The smell of Ink

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A few days back, I got the most beautiful gift from a friend. This apple of my eyes, a fountain pen 🙂
What a long time it seems to have passed since I held another betwixt my fingers.Identifying this smell, that has a hint of rustic vagueness, takes me back to school. We were supposed to use ink pens. The daily ordeal of filling them up with ink! And in retrospect, it almost feels magical to have done so, religiously.
And I lost that habit to time, and convenience.
But today, when I filled it up and the smell reached me, it was an avalanche of memories that came tumbling down the little hillock that had been my childhood.
The smell of a classroom painted grey,
The whiff of air that invaded it on a humid August morning,
The everyday drill,
Neat lines,
Blue skirts.
Vigilant seniors,
Hands at the back.
And the halls echo,
With prayers and hymns;
Raised on high we lift the Carmel banner,
The corridors it fills.
And the day, passes by in a haze,
The rest of it,
Is burnt up in a devious blaze plaguing my memory.
But what I remember,
Is not the chatter,
But the rusty breeze,
That has followed me here,
Seven years later,
Oh the smell of ink!

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