Vishy collects pens. Rather he buys them
and they keep on added to his collection. He never thought of doing it
intentionally. But eventually after 20 years of relentless pen buying, he
realised that he has a collection of pens. Then onwards, he doesn't buy them.
He collects. He also feels good when I say that. This is another common thing
between him and Mr. Bachhan, apart from both being Indians or Mr. Bacchan isn't
(an Indian)? God knows.
I also buy a pen, occasionally. A very few
though. Like once in a year or two, only then when I realise that the current
one is totally useless. They become useless if you use them more often or if
you don't use them at all. I, being a writer, buy fountain pens and Vishy being
a collector buys anything - a ball point, a gel pen and even a fountain pen. He
goes by the looks of a pen. They should go with his clothes, as an accessory. I
write scripts and he writes cheques. Not that he writes cheques to me for my
writing. But he writes them to many. He finds it insulting if he has to borrow
a pen from someone. He always uses his own tools to blow his money. Just
kidding! He's a very disciplined businessman otherwise. And he also collects
properties!
That was a reason I had a chance to go to
an NGO. Not a Non Government Organisation, but a Non (well) Governed Office. It
was nothing less than most of the government offices are. It was a back office
of a back office for a government office. Like any office, computer screens
dominated the place. Unlike the government office, there weren't any tables to
separate the needy ones from the authority. They both were sitting side by side
in front of a computer, for a change. But you can tell their respective roles
just by looking at their faces. The operators were busy. Their fingers were
working swiftly on those keyboards. They used to stop occasionally, would ask
something to the clients and then would start typing again. This whole time of
break from the screen, they always used to break their knuckles as if they were
making their fingers ready for the next assault on the poor keys. There, I
could relate myself with them. I do the same whenever I write for so long which
hardly takes place though. But whenever it does, I do the same.
The computer screens were filled by the
endless legal terms. People like you and I can recognise only 'figures' and
'rupees in words' of those relentless scrolling lines on the screens. They were
all preparing the legal documents required to sale or rent a property. The
place was filled with lawyers and their clients - who ranged from a student to
a builder. But they all were the same for the operators. They were filling the
blank spaces with names, amounts and a number of years (in case of a rental
agreement). The exact same straight face for any amount or any name may it be a
celebrity or a political leader or a student. So, my friend was one of the
names in those blank spaces. That gave me a change to be present at such holy
place.
There was a post middle aged man sitting in
a corner with a (once) black blazer like the lawyers wear. But this one was
really worn out, both the man and his coat as a matter of fact. He had a small desk
in front of him. A sly looking young man was slouching over the table by
standing beside him. He was flipping through the pages and the lawyer was designing
his precious signature at the designated places, almost mechanically. Once the
document was finished signing, the prompt assistant would calculate the total
based on the number of signatures. So, his signature came with a cost. He was a
notary officer. He was authorised to sign those documents and he was charging
his professional fees.
During his signing spree, one of the
documents was missing the signature of a certain party. It broke the chain of
his signatures. He pointed out it to the assistant without uttering a word. The
assistant was smart enough to understood it quickly. He was a mediator, so he
politely asked the party to make a signature at the said place. The poor party
dressed in branded clothes didn't have a pen. So, he asked for one directly to
the notary officer. If looks could kill, the well dressed man would have been
listening to his eulogy by then. The near sixty, harmless looking face of the
officer changed into a fierce warrior they show in the old Chinese Kung Fu
movies. He pierced his eyes in the man's eyes. For a second, he must have
thought he was doing a grave mistake by buying or selling that property. But it
was not about his property. It was about the property of the one who was
staring fiercely at him, the notary officer. He looked up at his assistant with
his forehead webbed in frowns. The assistant was calm, may be seasoned by the
scene. It was Vishy who came for the rescue. He immediately held the latest addition
to his collection in front of that man.
The party was soaking in sweat. He signed
in a jiffy. The job was done. He left by paying whatever the assistant had
asked for. I am sure he must have charged him more for asking for pen. It was
our turn next. But, the officer got up from his place and left. That was the
time, he had decided to take a break. That's what the assistant told us while
checking for all the necessary signatures on our document.
'So, what was it all about?' I asked him.
'Tomorrow, you would ask for his liver,' he
said without even looking at us. There was nothing attractive in our faces as
compared to those signatures.
Vishy and I looked at each other. I have
been always teasing him for carrying pens like a school boy. But it paid off
today. He was smiling and I was relieved, thank god I was nothing to do with
this signature thing. I was not carrying any pen.
'What's the big deal about a pen?' Vishy -
the epitome of generosity - was genuinely surprised. Forget a pen, I am sure he
wouldn't hesitate even for a second before lending his Audi.
'This is not a pen we are talking about,' I
remembered the man saying. I was transported to the past by sitting on that
pen.
Now I was in Kolhapur. At a similar kind of
place - a then NGO. In fact the activities were similar, but not the
operations. They were the days when there were no computers, hardly any
typewriters. Pen was still a useful tool and papers were still a commodity to
be associated by the act of writing and not only printing.
My father had bought a house in Kolhapur
and we were all at a property registration facilitator's office. I was small. I
remember the lawyer who was working out our agreement with the seller, took us
there. So, we were there at that little office crammed with people, desks and a
typewriter. Even today, these offices are essentially clumsy, so was that
office then. Hence, I was dying to escape that place. But it was right on the
main road. So, my parents weren't allowing me to go out alone. They showed my
father and the other party some drafts and got them approved. Once everything
was settled, we were asked to go to the next level.
The whole procession of 8-10 men, women and
a child (that was me, yay) led by our advocate, marched towards an old building
nearby. This building was an ancillary to the main registration office. Utilities
had peeled off the aesthetic charm of that structure. All three stories of that
commercial place. The shabbily painted signboards were shouting the existence
of stamp vendors, advocates, notary officers, copiers and every other thing
that would require for the registration of the property dealings. There were
ancillaries even to them. A corner of the lobby was occupied by a tea stall.
There was a table sat in another corner where an old man was selling a common
man's energy food such as tobacco, cigarettes and paans, the residues of which
were present on the walls and the corner spaces on the stairs. Parties, lawyers
and agents were either drinking their miseries with a strong cup of tea or were
chewing & spitting the gossips with every dose of well mixed tobacco or sending
their frustrations wrapped in the grey blue smoke.
Our group crossed a long verandah and reached
to a staircase. I started climbing up assuming that we were supposed to go up.
But our leader stopped me and he went into a tiny alley made by the stairs and
the wall. Living upto the reputation (and may be the eligibility criteria),
this one was also a crammed space, this makeshift office. There was a group of
village people standing awestruck. They were covering the entrance of that
small set up, engrossed watching something intently. Their lawyer was
impatiently waiting outside and urging them to reach to the main office for the
registration. He greeted our lawyer exasperatedly like 'as if this guy is a
hero and we are his attendants'. Our lawyer too replied with the same
expression. It must have been a common reason of their frustration apart from
the pain of the other procedures in registrations itself. Now, I became curious.
What exactly this place was doing to the papers that people were so much in awe
and who made the lawyers jealous?
I, being a child, had an advantage. So, I tried
to penetrate through the wall created by the white clad villagers to catch a
glimpse of the centre of attraction. But I couldn't pass them as the group
disbursed. The spectacle was over it seemed. Their lawyer took charge of the
documents. He checked them thoroughly and he started to leave. He was expecting
the others to pay and follow him. But the villagers stood there chatting and admiring
while paying. Finally, the group left after much insistence of their lawyer.
And I saw him. I wondered what it could be in the heaven's sake this man
possesses that he had a spellbound audience for the past half or more hour.
His white chicken kurta and pajama was
spotless even though his mouth was full with the paan juice. His beard was
neatly manicured and the grey streaks were peeping occasionally. He was sitting
on a mattress that was kept atop a setty with a small squat desk in front of
him. He was looking like some seth at the Market Yard by his appearance. His big
bright eyes spoke before he opened his mouth. Obviously, he couldn't speak even
if he opened his mouth, because he did it to empty his paan juice and residues.
He got up from the seat and went out. He smiled broadly on his return and
greeted our lawyer, 'Namaskar Saheb!!'.
Our lawyer too greeted and described the
job. I still hadn't any clue of what he does. The elders with me probably had
or they were keeping mum to keep their fists closed being the grown-ups. He was
all set. He took the papers in his hands. Then he opened his desk and took out a
thin stack of pale green blank papers matching the size and the colour of a revenue
stamp paper. And then he took out a black pen as thick as a flute. He opened the
cap and then opened the ink tank. He started pouring the ink from the Camel ink
bottle. He knew the exact quantity of ink the pen can store and he actually
required. He stopped even before it was fully filled. He closed the pen by the
other half and capped the bottle. It seemed to be a ritual before starting a
new job. He was now ready with for his show.
He sat with one leg crossed on the mattress
and the other one down on a small stool kept on the ground. He took the stack
of blank papers in front of him and placed the stamp paper on top of it. He
kept the reference document to his left. He took out a paan from his pouch and popped
it. Then he stared at the papers in front of him for almost thirty seconds
while we all were watching, curiously. I saw a few of us covering their smirks.
He opened his eyes and uncapped the pen. The brass nib shone. It was a fountain
pen. He put it on the stamp paper and began his magic with that black wand. First
he wrote the names of the parties. The stamp paper that bore a standard stamp
and some scribbling in the name of receipt by the stamp vendor. Now, it started
looking like a love letter when our guy wrote the first word - the name of one
of the parties. It was just the beginning and what followed next described me
of the spell that he took all of us under. The stamp paper and the blank paper
underneath and the next and the next... every paper began to look like a
beautifully printed document.
That was the very reason he had been
admired and demanded. He was a genius writer. Writer not like an author, but
more like a typewriter, a human copier. He was gifted. The calligraphically written
words on the paper were equal in height and breadth. Each letter was spaced out
like a programmed one. And his handwriting on tip of it! It was something one
would call a human marvel. So beautiful and neat! A stunning piece of art. He
was a true super star of his work. He went on writing ahead, so focused and so patient.
The world around seemed evaporated to him. His concentration and consistency were
paying off in the form of lines after lines filled with beautiful looking words
and that with not a single error, thought though all of them were legal
terminology. It was a lovely treat to watch, this man sitting there and writing
while others watching intently. He was obviously used to the praises. But now,
he was at work and he was not ready to pay attention to them. Our lawyer
suggested that that would take an hour or two, so he would be back by finishing
his other work. The elders decided to have some food in the meantime. I didn't
want to leave. In fact nobody wanted to. But we had to.
He was still writing even when we returned.
I was happy that I could watch it for some more time. In fact, I was also advised
to learn some tricks to improved my handwriting which was not less than an
alien code language. I myself was seriously considering to learn though. We
were even told that even the government officers or the judges used to send
their special letters to him for converting them into masterpieces. Finally, he
capped his pen like a warrior puts his sword back in the scabbard after a victory
and he got up to empty his mouth. That was the indication that he must have
finished. He handed over the papers to our lawyer who was checking them by now.
And the genius writing artist was busy accepting praises from us. He was no
less than a star to me. The lawyer approved the documents. It was the time to
sign. My father signed first and then the other party and they went to discuss
something with the lawyer. It was my mother who was supposed to sign as a
witness. But she didn't have the pen and she asked it to the writer. And that
was it.
'I can't give you my pen, sorry,' he said
politely.
'But, it's a matter of a signature, a mere
word,' my mother pleaded.
'No Didi,' his tone was still polite, 'I
can't. That's my pen.'
A pen was a pen. So, what was the big deal?
Even I thought so and so as everyone else. But he kept on refusing. Now, my
mother and the wife of the other party got irritated by this attitude. He
wasn't arrogant at all. In fact he was having pen refusing my mother's request.
He was also saying that unfortunately he didn't have a spare pen. But he insisted
said that he couldn't lend his own.
Now, that was getting awkward. Finally, my
father came and the ladies made their signatures. But the good vibes turned
into sour by this incident. The artist sensed it and he explained.
'It's my Laxmi, my only tool to earn my
livelihood. I have trained it for the purpose. I can't let it bungled.'
That was the last thing one could hear. But
he explained to us further. As per his experience, fountain pens have nibs that
take the shape of your handwriting. That one had been trained and shaped to
suit his handwriting. So, if my mother or the other lady used it, it would lose
its shape, was his defense. This was strange. He was a writing artist, a
handwriting master who loved his profession and was possessive of the tool of
his livelihood. We left the place after paying him. I still remember that guilt
for the inconvenience caused by his adamant attitude. But he looked helpless.
Years passed by and even today my father
and I joke about it sometimes. This incidence of possessiveness about a pen surfaced
again after that Notary officer's outburst at this facilitator. Though everyone
found it strange the way we did at the artist in Kolhapur, I had sympathy for the
Notary officer. He must have his reasons for being possessive of his pen.
'What's so big deal about a pen?'
I looked around at the computer operators filling
the blank spaces on the screens with names, addresses and amounts relentlessly and
the printers churning out the pale green papers satiated with neatly organised sentences
full of legal terminologies. It somehow reminded me the writing artist. He must
be old by now. But computers started taking over right after five or six years
since we bought our house. So, what must have happened to that master writer,
who took pride in his art? He was a professional who used to love the sight of
people surrounding him while he was engrossed in turning the unrecognisable
legal documents into masterpieces. Was he too compelled to learn a computer? He
had to, I guessed. Otherwise how could have survived? That was his only source
of income. Every time I went to Kolhapur, I thought of visiting the place to
see that old building and that star human copier. But I didn't dare to. I
couldn't see him typing on a keyboard or taking out copies on a printer. I
couldn't see the pain in his big bright eyes of parting his most favourite
tool.
The fact that I didn't have courage to see
him without his trained fountain pen.
