Penned Down

I do not know of many people who write with a fountain pen. Or, have one and write with it. Or, have one. I do, and have been. And cannot write with anything otherwise. Professionally a teacher, I also have one dedicated to red ink. 

I used a Parker something (handed down by father, some rare silver American version), Sheaffers Inled (handed down by father) and a Pelikan (gifted / handed down by AM Sir, when I worked at MSIT). The Pelikan was like a song. It was this amazing instrument which behaved like the engagement ring's purpose of being placed in the ring finger - the myth of being connected to some vein in the heart. Anyway, as I charted plans with it, and dreamt dreams in words it started showing signs of aging. And gradually gave away. I was hurt. I remember having shed a private tear or two, too. I was angry. And I started saving for a Sheaffers, of and on my own. Around the year 2010, Rs 3000/- for a pen meant utter luxury for me. I decided I would still have one, saved and waited for it, and meanwhile began doodling with a Parker Frontier.

Finally, my desired Sheaffers Agio was bought. It felt like homecoming. At the shop the pen looked as if uncomfortable and barely managing with the many high-lights on it. With me, I knew it felt warm. The warmth of belonging. It became my skin. I didn't need to wear it you know. It was me. But then, it had some issues with comfort. I gave it in for a repair and it was duly replaced. What returned now felt like my soul. My pen.

Years passed and I bought another Sheaffers, this one a cheaper model, for correcting scripts. Not a matter of heart. Just pocket. So I concentrated on the Frontier and the Agio. Life was wordily beautiful and beautifully wordy. And time passed with crisscrosses of the mind on paper. Till one day when I lost my Frontier. Yes, me. Lost. That year was horrible. I lost my RayBan too. I was shocked. And shell-shocked that a pen could do that to me. I was again angry, hurt, not-myself. And thus, much myself. How could the pen betray me? My aunt, a good-god-whatta-generous-soul, got me a Sheaffers big-black fountain pen. I was happy. The Frontier was a matte black too. But you know what kind of happy that happy is, right? Not exactly happy. I was overwhelmed at the thoughtful gesture by my aunt, and concerned with loving the new pen well. But well, a loss is a loss.

And thus another process began. Now I began writing mostly with big-black and used my Agio carefully. I started protecting it like a parent. Something happened and big-black started misfiring too. Fountain pens have a mind of their own, a distinct mind. They know it from the feeling they have of how they are being held. I know it. Anyway, big-black is due for a repair. And Agio has been my thorough complete companion. The soul doesn't leave you if you loved it enough, it is a part of you. How can I ever explain or put to words how it feels to write with it? It doesn't feel anything, actually. It feels as if the thoughts transpire directly to the paper. It is a cigarette-cut silvershine wand. Perfect. 

It fell down today. Well, all pens do. Fountain pens are delicate though. The damage is inherent. Since 9 30 am, I am not the same person anymore. I am crabby, with a resolve not to express my restlessness. I am crying endlessly without tears, holding it close, as it struggles to get back to life. I am hurt, angry, and trying not to be either. And, for the first time, I can feel how it is trying too. It is still writing, but we both know it, it has changed. I am behaving uppity as I use borrowed ball-point pens, all the while crumbling and shattering away within. I am also amazed that a fountain-pen can emote so much in me. I am intensely sad. Wounded.

As I was walking out of my room to leave college, a student suddenly ran towards me with a tiffin box in hand. Food & Nutrition, that's how I remember this batch. This was the girl who actually wants to become a Doctor; "Sleep Deprived" - what she had written. "Ma'am, we made pin-stripe cookies and (some) cake. Please have a bite!"

I couldn't tell you how it felt. The closest I can get to is that it felt as at home as it felt each time I doodled with the Agio. 

That was what the pen is. The metaphor for being. For, it is not - I think therefore I am. It is - I scribble, with that fountain pen, and that is why and who I am. Precisely.