By: Fariha Karim
If one peeked through the windows of "Oak Reimagined", the neighborhood's quaint stationery shop, they would notice a frail old man hunched over the counter, untying a blue ribbon from a box. His wrinkled face would morph into a gap-toothed smile as he would take out a fountain pen. Its smooth jet black body, complemented by a gold-plated nib, gave it a classic feel. The man would place it on a matt black tray, next to an array of other identical trays. A new addition to his collection.
Such was the daily life of the Fountain Pen Collector. Despite his impressive collection of rare and valuable pens, none of the neighborhood people were interested in buying them. After all, this was far from a wealthy neighborhood. Most of the people's needs were met by boxes of ball-point pens, pencils, markers, glue-sticks, and notepads. The assortment of fountain pens was merely a showpiece for those who happened to pass and glance by the shop windows. The pens gathered dust as they were left forgotten.
Although it was bad for business, the old man kept buying and adding new fountain pens to his collection. He could not stop. Like his relationship with alcohol, scouring upscale stores to acquire the latest pen seemed to become an addiction. Slowly but surely, he fell into the claws of debt.
One winter morning, the old man stared at his counter piled high with unpaid bills. It was one of those days - muddy thoughts; scattered conversations and thoughts flowing in and out. How had it all come to this? Somewhere, from the depths of his aged mind, a memory from what seemed to be ancient history was weeded out. He was back in the body of his wiry preteen self, enclosed by the walls of a dingy shack decorated with balloons. It was his thirteenth birthday, the day when his parents had gifted him a grand platinum fountain pen. He could still remember the way its cool surface felt on his skin, the way its surface caught the light and reflected back its incandescence. Growing up as the youngest in a family of five where clothes were always second hand and the food was always rationed, such a luxury was almost impossible to come by. It was the first time he had ever received such a beautiful and personal gift, one that was his and his alone.
The gears in his mind were shifting. With legs that felt like lead, the old man got up. He grabbed his faded grey coat hanging by the door and readjusted the black muffler around his neck. With absolute care, each box of fountain pens was packed into an oversized mesh bag. When the last box went in, he pocketed his keys, turned off the lights, and ventured out into the chilly morning streets.
He pulled his well-worn coat closer towards him as the cold drafts sent shivers down his spine. The snow crunched softly under his feet and his soggy boots squelched with every step he took. With a runny nose and teary eyes, he zeroed in on the first house that happened to enter his field of vision and headed straight towards the entrance. Ignoring the jolt of pain that shot through his back, the secret Santa bent down and placed five boxes in front of the door. This process was repeated as he scurried from front door to front door, the mesh bag forever dangling over his shoulders.
The sun was setting in the balmy evening sky by the time the old man returned home. With immense satisfaction, he snuggled into bed, letting the exhaustion of the day seep out of his body. The fountain pens were still on his mind. He had handed out every single one of them except the one that had been gifted to him by his parents. Even after all these years, he had never attempted to write a single word with it. In fact, he had never used any of the fountain pens he had bought. Why was this the case? Reclining his head back on the pillow, he closed his eyes and let the answer come to him – He was a hoarder.
He hoarded but never used. If he did, the magic of the fountain pens would run out. To him, they were objects of immense mystery and charm. The thought that his initial captivation could dissipate into ashes once the fountain pens lost their glamour filled him with dread. The old man's eyes shot open. For the most part, he had approached life in a similar way as well. Made instantaneous connections, but never deepened the relationships, too afraid that the fights and misunderstandings which would inevitably arise would taint the beauty of the connections. Thoughts were never penned down into words, for fear that the ink would never capture the depth of the thoughts.
The Fountain Pen Collector slowly got out of bed as he contemplated this. Using his last fountain pen, he finally wrote a letter to a friend from years long past.
(Image from here.)
Komentari