Fountain Of Joy

Yesterday, my doctor had advised me that I should not be at my computer for too long as it will only aggravate my cervical spondylitis. It was not something I could take lightly. The pain in my neck was indeed excruciating. However, my fingers kept itching all day to write. Restless and irritable, the entire day seemed such a waste just because I had not emptied out any of my thoughts. That’s when I picked up my diary and randomly reached on an empty page; lo and behold! It was like the universe was speaking to me.

Tucked away in the bottom of the page, were these few words that turned my entire day around- ‘You must always do the things you think you cannot do’. I smiled as I saw those encouraging words printed on a page that chose to be written on.

It’s amazing how life gives you a continuous source of inspiration whenever you need it. The trick is you just need to keep yourself open enough to see and absorb it.

So heeding the universe’s call to pour out what’s in my head, I started looking for a pen to write. Not successful with my search I ended up knocking at my neighbour’s door. Her daughter handed me a beautiful fountain pen. Back in my bed, scribbling down my thoughts I realized, it had been ages since I had used a fountain pen. And this was an all-time classic- Camlin’s Trinity Fountain Pen.

Ah! The joy of feeling the smoothness of steel between my fingers; ushering in the peculiar mouldy smell of fresh ink that could awaken even the sleepiest of noses; all of these feelings that had got buried under piles of floppy discs, hard drives and heavy laptops over the years, all of them just came gushing back to me. Happily, I started scribbling on the page; my face lit up like a kid in a candy shop.

I sat there jotting down my thoughts in frenzy; watching every letter as happy and free as me, sauntering along the lines on the page, not caring where it was stationed. The spacing didn’t matter, and neither did the form. The ‘I’s didn’t care if the ‘T’s were dotted. They were just happy to dance around each other in complete unison; irrespective of whether they stood together or not.

I saw myself dancing around with them in class 5- my first dance with the fountain pen. I had come home with ink all over my fingers and face. They were like medals won after a long-drawn battle with words. In just a few days though, I had mastered the art of holding it right and also became a pro at fixing pens. All I needed was a blade to run through the nib and within minutes, a not so good pen would become as good as new. I was a natural at mending broken things.

However, as I got older, I did find many other uses of the ink in the pen. Whenever there was a cat fight, the pen was drawn out instead of the claws. Spraying ink could be dangerous, so we had our own silent understanding; no one would fight during school hours. After all, who wanted to spend a day in the principal’s cellar?

Nevertheless, on the last day of school all caution was thrown to the wind. Screaming with joy, we would run through the hallway, splattering each other with ink, Monkey faced, our green ribbons dangling on undone braids; our ties reaching for the earth, we laughed and played with abandon. Once home, it was altogether a different story. Maa was all too keen on getting the stains off the clothes while I was busy naming them. “Was this Tabassum’s or Arif’s?” I couldn’t recall, but every stain belonged to somebody. The darker they had shone, the dearer they had become to me. Maa got off most of the stains, but she could never wash them off from my memories. They were inked in for eternity. Never to fade away; and every time I reach out for a fountain pen to release my thoughts; the scent of fresh ink will bind me to those memories forever.