This Autobiography is Formatted For Class 5 | Class 6 | Class 7 | Class 8 | Class 9 | Class 10 | Class 11 | Class 12
I am the quintessential birthday gift that one receives at least once in their life. I am a blue ink ballpoint Parker pen who has a dark green and gold cover from the outside.
I have an unlimited shelf life guarantee and whenever you write so much that my ink gets over, please do not think twice before buying a refill and using it again because I believe that some luxuries are meant to be had.
I start off every day in some new places. I believe life is a journey full of adventures and surprises about what is to come next. Some days, you will find me patiently standing on the pen stand by the study table.
Some days, you will find me lying on top of some paperwork kept on the coffee table. Some days I roll around on top of the fridge and some days I find a spot on the dining table.
On some occasions, I have also stayed rolling on the carpeted floor for a few days before I was discovered and then properly relocated again. I am usually used to write.
My ink has been often used to create wonder out of words. Some have written poems and redefined the beauty of poetry while some others have penned spell-binding screenplays and stories with my guidance, continuous support and aid. Due to my smooth grip feature and elegant tip finish, anyone who handles me becomes a fan of my guidance and starts to love their own typography.
My handler found me on their birthday, indeed it is a coincidence I would like to believe. She takes care of me throughout the day and even later in the night.
When I initially started as a pen, she used to clean me using a handkerchief every evening and she would place me back into the strong, weather protectant pen cover every single night without fail.
But as with other things, the formality slowly died down. After all, familiarity breeds comfort does it not. So then gradually, I started to be treated as an everyday object.
The importance and care that was given to me at an earlier time, now almost seemed like an act, full of falsehoods and betrayals.
But I did not think much about it. I was to be used as a tool for writing and for that, I was at her disposal. Every morning I was packed into her pencil box and I would travel into her school for months.
She would take me out of the box at the start of every class to take down notes with the help of my smooth nib and put me back inside after she was done with plastering her notes every session.
Then again I would stay inside the dark box for the lunch hour and I would only get to view the outside world when the next lecture class came by.
Then something monumental happened one particular day. As usual, I was lying around the house. So she came searching for me and picked me up from the coffee table where she had found me.
I was carried to her room and placed inside her dark pencil box which was again placed into her school bag. Then after what seemed like ages, I felt the pencil box being carried out and then the box was opened.
A bright light came flooding in and I was taken out and placed onto a wooden school desk. The room was filled with clamor and loud noises until the teacher walked in.
Suddenly, the air became so silent you could hear a pin drop. Then the class started. As the lecture proceeded, the number of notes written with my smooth flowing ink increased.
I glided on and on ahead along with gritty white-ruled notebooks and printed textbooks, highlighting points and underlining important statements and scribbling important definitions along the borders of the text and corners of the book.
This went on till the bell rang for our lunch break. I was once again placed inside the pencil box and shoved into the bag before she hurried out with her lunch box to a world of freedom and bliss I suppose. While I stayed quietly minding my own business inside the bag, I suddenly felt something happening out of routine.
The bag seemed to be picked off the floor and placed on a table while the zip was opened. Then a hand swam in searching for the pencil box. After evading a mix of old assignments, empty chocolate wrappers, and files, it finally caught a hold of the pencil box. And then, the box was open.
Imagine my confusion and surprise as I looked at an unknown girl, a complete stranger, smile gleefully at me and pick me up. She quickly shoved me into her skirt pocket while I swished around in the darkness of the material wondering what in the world was happening. Afterward, forgoing a long time of being swished around, the girl finally came to a stop as the bell rang and she came and sat on the school bench.
As the lectures went on, she never took me out of her pocket and that left me wondering what I was doing in this entire situation. Then towards the end of class, she deftly slipped me into her pencil box and went off to her home. I never for once was taken out of her pencil box.
After what felt like ages, the box was opened and then again, the similar feel of white light and loud voices and noises came crashing in. But this time, I was grabbed by another pair of hands. As I looked up I realized I was back to my owner! At last, I had been rescued from this lack of luster voyage to nowhere.
Then after a few days, I got to know what the entire situation was as the girl narrated the story to her elders. That one fateful day, after she had gone to play outside with her friends, one mean girl who was jealous of her Parker pen, which is me, went berserk and stole me out of her bag.
She then proceeded to keep me with her while my owner cried and begged everyone to search high and low for me as I was apparently a very special pen for her. That warmed my heart.
Upon talking to different people in the class, finally, one student spoke up and told that when they were entering the class, they had seen the jealous girl near her bag. Immediately, my owner had approached and confronted her about the situation.
Even then, the jealous girl denied and shamed my owner for falsely accusing her. When asked if her pencil box could be checked just to be sure, she denied. But after speaking to her class teacher, she got the girl to open her pencil box and finally found me. W
e were reunited after a long time and the girl who kidnapped me was told off and punished for being dishonest and behaving like a thief.
After a few days, once again I and my owner fell into our daily routine. The only difference being this time around, both of us were grateful for each other.
How was the autobiography of a pen? Please feel free to share your thoughts on the comment section.