Here you will find an autobiography of a Pen, written in easy and simple words for class 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9 and 10 school students in English.
Essay on “Autobiography of a Pen” in 500 Words
Find below essay on autobiography of a Pen, suitable for students of classes 3, 4, 5,6, 7, 8, 9 and 10.
“If you want to change the world, pick up your pen and write.” ~ Martin Luther
I am a pen. A fountain ink pen. Something so insignificant that you don’t waste even one minute of your life thinking about me. But here I am, telling you my story. The pen that has been used to write different tales of so many people has finally got a chance to inscribe his own.
I remember the day I came into existence. It was quite a long time ago. I took birth in a place you humans call a factory. All of my parts were inserted one by one through the hands of factory workers.
I remember moving at a fast pace on a conveyor belt. The workmen were handling me with care, and I was growing in size as well as beauty with each additional touch.
I have a matte black and steel grey body along with a golden nib. If there had been beauty pageants for pens, I think I would have been a strong contender for sure.
After I and my fellow fountain ink pens were ready, we were put into a transparent case. We were then put into a cardboard box in a batch of 100 pens. The travel was extremely long and tiring. We started out in the back of a truck and soon found ourselves flying in the mighty sky in an aeroplane.
We were then unloaded into a truck again and finally reached our destination after around 10 hours. We were ordered by a shop owner in the city of Mumbai. His shop was in Bandra where I’m told that a lot of famous people live.
My friends and I were kept in a glass cupboard. The owner’s servant used to clean the cabinet and dust us daily. Customers were never allowed to touch us without the assistance of the shop owner.
I often wondered why we fountain ink pens got so much attention and special treatment. Why weren’t we treated the same way as other ballpoint pens or gel pens? People would come to the shop and buy other pens.
Some would come and look at us but never take us home with them. I thought that maybe there was some major problem with me. Perhaps I wasn’t handy or convenient. Maybe I was not stylish looking after all. Feelings of self-pity and dejection started taking over my friends and me. But we soon learnt the truth.
One fine morning, just like every other day, the owner’s servant was cleaning the cupboard and dusting one of my friends when suddenly the ink pen slipped from his hand and landed straight on the hard marble floor.
The nib of the pen was completely destroyed. I felt sad and unhappy, looking at the incident, but I knew that the servant did it by mistake. As soon as this happened, the shop owner rushed towards the servant and gave him a good scolding.
He told him that the pen that he had broken was very costly and that he would not get his salary for three months. After hearing the shop owner’s words, I felt sad for the 14-year old, but my self-esteem had also risen back.
The reason why people were not purchasing me, and my friends was not because we had some or the other flaw, but because we were quite expensive. After that day, the servant was not allowed to come near us, and the shop owner himself did the dusting work.
The name of the servant was Ramu. The shop owner often called him Chotu. Ramu used to sleep in a corner in the shop itself. After about 4 or 5 months of that incident, Ramu started learning how to write. He brought an alphabet and numbers book and purchased a ballpoint pen from the shop with his salary.
I was jealous of that pen. I was jealous because that pen would be so proud of itself. Because of him, a child learnt how to write. Only because of him would Ramu be able to educate himself further and get a more respectable job. That pen would be responsible for changing Ramu’s life forever and for the better.
After a wait of more than a year, I was finally picked up by a well -known writer and was taken to his home. He put me with many other of his pens. It seemed like he had a collection. He used to write poems and short stories. He never used me for actually writing them, but only when he needed to sign his name at the end, did he make use of me.
He was a very well educated and respected man in the society. He died a few months back because of a heart attack. My new friends here and I are going to be put up for an auction tomorrow at a grand event in a 5 star hotel. I hope I get a great new home and help people in unleashing their full potentials.