HERO-ism

In the conventional sense it was not a dramatic event. However, for some strange reason, it has remained etched in my memory. I was in Class 4 then. That year, we had just graduated to using pens for school work. It was something novel and enigmatic. I had borrowed a new fountain pen from my best friend at that time, not just any writing implement it was a ‘Hero’.

Chinese pens those days were not as easy on the pocket as they are today. My friend, Pravin had been proud to use it. So I too was a little surprised when he lent it to me without hesitation. So I cast my humble pen aside and started using the borrowed one, with a sort of satisfaction and pride one normally associates with an owner. Then, the most unexpected event happened. Several years later, I still have no clue as to how it occurred. The smooth surfaced pen slipped from my slender fingers and nose dived to the hard floor, much like the several unsuccessful rockets dispatched from Sriharikota. So much for Chinese Aero-dynamics, I could not but help thinking.

My valiant attempts to prevent the inevitable failed and the Hero crashed head on with the unyielding floor. My heart sank to depths lower than the rockets that had failed. As I picked it from the floor, my thumping heart summoned all the gods to my rescue and I prayed hard that the sturdy Chinese warrior was unharmed. After all, it was a Chinese pen; it was a Hero and was meant to be sturdy. The rationalist in me awoke. The nib hardly butted out of the pen and the pressure on the nib is absorbed by the hood and so it was not likely to be hurt. Perhaps it might just suffer a few indiscernible scratches on its glowing skin. May be Pravin will not notice it. May be this and may be that.

With these confusing thoughts, my trembling fingers picked up the pen. My lips were uttering an incomprehensible prayer. The nib was gnarled beyond recognition, the dreaded had happened. How was I going to face my best friend? My heart sank as my young brain started to weigh the limited options that I had. All those protectors whom I beseeched to pull me out of my misery seemed to have turned inimical. Suddenly my prayers dried up and my eyes swelled with tears. What if my best friend chose to change his best friend after this? The world came to a grinding halt. If any thing weighed more than that pen that day, then it was my heart. What would my father say? He was already sick of my clumsiness. How do I go to the bus station and when was the next bus out of town? There were more questions and no answers at all.

I decided to let my destiny take its toll. With a morbid fear of the unknown, I turned to Pravin who was deeply engrossed in the class. I nudged him and as words failed me, I just held up his dear pen up to him. My entire future rested on his next move and so my eyes were fixed on his lips. But my message came from his eyes, which first showed shock and then a fear that I faintly recognize now as being no different from mine. And he uttered the dreaded words, “What have you done? My dad’s going to skin me.” It was no solace to me that I was going to have company when I was to be punished for my crime.

“Does it write?” he asked me. In that brief moment, when my world had ceased to move, it had not even occurred to me to find out the extent of damage. I had assumed that the pen had suffered a violent death. I hurriedly scribbled out a few words. It was more like the etchings on a grave than a few deft strokes of a pen. Pessimistically, I showed the scratching to him, as I was convinced that the sunny days of my life were killed. I was taken aback by the joyous smile on his face. He loudly proclaimed, “Yahoo. It writes!” I had not expected this at all. I had indeed survived. I have survived several scars from close shaves with my destiny in the years that followed. Never did they leave a more impressible image on my psyche than the scratching of the Hero pen.

The last I heard of Pravin was that he had joined the armed forces-army or navy. I am not so sure. Reflecting on those days, I believe that he had the best quality of a soldier-to see opportunity in adversity. He is there, somewhere in the high seas or up in the mountains, but fighting a faceless enemy. And I, you may want to know, became a lawyer. I have not changed much though. I still borrow things, break them or worse still lose them. Only that I do not feel threatened any more. At least, I don’t need to pay a lawyer to defend me!

By P.Neelakantan

Advocate & Author

(Both by tragic accidents)