I was broken my life shattered. Such a thing never happened to me before. I never lost something so dear. I did not feel this pain even when my first cute-sweet girl friend ditched me on my nineteenth birthday (she fell for a guy named Tumba from Kumbam).
She was the best friend I had, come rain or shine, war or peace, love or hatred, success or failure. She was always there with me (like the smile that was always there on my third girl friend). She is the one I was attached to during the last six years of my life. I got 6x12=72 slaps during ragging in college for her being with me for six years.
She helped me in my exams, my entrance tests, my first love letter..The hall of fame is endless. But today without her I am lost. When I lost my fountain pen, a Camlin fellowship. Yes it was so dear to me you ball pen users can never understand the pain. You are attached to your pen no longer than the life of a refill. But my pen it was six long years bandhan.
I am always reluctant to give my pen to anyone, but when the general secretary (G.S) of the college asked me, I had to give it to him as an act of goodwill and the fact that he was my friend did not help much. I felt as if a father doing kanyadan, I pleaded with him to take good care of her.
A few hours went by, I met the ghada G.S again, He was making some equations in air about the Proshow in the upcoming college festival. From a distance I slowly scrutinized his pockets, hands, mouth, ears. No! It was not there. When he finished his animated conversation with another ghada.
I asked him, "where is my pen?"
"What pen?" Came an immediate reply.
I felt as if stabbed from behind. I tried to explain him slowly, to recollect that he had taken a pen from me. But he just couldn't remember and said it might me with some obscure guy and showed no concern to get it for me.
I had to take the role of a policeman. I went to the first guy he said had it, no was written all over his face. Every one seemed to be passing around my pen. I desperately tried to track it down. But it gave the impression of a hi-fi American stealth bomber not detected even by most advanced radar systems.
I was exhausted and there were no more clues to go on. I cursed the G.S in my heart and felt horribly sad. I was returning to my hostel, walking with sluggish steps, as a soldier returning from a war lost. On the way back a hero came in and gave me a pen and asked me to give it to the G.S and left, he was in a hurry. He had no time to hear what I wanted to say, and I too was stunned to speak spontaneously.
I couldn't believe my eyes and ears. I don't know what it was, luck, fate or what ever it is, I had my pen in my hands. I was happy to get it back and sweared never to lend my pen to a public servant. I proceeded to my room thinking of all the harshness my pen would have been through in the last few hours.
Kanyadan: The ceremonial hand over of the bride to the bridegroom by the bride's Father
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