An enviable collection of pens adorned the cupboard!

All of a sudden, there was a mild commotion among the four Reed pens lodged at the farthest corner of the tray. The lone Quill blinked its eyes twice before asking the Reed pens what the matter was.

“You see, no one bothers to buy us these days. The modern generation does not even know of our genesis. Nevertheless, we deserve to be treated with dignity. We still write! We are the oldest of our species!” said one of the Reeds.

“Ah! Brothers Reed, poor you! Though I am the lone survivor here, you know, how classy I am! I am not as bulky as you, guys. Sleek, tender and sassy that I am, I have been used even by the Bard of Avon. What dramas, what plays, what poetry has flowed from me! Surely, I deserve a higher standing than you guys!” said the Quill.

By then, few of the Fountain pens had started rattling among themselves. One of them shouted unasked, “Hey you oldies! Do you even realize who I am? The first time a child in school switches over from pencil to pen, s/he is gifted a Fountain pen. Beautiful writing flows from me. I can shape the writing of even the most lethargic writer. So, please stop grunting early in the morning. I am the supreme of all.”

“Hawww…hawww”, yawned the Ball pen. “You know what, I reign unconquered. Pour a glass of water over my writing, it would still not fade away. You people, better not debate about supremacy.”

The Gel pen tip-toed into the clamour and started off with an air of diffidence addressing no one in particular, “Well, well, the smoothest writings that flow these days are from me. I am the quintessential one of all. Neither do I need any one’s acclamation nor a seal of recognition from any quarter.”

Just then, the door to the cupboard opened wide and the pen rack was brought out.

Out came the Gel Pen for some rough mathematical calculations on paper. After a few minutes of arithmetic jugglery, the paper was crumpled and tossed into the bin while the final calculated value was written elsewhere with a Marker Pen.

The Fountain Pen was taken out to underline three words on a printed sheet.

The Ball pen was used to put a mark on the wall as a drilling point.

The Reed Pens were cleansed of dust and replaced carefully.

The Quill was used for a demonstration and kept back in the case.

The pen rack was stacked back in the cupboard.

After a while, the cupboard opened yet again. The pen tray was brought out once more.

The Fountain pen was picked up and a paragraph was neatly written on a blank sheet, after which the Ball pen was used to draw a few ray diagrams which were labelled with colourful Sketch pens. The diagrams were captioned using a Marker pen. Soon followed some pretty important bullet points written by a Gel pen

The writing on the sheet stood out beautifully and meaningfully. Finally, the topic was inscribed on top using one of the Reed pens and underlined using the Quill.

“Ah!” said the scribe, “I have put my heart, mind and soul to successfully complete my assignment. It sure is a marvellous piece of writing.”

Thus saying, the pen tray was restored to its position in the cupboard where the pens continued to adorn it.

Not the pens, but it was the writing was what mattered. Not the make of the pens, but the mind behind the writing deserved applause. The pens continued to be used by the scribe to indite remarkable proses, poetry and dramas – at times used for a scribble, at times just for dots and at times for whole pages of writings. 

None of us in this world is great or small. We are just like these instruments of writing by the great Scribe, i.e., God. He uses each one of us in ways known best to Him alone to script the story of the universe. In the end, it won’t matter how each one of us looks, how skillful or inexperienced we are, to what era we belong – only that we have been a part of the mega script penned down by the Divine Scribe. Any jostle for recognition on the basis of self-proclaimed attributes is sheer vanity. He gives each one the due part in the mega story of the universe.

Being in His story is what makes us valuable, just as being used to write the masterpiece ascribed value to the pens, irrespective of them being what they were!

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