A Conversation with My 2024 Self

The knock at the door was quiet at first, a hesitant tap, barely audible over the hum of the night. It was nearing midnight, the world outside wrapped in a shroud of darkness, as if holding its breath. I opened the door slowly, expecting nothing more than a stray cat or maybe a late-night delivery. But instead, there stood a figure I knew well—myself. Older, quieter, with an air of serenity that felt foreign yet strangely comforting.

“Mind if I come in?” my 2024 self asked, his voice calm but carrying a knowing smile that I recognized from years of facing challenges head-on.

I stood frozen for a moment, my heart thudding in my chest. Was I dreaming? Hallucinating?

"You're staring like I’ve just walked out of a dream," he said, his gaze steady as he stepped inside, taking in the dimly lit room with a casual glance.

“Well, technically, you have,” I replied, swallowing the lump in my throat. “What’s this about? Why are you here?”

He chuckled softly, settling into the chair across from me, his eyes glinting with an understanding that only time could bring. “Let’s talk about 2024—the year that changed everything for you.”

The moment he spoke, I knew exactly where this was going. 2024 had been a year of change—of discovering new strengths and confronting hidden fears. It had forced me to redefine what mattered, to push past limitations I had once thought unbreakable. It wasn’t just the external milestones I had reached; it was the internal shift, the quiet transformation that had occurred when I least expected it.

“You’ve been working hard, haven’t you?” my future self continued, his voice soft but firm. “In ways you didn’t know were possible. On the basketball court, in your writing—pushing through when it seemed like things weren’t moving.”

I felt a pang of gratitude, the kind that swells up when someone recognizes the struggle you’ve quietly carried. Basketball, once my sole refuge, had become more than just a game. It had been a space to prove to myself that I was capable of more than I thought. When I represented Maharashtra in the 45+ men’s category, it was a victory, but it was also something deeper—a confirmation of my inner strength.

“And the decisions you’ve made,” he added, “to push forward, to evolve.”

I thought about the changes I had committed to—giving up sugar, dairy, and tea. At first, it had seemed impossible. Tea had been my constant companion, sugar my sweet escape. But in choosing to break free from them, I had learned something powerful: that willpower is more than just saying no—it’s about saying yes to something greater.

He leaned back, his expression thoughtful, almost as if he could see right through me. “Remember when you gave up those comforts? It wasn’t just about health, was it?”

I let out a soft laugh, the memory of that struggle still fresh. “It felt like I was losing a part of myself. Tea was my lifeline.”

“But you did it,” he said, his tone unwavering. “You took back your power. And that strength, that determination—it seeped into everything else you did.”

I thought about my daughter, Vira. She wasn’t much of a reader yet, but I was determined to change that. Our trips to the Friends Library in Dombivli had become a ritual, a way to share my love of stories with her, to pass on something of myself. I wanted her to see that the things that matter aren’t just the things we do, but the stories we share and the lessons we learn from them.

“You know she’s watching you,” he said, as if reading my thoughts. “Every decision, every shift you make—it’s shaping her, even when you don’t see it.”

His words lingered in the air, like a quiet echo. “Do you remember what you wrote this year?” he asked, his eyes narrowing with curiosity.

“Of course,” I said, a small smile tugging at my lips. “Five blog entries for that contest. Poems about cricket. Reviews of books that moved me. And I even wrote about mental health for that blog hop.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And yet, you still doubt yourself. Even after all you’ve done.”

I frowned. “Doesn’t everyone?”

He leaned in, his voice a little firmer now. “Sure, but not everyone turns that doubt into action. You’ve done that over and over. When you completed 365 book reviews in 365 days, it wasn’t just about setting a record. It was about proving something to yourself—and to others. That passion and perseverance can achieve the impossible.”

I remembered the gruelling but rewarding year that had been. The messages, the calls, the feedback—it was overwhelming, humbling. It wasn’t just about reviewing books; it was about rediscovering my love for reading and writing, about sharing something meaningful with the world.

“And the awards,” he continued. “The recognition you received for your work. It wasn’t just about the titles or accolades. It was about being seen, for your passion, your consistency, your dedication. Those rewards weren’t handed out by accident. They came because you put everything into your craft. And that’s what people noticed.”

The mention of the awards felt surreal, a mix of gratitude and disbelief. That year had been filled with unexpected rewards: the honour of being recognized as one of the Top 10 Book Reviewers in India, the heartfelt appreciation from fellow writers, and the validation of my passion for storytelling. Those acknowledgments had not only fuelled my drive but had also opened doors to new opportunities. From literary events to collaborations, each recognition felt like a piece of the puzzle falling into place.

“What about the writing fest?” I asked, suddenly eager to know more. “The one I’m preparing for now?”

His smile deepened, as if he knew exactly what I was about to ask. “Thinkdeli,” he said. “That’s where you’ll surprise yourself.”

“How so?” I asked, leaning in, intrigued.

“You’ll write something raw, something personal. And it won’t just resonate with the judges—it’ll resonate with everyone who reads it. Because it’s not just a story. It’s a part of you. It’s your heart, laid bare.”

I stared at him, trying to piece together his cryptic words. “So... I win?”

He chuckled softly, his eyes glinting with something like pride. “Winning? That’s not the point. By the end of 2024, you’ll realize that winning isn’t always about trophies or accolades. It’s about the journey, about how you’ve grown along the way.”

As the clock ticked on, I found myself reflecting deeply on everything 2024 had taught me:

• Resilience: The world can break you, but it can also teach you how to rebuild, piece by piece. Challenges, though difficult, had opened up spaces I didn’t know I needed to explore.

• Purpose: Each choice I made, from my dedication to basketball to the decision to donate my body, felt like a step toward something larger. It was no longer just about me. It was about leaving a legacy of intention, of care, and of purpose.

• Connection: Whether through writing, basketball, or the small moments shared with Vira, I had learned to connect more deeply with those around me. These connections, both small and large, were what sustained me.

• Joy: Despite all the hardship, I had learned not to lose sight of joy. Like Krishna—playful, resourceful, and ever connected to those around me—joy was what made me human. It was what kept me grounded.

As the clock struck midnight, he stood, his presence suddenly feeling lighter, like smoke dissipating in the cool night air.

“Wait,” I said, my voice hoarse. “Will I see you again?”

He shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips. “No. But you’ll feel me, in every choice you make, in every step you take. You won’t need to see me. You’ll carry me with you—just like you’ve carried everything else that matters.”

And with that, he was gone. Vanished into the quiet night.

As I sat down to write, my thoughts swirled, tangled in the moment that had just passed. This wasn’t just a story. This was a piece of me.