Reporter’s Diary: A Federation Cup I’ll remember

Kochi: By now, covering an athletics event should feel like second nature. But as I packed my bag for Kochi, the butterflies in my stomach reminded me that I still had a long way to go.

It’s a strange thing, returning to a world you’re just starting to understand. The Federation Cup in Kochi was my third athletics event as a reporter but this time, I came in slightly more confident, slightly less wide-eyed, and armed with lessons from my last outing.

Still, as I arrived at the venue at on Day 1, the first thing that greeted me wasn’t the thrill of competition – it was the sting of the sun on my skin.

The heat was unbearable. The kind that creeps under your skin and stays there. The venue, a college ground, had no mercy.

Kerala humidity and tracks are a special combo. But the heat wasn’t the only thing testing my patience.

Accreditation confusion followed, because of course it did. After some waiting and general chaos, I finally got inside, only to find that reporters were not allowed to go to the other side of the track.

Reporters weren’t allowed to cross over to “the other side” – you know, the part of the ground where half the action actually happens.

Jumps, throws – all of it tucked away beyond a track, and beyond our access. We were expected to sit inside a tent and somehow pretend that we could see it all from there.

It was frustrating, especially because I knew what I was missing.

This was my biggest athletics event yet. I had set targets for myself: two stories a day, a few video stories, and, somewhere between the adrenaline and exhaustion, a hope to prove myself – to my editors, to my readers, and most importantly, to myself.

As a Malayali, Hindi has never been my strongest language.

I understand it, yes, but speaking it aloud in professional settings has always filled me with a kind of nervous energy that knots my stomach.

It was on the first day itself that the test came. I approached Sachin Yadav, the towering six-foot javelin thrower who had just won the gold, bracing myself to conduct the interview.

The first thing he said with a polite smile was: “Ma’am, only Hindi, no English.”

My heart pounded harder than the stadium’s drumroll. For a second, I froze, words hanging somewhere in the gap between my mind and my tongue.

But just when I thought I would have to retreat, someone stepped up and offered to help translate. Gratefully, I interviewed with English questions and his Hindi responses – a bridge of understanding formed in that chaotic few minutes.

I left the scene relieved and thankful, only to realise the next day, much to my mortification, that my translator had been Anirudh Menon – a journalist I have long admired.

I had not recognised him in the rush of the moment.

First impressions were perhaps lost, but on the second day, I managed to properly introduce myself and hold a conversation that wasn’t clouded by nerves.

Despite the early stumble, Day 1 felt victorious.

At the venue, every morning felt like stepping into a furnace.

The sun was merciless, the air sticky with humidity, and by mid-morning our clothes were clinging to our backs like second skins.

On the first day, the organisers had thoughtfully kept water bottles for us. But from the second day onwards, it was a different story. Some days we had to ask, some days there was no one around to even ask.

We rationed the tiny bottles we had brought, laughing through parched throats, because what else could we do? The thirst was real, but the adrenaline rushing through my veins, fed by the sheer, raw action unfolding on the track and field, kept me moving.

Kerala, my home state, was still medal-less at this point, a small bronze on Day 2 opened our account. It wasn’t a state competition, but I couldn’t help but cheer for every Malayali on the field.

In between, I met more friends – media, PR, and some coaches I’d interacted with during my previous events. It felt like a reunion of sorts, except we were all sweating buckets and running on caffeine.

The “crowd” was modest: mostly the athletes’ families, coaches, and a smattering of media.

No real local spectators. It was bittersweet. Athletes who pour their lifeblood into their sport deserve to be celebrated in front of full stands, not empty plastic chairs.

By sunset, with barely any water left and the sweat stinging our eyes, exhaustion threatened to knock us down. Yet, we pressed on.

The Federation Cup bid farewell with the 1500m event of the men’s decathlon. As Tejaswin Shankar crossed the line, he called all competitors together, and they celebrated in a way only athletes can – ripping off their shirts, flexing muscles, laughing like victorious warriors.

As that was happening, an Athletics Federation official came over, wagging a finger, warning that disqualification could follow such antics. But everyone – officials included – just ended up laughing.

Because in that moment, all the rules faded away.

As we packed our cameras, notebooks, and memories, a strange ache settled in my chest. It was over.

The stadium would go silent again. The athletes would move on to the next training camp, the next meet.

And I would return to my desk, a little more sunburnt, a little more tired but infinitely richer in spirit.

They say journalism is about chasing stories. But sometimes, it’s the stories that chase you, carve into you, and stay. This, I know now, was one of them.