03-Feb-2024
As time went by, I developed the habit of hovering near Baba during the process of choosing a fountain pen to purchase. Baba would hand me a pen, tell me to try it, and solemnly ask what I thought of it. Six-year-old me, gratified at being consulted on such an important matter, would try to say something intelligent about each pen. Baba always kept the box of pens on the study table within my reach. At school, we used pencils; however, in class 3, we were asked to use a pen for ‘number work’. I was overjoyed. While my classmates delighted in gel pens emblazoned with cartoon characters, my homework was handed in in Waterman ink, usually from a Sheaffer or a Sailor.Although I did try to take a fountain pen to school, I was paranoid about carrying something so precious, and constantly worried about its wellbeing hidden in the depths of my pencil case. After a few days of this, Baba and I decided to keep the fountain pens at home. Physics formulae resplendent in green, violet and magenta lay scattered across the pages of my notebooks.
Even now, most evenings will find Baba and myself sitting at his desk, frowning at a fountain pen, trying to find the correct angle to allow it to perform at its best. On Sundays, we clean our pens. The two once-white cotton handkerchiefs reserved for the purpose have never seen the insides of the washing machine; they are lovingly washed by hand. Regardless of the plethora of coloured splotches decorating them, the only colour they yield when washed is violet.