A Day In IJCCI as a participant ❤️

I arrived more than prepared, carrying excitement that had waited a long time to breathe again. After years of silence, I was finally stepping back into a poetry competition, into unfamiliar faces and untested courage. The newness of the place made my voice falter; I stammered as I entered, my nervousness announcing itself before I could. Yet, every smile I received felt like a quiet reassurance, a gentle permission to belong.

The venue was IJCCI, Teynampet. The road that led me there was lined with trees, their green stretching patiently on either side. As I walked, I was reminded of my college, the familiar path I take each day, shaded and calm. That road felt like a bridge between memory and movement, green with comfort and promise.

Inside, the room rested in a near-sacred silence. Words hesitated on my tongue, and I feared breaking the stillness. But as introductions passed from one voice to another, something within me softened. Confidence did not arrive suddenly; it unfolded slowly, like sunlight filtering through leaves.

We were then introduced to the judge, Ms. Geethanjali, a poet whose words have travelled quietly yet powerfully. A writer of haiku and a contributor to Indo-Japanese literary magazines, she carried the stillness of someone who listens deeply to language. Her presence added weight to the room, as though poetry itself had chosen to witness us.

After the competition, the silence loosened its hold. A tea session followed, simple and warm, yet transformative. Cups were filled, conversations began, and barriers dissolved gently. It was there, between sips and laughter, that I truly opened up. I spoke, I listened, I connected. The nervousness that once held me back gave way to ease.

Because of that shared moment, I was able to take photographs with the teachers and the judge, small frames capturing something larger: belonging, courage, and a beginning.

That day did not arrive loudly. It came through trees and tea, through trembling words and quiet conversations, and it marked the return of my voice.