The pencil, my brother gifted.

A few days back, while I was writing an article, I suddenly realised that there was just one month left for my brother’s wedding. I stopped typing and reclined back into the chair. I looked up at the ceiling as I exhaled heavily. My face bore no expression. I couldn’t help but wonder at the passage of time. All the memories, with my brother, from the last twenty years of my existence came flooding back to me. A smile came upon my face when my mind ran through some of them. The pillow fights, the piggy back rides through the house, the walking back from school, the hide and seek games, the serious talks, the boring days, the verbal abuses, the silence after a serious fight and the obvious embracing of brotherhood quickly afterwards. It seemed as though it all happened just yesterday. I couldn’t help but notice how all the bad and the good memories seemed so alike. The passage of time had somehow managed to mix the bad memories with the good ones and made it into one big, endearing memory in the mind. What a beautiful thing, time is. I wished to myself something that I wish for often, to go back in time and hold my brother’s hand as we walk towards school.

Of all the memories that were now fresh in my mind, one managed to stand out. I was not one bit surprised that this one incident had stood out and grabbed my attention. It is one of the only things I remember from that phase of my life. It always managed to make me teary eyed. The best part about it is, I remember every scene in detail.

Long ago, when I was around six years old, things were very different. I had no friends. I was quite a peculiar boy back then. Always silent and alone. I couldn’t comprehend and grasp much of what was going on around me. I was always thinking about something or the other, silently. I was the odd boy out at everything. I had no one to talk to in school simply because no one spoke much to me.

Having described the scene, I wish to add a point before I continue. I am not writing this to get any sympathy. I hate sympathy. I am not writing this to muster up some self pity either. I hate that as well. I am writing this ( I believe) because I just love to express my feelings in writing. It gives me some sort of satisfaction which is hard to explain. Glad we got that cleared. Well, let us continue now.

It was no surprise, thus, that I used to fare poorly in the tests. Nothing ever made sense to me. I was not particularly sad about my situation back then. It was the only way I knew, and I was content with it.

One evening, my brother had got me a Faber Castell pencil. The pencil with the iconic triangular shaped body. The body was green in colour. I remember how happy I was after seeing the pencil. Faber Castell pencils were a big deal back then ( I do not want to come across as an old writer when I say ‘back then’, but yeah, that was the case). I had imagined all sorts of clever sketches that I would do in my notebook with the green pencil. I just could not wait to take it to school the next day.

The next day, I was early to class. There were only four boys in class. I remember noticing the teacher. She was standing outside the class and talking to a fellow colleague, waiting for all the students to come. I promptly went and occupied my usual place in the corner seat on the last row. I immediately took out my new pencil and sharpened it. Ah, the pleasure of sharpening a new pencil. I was just so excited. I hurriedly tore a sheet from my notebook and began drawing something. It felt beautiful. I went into my own little world of creativity. While I was lost in my own world, I had failed to notice a boy standing in front of me. I would not say he was a bully, but he was always the most popular boy in the class. Both, amongst the teachers and also amongst the other young class mates. He snatched the pencil right out of my hand and proclaimed it as his. I was taken aback completely. It was rare for me back then, when my classmates paid attention to me. I immediately fought back but there was stiff resistance. He was much stronger than me and his friends helped him. Tears began to roll down my cheeks as I shouted, “It is my pencil! My brother gave it to me!” But they just laughed back at me.

By now, I was crying profusely and had pleaded hard for them to return what was rightfully mine. I did not know of any another solution and I decided to take it to the teacher who was standing outside the class. My hopes were high since the teacher was always the ultimate institution of justice for us, toddlers. When I went up the teacher, my face was completely wet. I somehow managed to explain the situation to the teacher with a broken voice. The teacher’s reply truly shocked me.The teacher did not speak a word in reply. She just shooed me off by waving her hand at me. I was shattered. I slowly retreated back to my place in the corner, shocked. I had no mood to finish the sketch that I had initially started. I sat with my head held low. I had never expected such an exciting day to have turned out so bad.

And that was that. That was how it came to pass. The story of a lost pencil. Whenever it is I recall this incident, it always makes me teary. I have wondered long and hard but I never succeed in coming up with a convincing answer. Why does it make me emotional every single time. It is such a trivial issue when I think of it now. Why, then, does it still put me off? Probably because the inner child in me still thrives. The same child that cried over a pencil incident, still lingers in me, maybe. I might never know the answer.

However, I know one thing for sure. I know that the lesson that incident has taught me will stay with me for the rest of my life. I know that if I were to ever meet the boy who stole my pencil, I would thank him. Thank him for teaching me that nothing in life can ever be accomplished by crying. That nothing in life is ever possible if weakness looms large. I know for sure that if I were to ever meet the teacher who shooed me away without a pity  in the world to spare, I would thank her wholeheartedly. Thank her for teaching me that nothing good can ever come out of complaining.

I sat upright in my chair as my thoughts came back to the present. I tried hard to continue writing the article. But, I couldn’t. My mind was still thinking about that incident. My mind still went back to that pencil. My eyes were moist.

I hope I get back that pencil one day (However impossible it may seem) and complete the uncompleted sketch. I can never forget that green pencil because it was The pencil, my brother gifted.