Spice of Life: Finding connect with father’s fountain pen

The fountain pen became his most-prized possession that he used only for signing. His was a big, bold signature that was as typical as the man himself – straightforward, confident and no-nonsense.

My father was not an educated person, but he was not illiterate either. He had a little formal education, but he was worldly wise. He owned a small grill-making workshop and enjoyed a good reputation in his profession.

In the pre-Partition days, a British officer requisitioned my father’s services for fabricating designer grills for his new residence. He took precise measurements with a pencil. On completion of the job, the Englishman was so delighted with my father’s exemplary work that he gifted him a brand new Sheaffer pen along with the remuneration. My father always mentioned, if anyone cared to ask about his attachment with the fountain pen, that his Sheaffer pen is named after Walter A Sheaffer, the owner of an American company. (HT Photo)

In the pre-Partition days, a British officer requisitioned my father’s services for fabricating designer grills for his new residence. He took precise measurements with a pencil. On completion of the job, the Englishman was so delighted with my father’s exemplary work that he gifted him a brand new Sheaffer pen along with the remuneration. My father always mentioned, if anyone cared to ask about his attachment with the pen, that his Sheaffer pen is named after Walter A Sheaffer, the owner of an American company.

The fountain pen became his most-prized possession that he used only for signing. His was a big, bold signature that was as typical as the man himself – straightforward, confident and no-nonsense. In comparison, my signature looks like a scrawl. If my father’s sign resembled a mountain river in spate, its waters crystal clear, mine is like the same river in the plains, meandering.

When I joined high school, I mustered the courage to ask my father to let me use his pen. He refused point blank, but promised to let me use it in the matriculation final examination. This pen proved to be my lucky charm, at all examinations as I wrote with dexterity. Even with my heavy hand and fairly speedy writing, there never was a tear caused by the pen’s nib – not even on the near translucent continuation sheets that were used in the days of yore for typewriters.

I felt like a man possessed. It is as if my father was guiding my hand. His quiet confidence and poise flowed from the tip of the pen. This pen became a permanent companion through all the semesters and all the examinations.

A fountain pen is much more than a mere instrument that writes in a particular manner, leaving marks on paper, at times barely coherent, while at other times of exceptional purport. It too has a soul and is as much an extension of the person wielding it as the very essence of its owner’s thoughts.

Today, my father is no more with us, but as I hold the pen in my hands, the memories flood in. I look back instinctively, to try and replicate his handwriting, his way of holding the pen, of writing with the kind of command he used to display. It is always difficult for little boys to step into their father’s shoes. As both his son and a fountain pen collector, I can appreciate it. Whenever I need a little dose of my dad, I can always pick up one of his old pens and find a point of connection.

A deep sense of feeling that the pens have souls, intelligence, feelings and can communicate? I guess the term that describes my obsessive attachment with my father’s pen best is Barakah – in Arabica blessing that flows through a physical object.

The writer is an Amritsar-based freelance contributor. He can be contacted at ljsingh1336@gmail.com