I don't know how time slipped by. I was reborn on June 1, 2013, and that day passed entirely in travel. The next two days felt like a blur—like I was floating through moments without fully being present. And now, here I am. Today is June 3, a Monday. I have exactly one week before I begin 9th grade at my new school. By this time next Monday, I'll be sitting through my first classes in a completely different environment.
This time, I want to be prepared.
I need to start planning how I'm going to spend the next four years of my life. I don't want to repeat the same mistakes I made before. In my previous life, after 10th grade, many of my friends switched schools to pursue different streams or boards. I won't think about that part just yet. Right now, my focus is on the present—on doing things right from the beginning.
Back then, I had average grades. I did terribly in Math and Science, and unfortunately, those are the very subjects that carry the most weight when choosing your stream after 10th grade. I remember feeling lost and unsure, as if everything had already slipped out of my control.
This time, I'll make sure I stay focused from day one. No wasting time. I want to give my best in every subject, especially in the ones that matter the most. I'm going to get some workbooks right away, even before classes start. If I can start early, it'll be easier to keep up once the academic pressure kicks in.
Also, this time I'm choosing French as my second language instead of Tamil.
In my previous life, until 8th grade, I never even had the option to pick a different language. Tamil was the only choice. But when I switched schools in 9th grade, I suddenly had options—Hindi, Sanskrit, French, and Tamil. I tried French for a short while, but I panicked. The fear of learning a new language in such a crucial year made me worry about falling behind. I gave up too quickly and went back to Tamil.
But now? I want to change that.
I want to start learning multiple languages from a younger age. In my last life, I only began learning other languages after the age of 22. Spanish was the first. I already knew how to read and write Hindi from school, and Korean—well, K-dramas made that irresistible. Later, during my postgraduate studies, I even studied Chinese as part of my course. All these languages gave me joy, especially during times of self-doubt. Learning kept my mind active and gave me purpose.
So in this life, I'm starting early.
My school is a residential one, with students from all over South India. That means I'll be surrounded by a mix of languages—Telugu, Kannada, Malayalam, Hindi, and of course, Tamil and English. Most people on campus speak in Tamil or English, but if I'm curious and willing to listen, I can pick up bits of other languages too.
Last time, I only learned a few casual phrases. This time, I want to build real fluency. I'll keep improving my writing and literature skills in both Tamil and English because I love writing stories and poems. And I'm determined to learn French over the next two years—properly, without quitting. I also plan to buy a beginner's Chinese workbook. That way, whenever I feel bored or restless, I can practice Chinese characters. It's slow and tedious, and I used to hate that part—but over time, I came to love watching my handwriting evolve with every page.
This time around, I want to do everything I didn't let myself try before. I want to chase the things that once scared me.
I called out to my brother, flipping open my diary. "Hey, come here. We need to make a proper list for the stationery stuff."
He popped his head in from the hallway, munching on something as usual. "Pens and pencils, right? Big deal."
"It's not just that," I said, waving him over. "We're starting fresh, remember? I need to be ready for everything—notes, projects, decorations, everything."
He rolled his eyes dramatically but sat beside me anyway. "Fine. Let's make the master list."
We sat cross-legged on the floor, both of us holding pens, scribbling into our respective notebooks like we were preparing for war.
"Okay," I started, "micropoint pencils—0.5 mm. I want the one with the comfy grip."
"Add extra leads too," he said. "They always disappear halfway through the term."
"Done. What about pens?"
"Black, blue, and red ball pens. And those gel ones you like."
"Right. And highlighters! I want that pastel set. Not the neon ones—they give me a headache."
"Such specific demands," he teased, but wrote it down anyway.
We added sketch pens, color pencils, scissors, glue sticks, geometry box (even though we both knew we'd lose the protractor in two weeks), and a bundle of A4 sheets for projects. Then we included chart papers, glitter pens, double-sided tape, and decorative washi tapes.
"For what?" he asked when I wrote that last one.
"For project borders!" I said. "You haven't seen how serious they are about neatness and presentation."
"Okay, Miss Artsy. Should we add thermocol sheets too?"
"Yes! And maybe a small ruler-cutter knife. Safely packed."
We grinned at each other. Even though I was doing all this seriously, planning for a brand-new beginning, it felt comforting to be making this list with him. A strange kind of joy settled into me. This was one of those small memories I knew I'd treasure later.
Once we were done, we headed out to the nearby stationery shop. I could already smell the fresh scent of paper and plastic the moment we stepped in. It hit me like nostalgia. The aisles were packed with tempting items, and we went aisle by aisle, checking off our list.
I picked up the pastel highlighters immediately, hugging them to my chest like I'd just won a prize. My brother found a cool compass with a built-in sharpener and looked smug about it.
It took us almost an hour, but we came out with full bags, both our wallets slightly lighter and our hearts definitely fuller. It wasn't just shopping—it was part of this new chapter I was writing for myself.
Back home, I put everything on my bed, arranging them in neat little groups. I clicked a photo. "For memory," I told him. "I want to look back on this someday."
"Dramatic," he muttered, but I caught him smiling as he walked away.
After dinner, I sat with my phone and opened YouTube. I typed "French basics for beginners" and clicked on the first cheerful video that popped up. A friendly woman on the screen began with "Bonjour!" and a wide smile.
I repeated it softly. "Bonjour."
"Bonjour!" came a mocking voice behind me.
I turned to see my brother smirking at me from the doorframe. "Bonjour, croissant, Eiffel Tower. Boom. Fluent already."
I rolled my eyes. "Very original. Come here. If you're going to make fun, you might as well learn something."
"Pfft, no thanks. I'm good."
"Too late. You're my practice partner now."
He groaned dramatically, but I patted the space next to me. "Come on. Just fifteen minutes. We'll learn greetings and numbers."
Grumbling under his breath, he plopped down beside me, arms crossed like I'd dragged him into the depths of suffering. But within minutes, we were both trying to say "Comment tu t'appelles?" without sounding like confused parrots.
"Sounds like you're chewing something," he said after his fifth attempt.
"Better than sounding like you're sneezing," I shot back.
We laughed, and for the next half hour, our room echoed with a strange mix of broken French, inside jokes, and bursts of laughter. He even started enjoying it by the end, asking, "How do you say 'snacks' in French?" with deadly seriousness.
I looked it up. "Collation."
"Collation?" he repeated. "That sounds fancy. I like it."
As the video ended, I felt a strange warmth. Not just from the laughter, but from the fact that, in this life, I was doing things differently—and not alone. I was letting people in, starting with my annoying but kind-hearted little brother.
This time, everything felt like a beginning—and I wasn't scared of it anymore.