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Two Years Old – Booting Up
For the first two years of this life, I was a brain in molasses.
Thoughts tried to sprint, but my neurons were still learning to crawl.
The adult in me screamed strategy; the baby in me drooled on the pillow.
Then one morning, something clicked.
The fog lifted.
Words lined up neatly instead of sloshing around like soup.
"Ah," I remember thinking, "firmware update complete."
From that day I stopped being a bundle of instincts and became me again— just a smaller, rounder, less coordinated version.
I watched my parents bustle about the house:
Dad sanding a table in the veranda, Mom balancing ledgers and laughter.
They thought I'd just had a growth spurt.
If only they knew I'd just reinstalled consciousness.
---
My mother's brother arrived with a grin and a razor.
> "Ready to lose that hero hair, champ?"
No, I was not.
But in our family, resistance was as futile as reasoning with Grandma when she was in puja mode.
So off we went again to Kamakhya Temple— the same sacred hill where my story had restarted.
The temple smelled of flowers, ghee, and old stone.
Pilgrims queued, bells rang, pigeons strutted like they owned the place.
They sat me on a mat, my head shining with coconut oil, and Mama got to work.
One swipe.
A chunk of hair fluttered away.
I yelped.
Everyone laughed.
Even the priest chuckled— apparently, shrieking toddlers were auspicious.
When the final tuft fell, the breeze touched my bare scalp.
For a strange instant, I felt weightless— as if the last piece of my old self had been peeled away.
Mom kissed my head.
> "Now you're truly reborn, Abhay."
I grinned despite myself.
Maybe the goddess liked bald men.
---
By three, my tongue had caught up to my brain, and my legs mostly obeyed gravity.
I could form sentences, ask questions, and irritate adults with surgical precision.
> "Papa, what's profit margin?"
"Beta, where did you hear that?"
"Radio."
(It was actually from memory. Try explaining past-life accounting lessons to your dad.)
He'd laugh, shake his head, and go back to work, sanding teak.
I'd watch quietly, memorizing every step.
Because Grandma— in my previous life— had once told me a story:
Your father was too trusting. When he tried to expand, his own friends cheated him.
I'd seen the quiet sadness in her eyes when she'd said it.
That memory lingered like unfinished business.
Now, seeing Dad's easy faith in people, I knew exactly what she'd meant.
I couldn't warn him outright; a toddler predicting future betrayal isn't taken seriously.
So I decided on soft power: plant habits, not suspicions.
Whenever Dad discussed money with visiting traders, I'd tug his sleeve and say something odd like,
> "Papa, always count again, okay?"
He'd laugh— but he'd count.
Little victories.
---
Around that age I started noticing… glitches.
Nothing big, just tiny differences that made my grown-up memory itch.
One evening the neighbors' sons were swapping movie posters.
I craned from my perch and froze.
No jurassic park
No Dilwale dulhania le jayenge
And when the TV showed a new release schedule— nothing called the matrix
At first I thought my timeline neurons were scrambled.
But the pattern was clear: same world, slightly different art.
The books and films that had shaped entire generations in my old life didn't exist here.
It was unsettling— and thrilling.
Maybe I really was in a parallel thread of Earth.
If the stories were missing, maybe I could write them.
(But one mission at a time. First: keep Dad safe. Then: money)
---
Small Plans, Big Dreams
Life in our Nepali-Assamese village moved to the rhythm of roosters and radio jingles.
Grandma prayed at dawn, Grandpa argued with cricket commentators, and I plotted world-saving schemes between sips of milk.
Every night, before sleep, I'd whisper plans to the ceiling fan:
When I'm five, I'll start training— reading, drawing, maybe martial arts.
When I'm six, I'll stop that scam.
And someday, I'll make everyone proud.
The fan never replied, but it hummed approvingly.
By the time I hit three and a half, language felt like a superpower.
Every new word I picked up was a brick in the tower of Finally, I Can Explain Myself.
I began narrating life to whoever would listen—
> "Maa, sun is hot because hydrogen go boom!"
"Aita, don't cook rice too long; starch lose integrity!"
Grandma found it adorable until I started correcting her Sanskrit chants.
Then she threatened to sprinkle holy water on me "to flush out Google."
Our village adored talking, and a talkative toddler was free entertainment.
I became "Abhay the Little Professor."
Uncle Rajiv started betting on how many questions I'd ask before breakfast.
(Record: forty-two.)
---
Age Four – Mission Preparation
Four was when curiosity turned into purpose.
My father's workshop was growing busier—sawdust in the air, orders coming from town, hope thick as varnish.
And every night, that memory of Grandma's voice returned: He was cheated by people he trusted.
Not this time.
So I studied Dad's world like a detective.
How much he paid for teak.
How often he delivered on credit.
Who always asked for "just a small favor."
Of course, I couldn't warn him outright.
So I played the gifted-child card.
I asked for a small notebook and crayons.
Inside, I drew "business plans"—boxes, arrows, rupees, stickmen shaking hands.
Then I presented them with grave authority.
> "Papa, see? This one means check the papers twice."
He'd laugh, show Mom, and actually start double-checking things.
Score one for Baby Finance Guru.
---
To make future miracles believable, I needed a reputation now.
So I went full toddler Einstein.
When other kids built mud pies, I built "factories."
When they watched Shaktimaan, I watched business news—the moving numbers mesmerized me anyway.
I learned to read store signboards, then newspapers.
Grandpa boasted to everyone:
> "My grandson reads headlines before tea!"
The village aunties began whispering,
> "Maybe he'll be an IAS officer."
I smiled innocently while plotting world-saving business interventions.
---
One afternoon, Dad came home with a new film cassette from town.
The label said Delhi ke ladki
Except… I'd never seen it before.
Not once, not in posters, not in magazines.
And the one's I know like Raja Hindustani—nonexistent.
It wasn't just Indian cinema either.
When I tried to find Jurassic Park in a film magazine, nothing.
No Pulp Fiction, no Matrix, no Friends reruns, no Home Improvement.
The world felt… edited.
Like someone had taken a scissor to pop culture and snipped out entire icons.
At first, I panicked.
Then realization dawned: maybe this was the catch of reincarnation.
A timeline a few shades to the left of my old one.
But not everything was missing.
On a bookstore shelf, I found The God of Small Things and A Suitable Boy.
They were still there—real, beautiful, and oddly reassuring.
It was like a cosmic reminder that not everything changes between worlds.
Maybe it was fate's way of saying, "Here, kid, keep these masterpieces so you don't lose faith in literature."
---
Four and a Half – Tests of Patience
My mind ran at adult speed, but my hands were still chubby rebellion.
Writing a straight line required Olympic concentration.
Every letter looked like a confused earthworm.
I'd sigh dramatically; Mom would chuckle.
> "Slow down, beta. You've got plenty of time."
Plenty? Lady, I was counting down to a divine software upload at five.
So I turned practice into play: scribbles became treasure maps, reading sessions became detective hunts for "secret messages."
Soon the habit stuck; learning felt like breathing.
---
Village Days
Our village of a hundred households lived like one extended family.
Evenings meant cowbells, smoke curling from kitchens, and children chasing each other through paddy-field paths.
From our veranda I watched fireflies rise like sparks while Grandma hummed Nepali folk tunes.
Those nights grounded me.
For all my future-tech dreams, this simple rhythm reminded me why I was fighting to protect them—the warmth, the laughter, the smell of rice and rain.
---
As five neared, I felt something inside me hum—like an engine idling.
Sometimes, while half-asleep, I'd hear faint metallic chimes or see floating words fade before I could read them.
The system was close.
I kept my routine outwardly normal: helping Mom tally shop ledgers, following Dad to the workshop, reading picture books to toddlers younger than me.
Inside, I was rehearsing goals.
Step one: Keep family stable.
Step two: Learn fast.
Step three: Live boldly.
---
The Night Before Five
The house buzzed with quiet excitement.
Mom had promised laddoos for the morning puja; Dad had taken the day off.
From my bed I watched the ceiling fan spin, the same old confidant of my plans.
Four years old to almost five.
From helpless baby to scheming prodigy.
And tomorrow—if my memory of that divine promise was right—everything would change again.
I closed my eyes, whispering to the darkness:
> "Alright, universe. Let's see what you've got next."
Outside, a night-bird called once and fell silent, as if the world itself were holding its breath.