Autobiography of a Pen

words : 381

               Everyone has a history of his own life. I have also a life history of my own like anyone else (like all others). I am a pen of 100 years old. I have reached this stage of life through many ups and downs. I am not a normal pen but a special pen which is very expensive in India.

            I am a fountain-pen of high quality. I was born in a famous factory of Japan. I was sent to India along with a lot of companions immediately after my birth. I was kept in a box where I lived a lonely life with many of my friends. One day a gentleman came to the shop where I had been staying for many days. He was looking for a fountain-pen. He kept his watchful eyes on our box and brought me out. He finally purchased me. I felt relief.

          I do not know why he chose me. But I really got a good owner. He was a professor in an engineering college. He showed me to everyone. He was happy with me. One day a boy of tender age stole me for (in) fun. He made many scratches on me and broke the handle of my cap. My owner found me in the hand of the boy. He caught him and punished him severely for stealing me. Even though I was in a bad condition from then on, my master valued me as usual. He then passed me on to his son who read in class V. Once he was asked to write an autobiography of a pen. He obtained full marks for his writing. He was appreciated by all. He did not realize that I had written it myself. It matters little to me whether I can talk or not but at least I can share my feelings and my journey of life with you.

           I am old now but I can still write. I am 100 years old now. People do not behave well with old pens like me. They throw them at an old age. My present owner is a good natured person. He is very careful and loves me like a bosom friend.

            No more to write now. My owner is coming. I shall write to you later.

Autobiography of a Pen

words : 312

            I am a pen. A pen’s life is very long. But I am 80 years old now. I am not a normal pen but a special pen which is very expensive in India.

            I was a pen of high quality. I was manufactured in a factory of Italy. I was then imported to India. I was kept in a box with my friends. One day a man came to the shop where I was. He was looking for a gift. He saw our box. He put his hand deep in the box and brought me out. He finally bought me.

         I do not know why he chose me. But I really got a good owner. He was a professor in an engineering college. He showed me to everyone. He was happy with me. One day a student stole me. He made many scratches on me and broke the handle of my cap. My owner found me in that boy’s hand. He caught him and punished him for stealing me. Even though I was in a bad condition from then on, my master valued me as usual. He then passed it onto his son who read in class V. He was asked to write an autobiography of a pen. He obtained full marks. He was appreciated by everyone. He did not realize that I had written it myself. It does not matter that I cannot talk but at least I can share my feelings and my journey of life with you.

           I am old now but I can still write. I am eighty now. People do not behave well with old pens. They throw them at an old age. But I have got good masters (owners). My present owner is careful and loves me like his friend.

          No more to write now. My owner is coming now. I shall write to you later.

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