The Autobiography Of A Pen

By Riya Chaudhary

The winter of 1929 was a particularly harsh one in Birmingham. The cold cut through the atmosphere like a knife and yet the economic recessions cut even harder. It was not the best time to be an exorbitantly priced fountain pen. I was birthed in a Pierre Cardin factory downstream from the Thames. You could say the factory was my birthplace. But by no means was it my home. The journey to finding my true home was a long and exhaustive one. I was transported from shop to shop for months on end. Perhaps it was not the best time for the people to be investing in an extravagant yet glorious pen, while most people struggled for employment. I tried my best not to take it personally. But it stung harder than an agitated wasp’s bite when I saw pens beneath my stature being bought and taken into their homes.

My luck finally turned one autumn afternoon. A young man who I assumed to be from a well-to-do family, if his clothes and the way he carried himself with an air of superiority were any indication. His calloused hands suggested he was not a man of soft skills but a man of hard labor. My golden girth felt almost strange in his grip, but he handled me with utmost gentleness. The man ran his hands along my length, taking a second to admire the black engravings on my gold skin. "I'll take this one for this is the most superior pen of this millenium", is what I assume he said to the shopkeeper before purchasing me and encasing me in a gift wrapping. A pit formed within me when I realized he did not plan on keeping me.

The young man ended up gifting me to his young nephew. The boy must have been outright delighted to see me for as soon as he held me he threw me into the air and I ended up hitting a wall. Undoubtedly a sign of excitement. No man or woman would be anything but at the sight of me. Another person ended up placing me on the boy's study table which is where I spent a majority of years. The young boy, George, used me sparingly over the course of the years and my moments of spotlight were few and far in between.

Then, came George's big project. A dystopian novella about a man who begins a subtle rebellion against some party by keeping a diary of his secret thoughts, which is a deadly thought crime. My, did George and I have some good times together. He and I spent night after night in a dimly lit study, the smell of incense and tea wafting through the air and cool breezes blowing through open windows. I would forget my own branding but I would never forget the moments I spent working myself, as obedient as a puppet under his grip. Neither would the world, I suppose. George's project, 1984, would go on to be considered a masterpiece classic of literature. With the immortality of his words, my immortality was assured. I would go on to live within his words. As a pen, I would cease to exist someday, but my soul would go on to live eternally.

By Riya Chaudhary