In fourth grade, all our metal pencil boxes had a serious upgrade. We were the “Big kids” who could use ink pens to take notes. Our excitement couldn’t be contained and for the first time, the students in my class along with me wanted more notes to write. It was also the day I fell in love with the whole concept of ink.
I’ve always found something majestic about ink. It gives me a sense of sophistication when I pen something down; a sense of satisfaction, may it be scribbling in my diary or catching a whiff of its smell in between the pages of a really good book.
Ink has been that seemingly trivial thing that has traveled with me and all of us as we’ve grown up. We’ve been scared of the red ink marks all over our answer sheets, we’ve all had grubby fingers after writing too much in class, felt the emotional connect with the words inked in a letter from someone special and looked back at the inane amount of ink fights with friends, feeling nostalgic about the whole thing.
“What are you writing for so long?” My cousin exclaimed once, grabbing my diary from me. I squealed, trying my best to grab it back from her. I had to describe what had happened that day and I felt satisfied only when I wrote in my diary with my fountain ink pen, my handwriting dramatically loopy. The day didn’t end without me recording something in my pink notebook, however insignificant it was. It was more about the magical moment when the ink got etched on the paper than anything else.
Life is fast paced. No one looks around for a pen to write down a phone number anymore. But in this race, if we do decide to stop for a minute, a second even, we notice the beauty in the everyday. The beauty in scribbling down on a sticky note, the excitement in receiving a secretive note from your best friend in the middle of class, catching the smell of the “royal” blue in all its hurried glory.
There’s been developments in the whole writing field, but there’s something unmatched about filling droplets of ink through the filler into the fountain pen, about spinning random tales on paper because when we look back, all we see is the happiness, the passion exuding from the words and the high we got off smelling the ink we’ve all grown up loving.