When the pen reigned supreme

THERE was a time when the pen was the king of the desk. It wasn’t merely a writing instrument — it was a symbol of learning, elegance and identity. Whether tucked behind ears, clipped into shirt pockets, exchanged between friends or preserved as keepsakes, pens were part and parcel of everyday life. They were used by us to sign on our first job applications, write answers in exams, jot down family recipes and pen down heartfelt letters. But today, they have faded into the background — victims of a digital era that thrives on speed, not sentiment.

I still remember the comforting scratch of a fountain pen nib on paper, the occasional ink smudge on fingers and the pride of graduating from pencil to pen in school. Those little milestones were rites of passage. Now, they are quietly vanishing like footprints on shifting sands.

One memory from the early 2000s remains etched in my mind — that of a man who embodied the essence of that era. In Shimla and Solan, I often saw a man known as the Penwala. With long flowing hair, a thick moustache and an unmistakable aura of calm, he cut a striking figure. He was a regular on Shimla’s Mall Road and at the local bus stands of Shimla and Solan. His open umbrella was unlike any other — its ribs were lined with pens of every shape and kind: ballpoints, gel pens, ink pens — all meticulously tagged and swaying gently with every step. Pens were clipped across the front of his long coat, up his sleeves, down his legs and even on the brim of his hat. He never spoke much, but his presence turned heads. For tourists and commuters alike, he was a walking exhibition — an unsung ambassador of the handwritten word.

Today, it feels almost surreal to recall such a scene. The writing has been on the wall for some time. Pens — once indispensable — are now playing second fiddle to technology. In our daily lives, apps and automation have edged out handwritten forms, letters, diaries and even greeting cards. A birthday wish today is a GIF; a condolence note, a forwarded message. The pen, it seems, has become a relic — out of sight, out of mind.

But let’s not throw the baby out with the bathwater. Pens taught us discipline and reflection. To write with a pen meant to slow down, to think before committing words to paper. Our handwriting was, in many ways, the mirror of our inner rhythm.

I don’t know whether the Penwala still roams the hills or has packed away his umbrella for good. But his image lives on — a quiet reminder that the ordinary can one day become extraordinary in hindsight.

I’m not against technology — I use it daily. But every so often, I still reach for a pen. To sign a greeting card. To underline a meaningful passage. To jot down a thought before it escapes. Because even in a world of autocorrect and touchscreen convenience, some words deserve to be written — not typed.

Musings