When the pen was born, it was placed in a velvet box with an open lid, much like a coffin. It was held in place by a sash around the waist.
Lying down at an angle the pen watched the world go by through the spotless glass case, between the legs of men and women, clothed and bare, and past the revolving doors with the sign, ‘Penman’s Fine Writing Instruments’.
By the end of the day, The Pen learned two words – ‘Open.’ ‘Closed.’ – written on either side of the slate board that hung on the glass window.
Over the week, The Pen learnt other words mainly from the conversations of Jane and Oscar, who manned the store. Hemingway, the third person who rarely spoke, came in at the end of the day, counted the cash, and closed for the night.
The day Jane would not stop talking about the fickle weather, a group of three walked in, stomped their feet and brushed the snow off their jackets. They were talking in a sing-song language The Pen had never heard before.
“It is my husband’s birthday today. My son and I would like to gift him a pen.”
“How wonderful! Happy birthday, Sir.”
Perhaps it was due to the rhythm in the strange language, The Pen dozed off. It was woken up with the world shaking beneath its feet. For the first time, The Pen was brought out of the glass case and placed on top.
Jane took out The Pen and gave it to the man with the round rim glasses, a French beard, and shaven head. The Man’s gentle fingers ran over it, lifted, and weighed it.
Write? Right.
Like learning to dance, The Man and The Pen took a few scratchy steps. The shapes ‘M A D H A V’ filled the only clean portion of the densely scrawled sheet of paper.
The Man took a fresh sheet and started the waltz again. He copied the lines from the framed photograph behind the counter. It was a quote by Graham Greene.
“My two fingers on the typewriter have never connected with my brain. My hand on the pen does. A fountain pen, of course. Ball-point pens are only good for filling out forms on a plane.”
“I like the feel of the pen,” the man said.
But The Pen did not feel anything. “Was that my purpose in life? To feel? Make others feel? Am I missing that connection here? Even if I discover those emotions how do I describe those feelings?”
Soon the lid of the box closed. The Pen heard the sounds of the cash register.
‘egoes where I go
On the journey to its new home, The Pen, now The Mad Pen, fantasized that he would take many a reader to the farthest corners of the universe.
In less than a year, The Mad Pen learned the letters of the alphabet, words, and sentences, how to turn words and phrases with a slight twist of his body, and how to structure stories which in turn controlled human emotions.
The Mad Pen’s black coat took on a sheen of self-importance. Black creative juices gushed out of him and filled stacks of paper; The Man had a hard time finding a place to stack and store them.
Mind block
On the day snow piled high outside, The Mad Pen stood staring at the blank sheet of paper. Nothing came to mind. Squeeze as hard as he might, the black juices stopped flowing. He doodled a few concentric circles trying self-hypnosis to jump-start creativity. The Mad Pen took a mindful walk along the flowery borders of the white paper trying to push away all distractions.
“Something is blocking my mind.”
He lay down on the sheet of paper and rolled out. When he bumped against the still-open box at the edge of the table, memories from younger days flooded his mind. The journeys he took to the edge of the mental and physical worlds. Creating stories upon stories that regaled audiences around the world.
The Mad Pen felt himself being lifted by The Man’s gentle hand and placed in the coffin. The dust in the box choked his senses. He sneezed and coughed bringing up the black bile within.
“That’s it. It’s all the muck that has been lying deep inside. It’s gone. Now I am free. Put me back in contact with the paper.” The Mad Pen did not have the words to express himself.
Is this the end?
No amount of shaking and rolling helped The Mad Pen get out of the coffin without that warm, gentle crutch. The Mad Pen tried to get the attention of The Man, but the man kept looking out of the window through his gold-rimmed glasses.
“Is this the end” The Mad Pen dreaded that the lid would close down on him forever. “Will I be cremated or buried? Who will write my eulogy? Can anyone take my place?”
The Mad Pen lay there looking at The Man stroking his beard deep in thought.
“What was The Man’s role in my story? My story. Was he guiding me all along? Is this really the meaning of ‘The invisible hand of god?’ Weren’t those really my thoughts. My words. My stories?”
The Mad Pen dozed off. When he woke up the lid was still up. A new day had begun. The snow on the trees looked beautiful and he could sense the crispness in the air.
The Man walked in when the grandfather clock struck seven. The Mad Pen was lovingly lifted from the box. The slim fingers enclosed The Mad Pen in a loving embrace and began to guide him. The dance between The Man and The Mad Pen began and words started flowing again.
