When I returned from England many years ago, my father was in the last years of his life. I remember he gifted me his fountain pen when I was visiting him in the spring of 1989. He had begun to hand out all that he had treasured, particularly his books, knowing his end was near. And when he died suddenly of a brain hemorrhage, I felt sad clutching on to his pen that had been his companion for over half a century. It was a meticulously crafted Duofold Classic Parker that we as children had grown up with.
Beyond the honour of being entrusted with the pen, I had the possession of a very large collection of his books, and many on which he had jotted his comments. What mattered most to him was that I accepted the pen and his books as a gift of his love of letters so lovingly passed on to me. I had over the years inculcated from him that writing is an occupation for the very way it keeps us trying, keeps us imagining and daydreaming. There’s no moment in writing that you feel you are wasting your time even when what you write is sometimes rejected by the publishers. I’ve been writing since my schooldays when we were made to write an essay a week. I now write because it’s one activity that gives me enormous pleasure.
I remember, we were taught cursive writing at school and I became an enthusiast for longhand. But one fine day, I decided to write like my mother who wrote in a clear bold hand which was far from being cursive, but to me looked much more ethereal. In those days we had no choice but to write in longhand. No typewriters, no laptops and no smart phones. Though using the computer many years later became a habit of convenience because of the ease with which one could structure messy prose and juggle the paragraphs for more coherence. The typewriter, for instance, was a pain in the neck if you happened to make the slightest mistake in the syntax or lucidity of thought. However, I never gave up writing the rough drafts in longhand. As Marry Ann Hoberman, the American author says, “I don’t really sit at the computer from scratch. I prefer to get my ideas in my fingers and I write longhand first.” Strangely, the use of the delete button doesn’t scare me anymore. I don’t remember how many times I have lamented pressing the delete button and losing much that I would have wanted to retain. My drafts will always remain with me. In longhand, one thinks before crossing out and your slipups are before you.
Not content to have just one or two good pens, I have accumulated a small collection of mostly fountain pens, a Mont Blanc, a black solid lacquer Shaffer Snorkel, the elegant Sonnet Parker, a Waterman. I cherish my Quink ink, and its familiar whiff from childhood when we stained our hands. What is of boundless interest to me is the physical activity of unscrewing the ink bottle, the opening of the pen and the use of good writing and blotting paper. At every pause, searching for an idea I have loved screwing on the cap to not let the nib go dry.
My enthusiasm for longhand has been an abiding passion for as long as I remember. I have often tried to make my handwriting more beautiful. By which I mean, I want it to sing back to me giving me the freedom of my expression. It is on paper that I immediately get connected to every word, experience its nuances, unlike the words mechanically typed into the desktop. I now sometimes nostalgically begin to imagine the cursive of my father’s letters looking up from the page on which I write and I begin to wonder why people have stopped writing letters which inescapably reflect not only the private spaces but a collective memory of days gone by. After he passed away, I was surprised to find in his belongings letters written by me and about me. But more then all, I remember his persistent encouragement to me never to stop writing or dreaming.
The gift has been, indeed, deeply evocative for me. Redolent as it is of the days gone by, I often caress it while sitting at my table and think of the long years that he wrote his diaries with. And I am most overjoyed with the fact that it still, after almost five decades, looks as robust as it was when we as children were growing up and learning to write. And the lesson I have learnt is to leave my laptop behind, sit in a café and use paper and pen. Honestly, you will be more productive, and above all, the delight of a longhand adventure will be most fulfilling.
shelleywalia@gmail.com
Published - January 22, 2023 12:24 am IST
