After a long day, my colleagues and I went to the coffee shop in the mall. We ordered some detox drinks and got down to business to jot down the checklist and actions for the next day. I had kept a bunch of pens in my coat. Every time I picked up one pen or the other I was not happy. I wanted my black one. I searched for it in all my pockets and my two bags. It was nowhere to be seen. While my friend had started mentioning the actions, I wanted to capture them. Reluctantly I picked one of those pens and started making the points in the yellow colour post-it. I concealed my anxiety in front of my colleagues. But inside I was worried. The big question was “Have I lost my favourite pen?” I cannot locate the pen that was my friend, my power of instrument to write. I was itching to hold that pen and it was not to be seen. I had written so many blog drafts with this pen and this time around where did it disappear suddenly?
All along that drive back to the hotel, I was searching. I asked the driver to move the seats and see if it was lying somewhere below. I called my colleague as I travelled in his premium car to check if I had misplaced it inside the back pocket of the driver’s seat. He mentioned asking the chauffeur to have one final look inside the car and call me back. Those are moments when you wish to hear a voice saying it was there. But that was not to be. My last hope was whether I had left it inside my journal in the hotel room. The rest of the drive to the hotel was comforting with that hope. I decided to rest my anxiety. I reached the hotel and was getting ready to sign him off. He gave me a blank sheet of the bill and requested me to fill it up as he didn’t know how to write. I wanted to tell him that I wasn’t in the best mood to write. I did that in a jiffy. Rushed through the lobby, pressed for the elevator which came in its own sweet time. Why are elevators designed like this? When you need them, one is under maintenance and the other two are at the topmost floors. Luckily there wasn’t any restless being like me so I got into the elevator solo and pressed 6. Reached the door of my room only to notice that my electronic access card was not functioning. It was blinking red. I had to repeat the same cycle again and as I entered the room. From a distance, I saw that my journal was sitting alone under the table lamp without its companion. For the next few hours, I felt the void and I was going through the memories. I once again looked at all the nooks and crannies and finally declared that my black pen had been lost. There has not been a day when I have not been with this pen. There was a sense of accomplishment when I used to hold it and then write it to get those creative juices flowing. Off late, I noticed that the cap was falling off and the black colours had started fainting. One might ask, what is so special about a pen?
A lot of my blog drafts and my stories had been penned through this pen. It was a possession that was meant to give you that internal energy and satisfaction. When I held it in my hand, to write on weekends with coffee by my side that was déjà vu.
A writer’s pen has a lot of cherished memories. Every time I refilled the cartridge in that pen, I felt it was ageing (at least now post facto). I had seen how my grandfather had taken care of his Parker ink pen just like the way he took care of his health. Anyway, it is time to move on and break free from the bondage of the pen. As Rumi says in Pahlayi, ‘ Choon azaad min zihan meen tasayyur e Azadi – You’re free the moment you think that you’re free ‘. Well, this blog is to thank my pen-friend for bringing that word power from inside as it served as the tongue of my mind.
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