By G VENKATESH

This was the second fountain pen I had got from Appa [my father]. He had used it for about six years and passed it onto me one morning — one of his several legacies. It may, to others, have been just a writing instrument of plastic and metal, but for me it was a big re-infusion of self-confidence. There was a predecessor to this pen three years ago, yes, and it is about this precursor that I wish to write.

In school, from the age of ten — or, the 5th grade — if one had entered school at the right age and not failed in any class en route, it was mandatory to use a fountain pen. Ball-point pens were considered as “weeds sullying the lush green meadows of disciplined formal education.”

Strikingly Different

I had my early education at a convent school — the castigation of ball-point pens as a “no-no” was a starker there. Appa had gifted me with a beautiful brown porcelain pen, heavy and regal in appearance. It was strikingly different from the run-of-the-mill types available at stationery shops in Mumbai.

I was quite ordinary when it came to other things — the bag I carried to school, the shoes I wore etc., Appa always believed that the quality of the writing instrument one used served to enhance one’s ability to write neatly, lucidly, and impressively. He had used this pen for many years right from his first day at work in the 1960s. It was now mine — a prized possession I needed to safeguard.

For three years in a row, I aced at the examinations and finished right on top of the heap of 200-odd students. In retrospect, it seems foolish to believe that the pen had a role to play in all this. Of course, I had written my examination papers with it, but, perhaps, any other pen would have got me the gold. However, for two impressionable pre-teens — both the beneficiary and one of the afflicted [who we shall talk about soon] — the pen was nothing short of a magic wand.

I was competitive, but extremely considerate as well — never possessive of anything I owned, always happy to share my belongings with others, be they the food Amma [my mother] would pack for me in the small lunch box, or my books. I would say in this regard, I was a bit naïve.

The “afflicted” referred to in the earlier paragraph — let us call him Ajay, though this was not his real name, once borrowed my pen. Generosity got the better of my competitive instincts and I gave it to him with my right hand, while my left was unaware of what I was doing. The pen was not returned at the end of the day. I gave Ajay the benefit of doubt and waited till the next morning.

It was forgotten at home. I waited with hope and trust. It was forgotten again. This went on for a few days and it seemed odd that I would ask for what was mine, very politely, and he would shrug his shoulders and make the same excuse all the time. One day when I lost my cool — it was long overdue — he apologised and said that he had lost it and could not find it at home. If I say that the pen was instrumental in my finishing first in class, I would be wrong. But, if I said that Ajay thought so and wondered if depriving me of the pen would make the way to the top for him a breeze, I would be right.

I was reminded of Karna, the generous — from the great Indian epic, Mahabharata – being deprived of the armour he was born with, by an insecure Kunti, partial to her other five sons. Not a perfect analogy but, of course, something that comes close.

Advantage Lost

I slipped down to second position that year, in both the semesters — the loss of the pen had hit me badly. Appa reprimanded me and advised me to be slow in trusting people — extend a hand of friendship only when you are completely sure of the other person’s honesty and integrity. Would Ajay have used my pen to rise to the top? No, this could not be a possibility. It was Appa’s pen, and it would never help a rival to oust his offspring. The pen would have been passed on to some friend, or relative.

Appa had given me money to buy another pen from the market. I got a black pen to replace the fondly remembered brown, and never really liked it. The next year, when I got ready to go for school — I was in the 9th grade now — Appa exchanged the black pen which I had purchased with his own green-coloured pen [the one he had been using for the last four years, after giving me his brown pen]. It was as if a guru [teacher] was bestowing his shishya [pupil] a magic formula and asking him to march forth and vanquish the foe. Ajay was duly vanquished and shown his place — second in class.

To me, the pen was symbolic of Appa’s blessings. To him, it was just another pen. But, perhaps, he knew what I felt about it, in his heart of hearts.

There is something called the power of the mind, or mind control. This incident gave me my first lesson in its importance.

How Green Writing Is

I continue to use the green pen even now. This story was penned with it - several years after I started using it — for the first time. I would certainly not want to lose the pen, but I know, nevertheless, that the power of parents’ blessings manifests itself through the strength of the mind. It elevates a firm belief in their divine presence, just as one would believe in the presence of God, though one would never be able to see Him in the flesh and blood.

The green pen has run out of ink… and, I need to refill it. I now lend it to anyone and everyone who asks for it, and it’s returned promptly after use. Life is now beyond competition, or so I suppose. Or, maybe, the pen has been rendered obsolete by the computer… Wonder where the brown porcelain pen is now. Perhaps, I may spot it somewhere, possibly with a fellow passenger on the train, or airplane, or at some conference, in some part of the world.

Don’t you know what is truly yours will always come back to you? Believe in it.