They say even if one candle is fighting, the darkness hasn’t won yet. When there is light, there is hope and hope always gives us reason to believe. Much like a candle’s flame, a simple yet tremendously important initiative from @aniketrai about reading and writing, is helping people install hope and believe in their hearts. As part of today’s assignment, he asked us to read an article about fountain pens and proposed we jot down our thoughts. Below is the article I wrote.
I wouldn’t say my handwriting is something to boast about so I wasn’t very picky about the medium of writing. As long as it got the job done, I was contented. I knew early in my school days, my writing was just good enough.. or barely enough. I do have fond memories of my friends writing their exams with a fountain pen and yet managed to finish the paper within the stipulated time. I always wondered if they were doing any special wrist exercises, for their handwriting to be this beautiful. But eventually, I was satisfied with my handwriting as my grades were also good enough.
But I saw my father loving his fountain pen as much as he loved his sons. The meticulous schedule that he followed for cleaning it up, the placement of it -always ensuring it was away from our hands, the ink bottle always preserved within the camel packaging box. his discipline in life was also mirrored in his writing. My father was always a student. While I couldn’t wait to finish my school, and college and start earning money; he was the one who was always learning. When I was struggling with KTs in graduation, he completed his MBA. When I was stumbling to do my post-graduation; he had completed his MA; still ensuring that we wouldn’t use his fountain pen, even for signing a cheque.
In Nov 2014 he passed away. It was a shocking event for us as there was nothing wrong with his health. About 2 months later my brother and I, began cleaning his study desk. There it was. It stared right back at us. His ever-alluring fountain pen is within our grasp. We treated it with all the love it had received from its previous owner. We tended to its need. We wrote a few lines with it when we missed our father.
Then one day, it disappeared from its designated spot. I was sweating. In a frenzy, I threw everything that came my way while I searched for it. And then I saw my eldest nephew who is in 7th standard, calmly writing his assignments with it. I didn’t know how to react. Should I yell at him for using something so precious, should I be worried that he would damage our father’s pen? but all doubts were put to rest when I saw his handwriting. It was a spitting image of my father’s. Unbeknownst to us, my father was teaching his grandchild, writing with his prized possession.
I knew the pen was in safe hands, so I let Shardul have your pen, Baba.