Pens Pens and Pens

      

           Pens have always held a fascination for me. I remember how i was  looking forward to get promoted to class VI - so that I could start using a pen in my notebooks. In my mind's eye I visualized beautiful calligraphy flowng out of the tip of my pen's nib on to the pristine pages of the notebook.  I could see the teacher congratulating me on my excellent handwriting and quoting my example to other students.

         

           What did come out of my pen was an illegible scrawl which - not only the teacher- but even I could not decipher. Adding to my woes were the smudges of the ink which inevitably appeared both on my fingers and on the pages of my homework.The situation seemed hopeless but I did not give up hope I continued to make valiant efforts to improve my handwriting but it stubbornly refused to go beyond a collection of twisted alphabets which - over a period of time - both my teacher and I learned to decipher. Just like the pharmacist who always can read a doctor's prescription. It would be pertinent to mention that ball pens were frowned upon and were not allowed to be used in schools those days. 

          My handwriting remained an  enigma destined never to touch the heights of neither neatness nor the legibility,  with perennial smudges both on my school books and the pockets of my white shirts - a part of my uniform. The memories with pens inextricably remained woven into the fabric of my life. Whether it be the first exam where my pen ran out of ink and after which I never went for an examination without a backup, my first anonymous love letter, my first signature on a cheque when I withdrew my first salary ....

           Good or bad -  my fascination with pens burned bright. From the sleek, whisper-quiet lines of polished chrome to the heavy, comforting weight of carved lacquer, every pen held its own quiet magic.​There were fat, stubby barrels that settled snugly into the palm, razor-thin pens that glided across parchment like liquid shadow, and vibrant gel pens spilling velvet hues of azure, crimson, and copper.​Some were timeless artifacts—classic fountain pens whose nibs sang softly against the paper—while others were humble, clicky plastic companions that caught fleeting thoughts before they vanished into thin air.​Whether crafted from warm, aromatic rosewood, cool brushed steel, or translucent acrylic that caught the morning light—I loved them all. I was like an unrequited lover- only in my case the love was never returned-in form of good hand writing.

          However I have discovered a way around to improve my handwriting and make it artistic. I dictate my thoughts to the computer and when it's transcribed I tell the computer which font and style of writing I want it in. To a large extent my desire for the perfect handwriting is assuaged.

          I still like visiting the old reputed stores in Hyderabad which deal mostly in pens. I window shop scrawl a few lines on the notepad that the vendor thoughtfully provides to test out a pen. In an occassional  moment of self indulgence I also buy a pen which catches my fancy- not to write with it- but to dream about what could have been if my handwriting was not like that of a doctor.....