William Penn

It glided like a ship sailing on a calm sea…

Though for work and non-work I use commonly available pens, I still am a confirmed fountain-pen person. At home I keep even now a fountain pen which is not very costly but writes well. It gives me a special pleasure when the inked letters flow out of the tip of the nib joining into words and coming together to portray what I think. Perhaps while writing with my fountain pen, the writing itself changes, becomes more alive with fresh ideas, may be because of the pleasurable state of mind; innovation comes forth and takes shape on the blank paper.

After more than five decades on this still beautiful earth, in the company of people, trying to communicate and failing many times, I now understand to some extent the challenge of communication. I think, form the words in my mind approximating my thought and speak out the words adding intonations on the way. But the words never could express exactly my thoughts. My friend or foe or casual acquaintance with whom I speak usually do not pay full attention to every word that I say and absorbs only a part of it. At the end comes understanding about what I really wanted to say. Truly, communicating thought is nearly impossible.

In writing, eyes come into play. A possibility—absorption through eyes may be much more reliable compared to listening. You can read a written piece again and again, but listen to a conversation only once. A big difference. In most cases though, you do not read a writing repeatedly. On top of it, usually while reading, you tend to skip words, sentences and even lines. You do not pay full attention to every word while you read.

Oh it is so much about communication! Let’s go back to our beloved pens.

When I was small, I loved to visit the attic in my grandfather’s house. No one to disturbed me. I rummaged through the tidbits lying around or just enjoyed the isolation. One day, in a box kept under old papers I found a fountain pen—a Pelican. It looked precious. I loved the pen. My grandfather must have brought it from his America trip. In those days we used to say America and not USA.

Finding the pen was like finding a rare treasure. But I was not into writing in those times—imagine a child of six or seven writing with a Pelican! A few days I roamed around always with the pen somewhere in my body. But being too young and curious, I dented the nib accidentally. That killed it. I felt a little sorrow, not a very deep one, as I didn’t know the real worth of it or for that matter the joy of writing.

A few years later I got the best one I have ever encountered—a Sheaffer Lifetime. I discovered it from my mother’s things. When I showed it to her, she said proudly, “My father gave it to me. There was another one like it, but I gave it way.” And she did not debar me from having this jewel. By then I grew up and wrote.

I still remember the sheer joy of writing with the Sheaffer. It was like a ship gliding silently without a ripple on the waters. It was smooth like butter. I kept it with me for quite a while till a young one—by then I was married—tried to use the nib like a knife stabbing a wooden table. Till today I mourn the loss.

In between I used Japanese Pilots, Chinese Heroes and so on—acceptably good writing at affordable price. Then one day I discovered that there were no more fountain pens—all gone. Instead, the writing world was completely taken over by the dot pens and the jotters. The classic age was over.

I could not forget them though. Off and on, while on the move they attracted my attention from rare corners of shops.

This day, I was returning from a successful trip from Delhi. At the airport, routinely I checked in, passed the security and having a bit of time at hand tried to find a place to settle down. Suddenly as I looked sideways, a few cases of pens on display caught my attention. Alerted now, I looked around and slowly took stock of the environment. Well, well…not one—there were more and more cases invited me as I looked deeper. Now I moved forward and went from case to case. The dazzling pens lay demurely inside their glass cases. Yes, Sheaffers were there. I asked the young lad in charge, “Do you have a Sheaffer Lifetime here?” He replied promptly, “Yes sir, over there. This is what they call Sheaffer Lifetime now.” It didn’t look solidly dependable to me. Might be the effect of age. Things change, perspectives alter. I asked him the prices of a Sheaffer, a Pelican and a Mont Blanc. He showed me all, knowing full well that I won’t purchase any. Somehow he understood my love for pens. He explained, “Japanese Pilots were replaced by Solai. They come only with gold-plated nibs.” Understandable. Either writing with a fountain pen is a luxury now or the pens are to be kept as showpieces. Most likely, none of these pens will ever write.

I believe, good fountain pens have souls of their own. They write themselves. Writers are only tools in their hands.

I moved to the back row. Astonishing new space age designs dazzled me. Side by side thick classic Mont Blanc beckoned to me. While coming out after thanking the young boy, I stopped and looked behind. Only then I knew—it was a William Penn shop.

Once upon a time I held in my hand a Sheaffer Lifetime—then a Japanese Pilot. Still later Chinese Hero, then the jotters—the dot pens. The pens slowly got transformed into computer keyboards. The words then leaped from the keyboards on to the buttons of a mobile handset. The world, as we see it, is moving ahead at a breathtaking pace. But I would still like to sit in my quiet corner, with a white writing pad in front and a Lifetime Sheaffer and Time in my hand—the moving away time.