Like lovers in arms; the flow almost surreal
Embracing the gentle caress of the hand
A Faithful lover through the memory lane
If you handle my worst, I give you my best
Unleashing the fire within
On Streams of papyrus
I am a window to the soul; I hold no pretense
Flowing as one; mind, body and ink
A symbol exquisite; Mont blanc, Cartier or Paul E Wirt
I am a fountain pen, handle with love and care.
(A feeble attempt by yours truly)
The monsoons, cuppa chai and I have a pleasant relationship. Nothing makes me happier than the sight of rain falling through my balcony. One such recent afternoon, I decided to restart writing my diary. Call me old school but it makes me happy scribbling away random thoughts or reading through my ol’ diaries. And to go with, my fountain pen had been a faithful companion all through my life. I guess in a way, the transition of a boy into an adult teen is culminated by the usage of a fine fountain pen.
As kids, our return from school indicated soiled shirts with colorful patterns of ink all over our white shirts and our thumb and forefinger bearing deep impressions of ink. As we grew, we moved from using pens of all shapes and sizes and one graduates from using pencils to ball point pens, gel pens, various cheap ink pens to finally laying hands on an exquisite fountain pen.
Born into a middle class family, we had to earn the right to own fountain pens. I had a strange fascination for collecting pens and carefully saved up on the weekly pocket money of Rs 5 which was given to buy various paraphernalia such as pen, pencil, white sheets of paper for various tests which formed a regular part of our growth plan. The start of my school post holidays would be the time when we could beg and negotiate with parents into buying us brand new pens.
As I said, one is still considered a boy until he sets his hands onto a fountain pen. Fingers have a strange connection to a fountain pen which perhaps a computer can never understand. My first fountain pen (a Parker with a gold plated nib) was a gift from my grandfather. Grandpa used to work at the post office and had a passion for writing. This meant he owned several different pens for different purposes. As I was entering high school, he gifted me this prized possession of his; one he used since his college days. It remained a prize possession until someone flicked it at school.
One of the craze I had was over a particular brand of fountain pen called “Hero” which came with a “Made in China” tag to it. Priced around Rs 25 and unlike most Chinese products, this was a very fine pen. Its nib was perfect and rarely blotted, even on the most porous of papers. It came in two colors, green and brown and most kids from my generation (1992-1998) would agree they owned one or still treasure one.
The thing about fountain pens is that it’s a very personal possession and requires dedication and care. Whatever little I know of these pens, the nib grows with you. The pressure and angle which your hand creates, defines how much ink ejects out thus creating a beautiful pattern on to the paper. I believe, it also enhances your calligraphic ability to an extent. No one would lend you one coz if they do, the pen’s nib would never be the same again. So a fountain pen lent equals a fountain pen lost J
None of us can have as many virtues as the fountain-pen, or half its cussedness; but we can try.
- Mark Twain
I grew up to the notion that the prettier the handwriting, better the impression you create onto the minds of the examiner resulting in higher marks. Obviously there is little truth in it. As I moved to the university, writing letters became a regular part of life. Hostel life makes you miss friends and loved ones and a handwritten letter has its special qualities to convey love. Unlike current age where one can delete or update their typed words, a handwritten word had to be carefully thought into as to what you want to convey before putting thoughts into ink. The last thing one wanted was a lot of strike-through. The whole process of communication had several charming aspects. First one needed to go to the nearest post office to procure supply of inland letter, stamps and postcards. Then came the act of writing itself which took considerable time as the process of putting one’s thoughts on to paper to convey its truest sense isn’t an easy one. The final bit encompassed waiting for the postman and the art of reading the reply itself. All the letters were treasured for posterity and the postman’s entry into our hostel was a much awaited event of the day and the person who received most number of letters was looked upon with a certain degree of envy.
Inland letters have a mystery around them, the smile it brings as you acknowledge the writer’s handwriting and the joy of reading through the letter. One simply can’t stop by reading it just once and every letter is usually read at least twice for sheer pure joy of it. Perhaps, a letter read again and again shows glimpses into the veiled emotions of its writer.
Though most of these letters lie in some corner of my home (hopefully), a few of them I still remember as if it happened yesterday. They pop into your life and reveal a glimpse of your past as if it happened yesterday. Recently found an old un-posted letter which I had written to my 1st crush and I couldn't stop smiling at the idiot in me.
Fountain pens evoke many emotions, perhaps coz they witnessed my past and were a part of some lovely memories. A hand written note communicates a deeper form of communication which a typed email can never match and as long as this is true, a fountain pen would continue being a cherished possession.
