Around 2 years ago, this is what I wrote about PC, or Poets’ Collective, or our baby poetry club, whose parentage I am not sure I share with how many!
“Would you believe it, that exists a place on the planet, in the heart of our very own city, where –
– people listen more than they talk
– people are unafraid of expressing all good thoughts
– negative thoughts are as good as non-existent, not just on the surface, but deep down below
– books are shared and hoarded like the greatest treasure
– smiles are the currency to buy and invest in invaluable human emotions
– humility is indispensable, but so is show-off with a casual shrug
– you are allowed to be you, just you, but you have no option but to be the best version of yourself.”
Like I said, I am unsure as to how many others I share the parentage of PC with, but I have, definitely, born most part of the delivery pains. And now that this baby is transitioning from a gurgling but moody toddler to a sort of stabler adolescent in the mode of self-discovery, I am sort of handling the tantrums, and fuss, and occasional storming out of the house too. But that, all those bullet points stated above, that is what my ideals for PC look like, and the stage for ideals, unfortunately, is long past. Your child doesn’t always remain the innocent, dependent on you toddler, right? It rises beyond and past, trying to find a life blood for itself.
We’ve recently begun hosting these gatherings again, and similar kind of joy greets me each time. Sure, it does seem like climbing uphill right from the bottom-most step again, but hey, the staircase sure seems familiar.
This is a micro-post to thank each one who has graced our two past meetings at Kiran Nadar Museum of Arts. The love, support, listening and pretty poems help us out of our personal miseries on so many days. Thanks for becoming a part of this movement which is going to turn half a decade old this year.
In hope with PC, poetry and people. Always.