Keep the pen alive…

It was November 22, 1963, the day the 35th President of the US, John F Kennedy, was assassinated. Kennedy’s personality had cast a spell on me ever since his election in 1961. The news of the sudden demise of my hero stunned me into silence. I attended my English class that followed in absolute shock. Sitting disoriented, my pen scribbled: ‘O Fate! What thou art I cannot say, when gloom hangs, you sing and play’. Thus was born my first poem. My English teacher, Prof JD Sharma, visibly upset at my being lost in his class, reprimanded me. He came to my seat and looked at my notebook. His frown started melting into a winsome golden smile on scanning my writing — he had a sparkling gold cap on his canine. He went back to the dais, made me stand before the class and started reciting my scribble. After patting my back, he fished out a Rs 10 note from his ticket pocket, and gave it to me after signing on its watermark window — ‘Keep the pen alive’ — in his classic handwriting. That note is the biggest of all testimonials and awards of my life. It perpetually exhorts me to keep the pen moving.

Prof Sharma was a teacher of yore. He would call me to his place and make me write on topics atypical. It was an unusual tuition — no tuition fee, instead I was offered pakoras and jalebis the day I scored the ultimate five on 10 on his scale. Getting a first division in English in those times was like topping in the Civil Services examination. After completing my PG in physics, I joined SA Jain College, Ambala City, and became his colleague! When he moved to MM Modi College, Patiala, he prevailed upon me to join him there, instead of going to the US. My father, too, didn’t want me to go abroad. Later, my three siblings were fortunate enough to have Prof Sharma as their mentor. He had ardently wished me to pursue English literature instead of the sciences. What I couldn’t do, my siblings did, preferring PG in English to admission to a medical college.

Prof Sharma had become an integral part of our family. No function was complete without his august presence. He danced in sheer ecstasy at my wedding, and when he came to bless my son, born in 1976, he jovially wished he would teach him, too! But it wasn’t destined that way. Nevertheless, he must be radiating his golden smile from his heavenly abode. My son didn’t get enrolled in BDS, and instead, is teaching English, as desired by his ‘Dada guru’. With his blessings, he is about to be awarded PhD in

English literature.