Sams' my office buddy, extremely cute, his smiles are as good as his laughs and each of it shows not only on his lips but, is taken as far as his eyes. It gives his eye the crows feet, but with a baby face like his, he manages to add a cuteness quotient to that as well. He has a lot of gyan, and likes to impart it. He denies the fact saying, he is not interested imparting it, it's just me who like to sit at his desk and seek knowledge like a man seeing rain in the desert. A decent chap. If I told this to Dragon, he would say, "All guys are dogs". So, remembering Dragon, Sam illutionizes me into thinking he is a decent chap. His sense of music is fantastic, his gyans are a credit to know, and the perfumes he uses, are beyond mesmerizing. Maybe, it is not the gyan that makes me sit at his desk to pass a non-busy day. Maybe, it is just the perfume. I understand how I am avoiding saying, "He is an interesting person however". So, Sam. Here is to accepting a challenge of writing something other than things hard to swallow. That did not come out right o_O Anyway...since you are a decent guy, I don't see the need to rephrase.
Confession of a little boy
Your "first time" is always a precious memory to treasure. First job, first love, First foreign visit, first kiss, first flight experience and many many more that your mind might already be thinking of. What captures my memory today is the first time I was allowed to use a pen. Third grade.
Like every new academic year, my dad, like usual bought me my new uniform, new shoes, a new bag, lunch box, pencil box and a whole new set of stationary. But, this time the stationary had one different ingredient added to it. An ink pen! A pen, which I, like other children in my class, will be allowed to use tomorrow onward. I would be a big boy tomorrow! I would write with a pen and not the eternally lead breaking, wooden stick called pencil that has to continuously be sharpened. I would sign my name on important papers with it, like the grown ups did! I would be a grown up tomorrow. My Dad filled the pen with ink and secured it in my pencil box. Oh! it wasn't just a pencil box any more. It had a pen now! He tucked me into bed, switched off the lights and kissed me good night before we left to retire in his den. All night long, I kept thinking of how wonderful it would be to write tomorrow. I kept waking up to check if the pen was still in the box left in my bag. Like a faithful friend, it was always there when I checked. I showed off my ink pen the next day in school. Many of my friends had bought fancy pens. For once, class room felt better than the candy shop. A sudden kind of maturity entered my body holding this ink pen. I was a grown up now, who had important things to write now. Mine was a transparent one. It showed the level of ink left as I continued writing with it. The coppery-gold nib touching the skin of my notebook, glided so smoothly leaving behind it such resplendent impressions that my words fail to explain the chills it gave me. I had never seen anything like this before. It did not break like my pencil, it did not go coarse over a period. Like my faithful friend, it remained how I knew it, sailing smooth like a ship. The pen, wrote in a shade of midnight, a carefully thought out shade of blue that made my silliest doodle look like a carefully thought out art. It left some beautiful marks on my hands and also, a lovely blue blog on the shirt of my friend.
School alone with the pen was not enough for me. I came back home eager to get in company of my books. Oh! the homework now looked like an important thing to do. I quickly too out my science book and carefully took my pen out of the box and began quenching my thirst to learn science. I wrote the answer to the question, and then wrote the answer again and continued doing it five times before there was a knock at the door that my mother answered. It was a friend of my mother who visited and saw me busy at my quest. I took my eyes off from my book and noticed him see me with zeal. It was the look important people are given. After all, I was not a little boy anymore. He looked at the warriors sword in my hand and looked at the magnificent impressions they had made on the notebook and seriously said, "it is nice to see you so engrossed in your home work that you wrote it five times. Now why don't you recite me the answer, you have so well by-hearted?"
I realized I knew not a word I wrote. I was so in love with this pen, that every other thing in my life was forgotten. Even at that tender age, I knew it was lame to say, "Uncle, I was writing the answer for the joy of using a pen. Nothing that I wrote has been by heartened." But, such was the joy of writing with a pen, for it made me a man, from the little Sam who had left kindergarten.
