would my interventions create ripples I couldn't predict?
Maybe I should start reading books on time travel and alternate futures, I mused. There must be stories or theories that explain how little changes lead to big results.
The only thing that kept coming back to my mind, while I waited for the printer to finish its work, was not about the magazine at all. It was about something much bigger—something I couldn't ignore even if I wanted to.
The Chennai floods.
It will happen in just two years from now—right when I'll be in 10th grade. The memory of it is sharp, like a scar you don't forget. Even now, when I close my eyes, I can see water everywhere, buses half‑submerged, people stranded on the rooftops waving for help, and the sound of news channels running non‑stop about rescue operations.
Back then, none of us imagined Chennai could ever face something like that. Sure, everyone knew the city had water problems—but those were always scarcity problems. Tanker lorries rushing around, borewells drying up. But floods? In Chennai? It sounded ridiculous… until it wasn't.
I remember sitting in my past life, watching the rain reports, thinking it was just another monsoon. Then overnight, the water levels rose, the rivers overflowed, and in a matter of hours the city was cut off. It felt like a dream gone wrong—because Chennai was always that place of brightness, of Marina Beach walks, of bus horns and temple bells. And suddenly, the same roads were unpassable, and the smell of floodwater lingered for weeks.
I still remember how we couldn't even plan a trip to the city for nearly a month. Deliveries were stopped, factories delayed shipments, and our own orders got caught up in the chaos. It wasn't just a natural disaster—it rippled through everyone's lives and livelihoods.
Now, sitting here in this office chair in 2013, my legs barely reaching the floor, I thought—what if I could do something?
It's not like I have some magical superpower, but I do have information. I know which month it happens. I know how suddenly it comes. Maybe… just maybe… I could warn someone. Write to some government department, talk to Appa's contacts, anyone who might listen. Maybe they'd check the drainage systems, the reservoirs, the release schedules.
But then again… the thought of the butterfly effect made my chest tighten. What if I warn them, they actually change something, and in changing that, something else goes wrong? What if preventing that flood leads to some other problem I can't even imagine right now?
Still, isn't that why I'm here?I didn't get a second chance at life just to sit quietly and let history repeat itself. I can't waste the memories I have. I don't want to live as just another ordinary girl when I've seen what's coming.
I tapped my fingers on the desk, staring at the printed poems stacked neatly in front of me. Use what you know. Help where you can. That's all I could think.
Even if I can't stop everything bad from happening, maybe I can soften the blow. Maybe I can make the future just a little kinder—not just for myself, but for everyone around me.
And as that thought settled in my mind, I felt a strange mix of fear and hope. Fear of changing too much. Hope that I might change enough.