In January 2025, I had my first open mic experience in Bangalore. It wasn’t planned, it wasn’t rehearsed, and I definitely wasn’t ready — but I needed it.
I’ve written so many poems during my college days, but I never shared them anywhere. Not on WhatsApp, not on Instagram, not even with close friends. They were always too close to my heart.
But something shifted when I came to Bangalore, hunting for a job.
I was casually speaking with a friend on a call — I don’t even remember how the topic came up — and she said, “Why don’t you try sharing your poems at an open mic?”
I laughed. “I’m good at writing, not at holding a mic.”
She simply said, “At least give it a try.”
That Sunday, there was an open mic happening in JP Nagar. I booked my name without thinking too much — and then came the nervousness.
I asked two of my friends to join, but both had other plans (because, Sunday). So I asked one of my cousins, and he instantly said, “I’ll come with you, brother.”
From the metro to the bike taxi, I reached the venue… early. Too early. My fear had already arrived before me.
I called that same friend again and told her I was nervous. She said, “You’ve done so much during college — why fear now?”
That call gave me strength. And my cousin reached just in time.
As I stepped into the venue, people started walking in one by one. Some wore confidence like their favorite perfume. Stand-up comics, singers, storytellers… They weren’t perfect — but they were bold.
Watching them, my inferiority complex skyrocketed like never before. I kept praying silently: “Please don’t call me first… please don’t call me first…”
They didn’t.
Performers went up one by one. The crowd cheered, clapped, laughed. And then the host said: “Thank you all for coming.”
I was stunned.
I got up and said, “My performance is still left.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” he said, and called me up.
My legs were trembling. Voice… shivering. I held the mic with hands that didn’t feel like mine. And started.
Somewhere between my lines, I felt that voice inside me saying, “You’re not like them. You don’t belong here.”
But I continued. Maybe not perfectly. But I didn’t stop.
After the performance, people clapped. Maybe it was out of support, maybe because it was my first time — But it meant a lot.
We clicked some pictures, exchanged a few smiles. Me and my cousin discussed everything while walking back.
And even though I still don’t know if I matched them, I did something I never thought I could.
Sometimes, the bravest thing you do is simply to stand up — and speak what was once silent inside you.
The very next day, I was headed to my hometown. Late that night, the event team sent me my performance video.
As soon as I saw it — the mic, my voice, the background music — I was smiling ear to ear. I must’ve watched it a hundred times. Literally.
I thought, “Let’s post this on Instagram.” But then I felt, “Aise hi kaise? Thoda caption aur music toh banta hai.”
So the next day, I began hunting for apps to add captions to videos. I downloaded a bunch, tried them all, and finally found one that worked — a freemium app with a trial mode.
I had to rush to the station for my train, but once I settled into my seat, I spent almost the entire night editing that video. From music to subtitles, I gave it my best.
At midnight, I finally posted it.
The next day was Sankranti — a holiday — so I figured it was the perfect time. And honestly, I was behaving like it was the World Cup final — “Yeh hai meri performance, sab log dekhenge!”
And people did watch.
I started getting likes and comments — friends, college mates, family — many of them knew I wrote poetry but had never seen me perform. They messaged me things like:
“So proud of you.” “You finally followed your passion.”
The craziest part? I posted the same video from my mom and dad’s phones — with the caption: “My son’s first open mic performance.”
Yes. I actually did that. And it felt amazing.
But once the buzz faded… something else came in quietly.
Self-doubt.
“Did I even perform well?” “Maybe people were just being nice…” “Was I even good enough?”
For over 40 days, I didn’t perform again.
Even though people praised me — inside, I kept comparing myself to others: “Look at them — so confident, so polished, so experienced…”
My friend told me:
“Nobody becomes perfect in their first performance. You just need to keep showing up.”
Uski baat sunkar main thoda silence mein chala gaya tha… par dil ke andar kuch hil gaya tha.
Shayad main abhi perfect nahi hoon — par kya pata, ek din ho jaaun?
I knew she was right.
So I decided to give it another shot.
I booked my second open mic slot.
Two days before the event — it got canceled.
I booked another one. But that day, my cousin fell ill and I had to rush to the hospital.
Again, no performance.
Since then, I haven’t gone back on stage. I recently joined an organization where I work Saturdays and Sundays too.
So, I don’t know when my next performance will be.
But I do know this — I’ve created something of my own.
I’ve created this space called Amarkivade —
a quiet corner where I can simply write,
feel freely,
and post whatever lives in my heart.
No pressure. No perfection.
Just me —
and my words,
finding their own little home.