The Sheaffer Pen

Ah, papa that Sheaffer pen!
“I will write my novel with it.
I will have all the time in the world
After my retirement,” you had said.
Every now and then, you would pull out your table drawer,
Look admiringly at that Sheaffer pen
A gift from your Ph. D student, accepted reluctantly
Lying between stacks of papers and Morton toffees
That you gave us every now and then
When we did something good.
But I was a good – for- nothing. Did nothing good.
I remember, after a sound tongue –lashing
When my ego came down crashing
And I spent a day, sobbing and thrashing around on my bed
You tiptoed to my bedside with a piece of paper.
I feigned sleep. Deep.
You kept that piece of paper under my pillow.
“SORRY”,
You had written in bold letters with that Sheaffer pen.
Papa, you never got to write a novel with that Sheaffer pen
You had hoped you would have all the time in the world.
But no, you did not!
In that ‘Relic’ of a house in Kashmir, you breathed your last
[Ah wasn’t it your dream to go back to your roots?]
With a truckful of books, a trunkful of clothes
A heart full of dreams, and that Sheaffer pen
You shifted base from Jaipur to Kashmir.
I would often glimpse you standing near your study window
Twirling that Sheaffer pen
Looking down thoughtfully at the houseboat –dotted Jhelum.
Your mind whirring, an idea stirring in your mind.
But before you could put it on paper, with your Sheaffer pen
The words left you, and we, the bereft ones were left
Clutching to your memories, and that precious relic
That Sheaffer pen.