One day, while rummaging through the miscellanea that had accumulated in my drawer over the years, I came upon a slim case sheathed in purple satin. Not quite sure and trying to recall what that box contained, I started wiping the case slowly even as a faint memory, sweet yet hurtful, stirred somewhere deep within me.

Finally, on opening it, my curious gaze came to rest upon a thick, old-world instrument - a fountain pen. It seemed hardly the article one would preserve. Yet, for me, it is of far greater value than the gold of its nib. An ache from the past brought itself to the present as a I kept looking at it for a long time, remembering the unrestrained joy with which I had received it from my father when he presented it to me just before my ninth standard examinations, "If you use it well, it will serve you for many years", he said to me wishing good luck.

Time was so young then, and I so naïve and careless. So it wasn't long before I and my jealously guarded treasure were parted. It so happened that there was a hawker who stood outside our school gate with a bewildering assortment of pens, pencils and erasers. One sad day, I showed this fellow my pen, taking particular pains to point out its exquisite gold nib. Refraining from making any comment, which I later realized was so clever of him; he merely made some incoherent noises indicative of appreciation.

A few days later, as I was leaving for home, he noticed me and held up a pen for inspection. It had a cherry-red body with a scintillating golden cap and was one that made my pen look shamefully drab in comparison to the sleek elegance of his.

"It is superb", I said breathlessly, as I snapped off the cap and turned the glinting nib over for a closer examination the way I had seen connoisseurs do. "Got it from a friend from Singapore", remarked the hawker casually, flicking the non-existent dust from his tray with a duster. I was hugely impressed. "Would you like to exchange" he asked. I found myself handing over my pen even before I could blurt out "sure" for an answer.

I breezed into the house, my heart leap-frogging ahead of me and pulling the trophy out of my trouser pocket, proffered it to my father who was at that time of the evening sipping a peaceful cup of tea. With great excitement I started telling dad of the great trade coup I had pulled off. But he was not at all amused. He said not a word but simply rose with a frown of disdain on his face.

That hurt my pride worse than my hide. "Get that pen back immediately", dad roared. "I will, tomorrow", I gasped. I knew that was absolutely certain of what he was talking about, collecting pens having been his hobby right through.

Next day I collared the cheat and demanded my property back. "I don't have it here", he said. "Then where?" I asked fiercely. "At home", he hedged. "Then let's go and get it from there", I said, gripping him hard by the arm. Luckily for both of us, my juvenile temper wasn't put to test. I did retrieve my pen without much fuss, but when I returned to the class, I confronted my Chemistry teacher whose class I had skipped, visibly annoyed, and he gave me a thorough dressing down.

Worse was to follow. Taking away the pen from me, my dad said, "You aren't big enough to take care of it". A few years later when I first went to college dad tucked the pen into my pocket. It was only after my first article was accepted and published, that I strutted up to my father with pride and told him that the piece had been drafted with his pen. "Not mine, yours", he corrected me, his eyes mirroring my elation.