It was a scorching day in Rajahmundry. The summer had been particularly unforgiving that year, and no one felt the heat quite like the city’s postmen. The endless cycling in a thick cotton safari suit was bordering on torture. Yet, one such postman pedaled on, making his routine pickup from the offices of Ratnam Pen Works. However, this parcel was no ordinary consignment. It carried the protagonist of our story: Ratty.
Ratty wasn’t just another writing instrument; he was the first Swadeshi pen, destined to write history rather than just record it. Crafted from fine Karnataka Ebony and born with a silver nib in his mouth, Ratty was proudly brown - a stark contrast to his foreign-made competitors.
Ratty’s journey took him to the doors of a humble yet powerful figure. At the Sabarmati Ashram, he was greeted with a smile as the Mahatma picked him up to write a letter to Ratnam, thanking them for this "excellent instrument of expression." While his first words were of gratitude, life had grander plans. Ratty didn’t remain a mere spectator; he became an active participant.
In 1942, barely seven years old, Ratty drafted a series of speeches in multiple languages that triggered the Quit India Movement. It was a major milestone. They say strict parenting leads to rebellion, but for Ratty, rebellion became a virtue early on. His first decade was tough but monumental, his ink flowing against an oppressing class and his greatest bully: The Sword.
1947 changed everything. Not only had Ratty helped bring a nation together, but he had also proven his superiority over the blade. At the tender age of twelve, he witnessed the greatest experiment the world had ever seen, inking pages that would shape the lives of billions. But as the saying goes, "Happy endings are just stories cut short."
Ratty’s Father - who happened to be the Father of the Nation - was mercilessly killed. Six months shy of his teens, Ratty became an orphan.
He was soon moved to a government orphanage for goods that once belonged to important people - a place polite society calls a museum. Life in his teens lacked the thrill of his childhood. The spirit of rebellion ended where the six-inch glass ceiling began. Visitors looked at him with the same detached awe they reserved for the spectacles sitting next to him. Uncapped, he lay there with a dull silver nib and a dried spot of ink, begging to touch paper, desperate to bleed words once more.
Just as the days began to blur into a meaningless series of hours, a young man wearing a face of disillusionment entered the museum. His Press ID card brushed against the glass compartments as he drifted past the artifacts. He almost walked past Ratty, but something made him turn back.
The thing about complex human emotions is how we project them onto objects. The dull silver nib with its sad spot of ink drew the man’s attention; he saw a reflection of himself in that small, shiny speck of ebonite. In that moment, Ratty found a new home.
While his teenage years had been stagnant, rebellion crept back into his early adulthood. Through that worn-out silver nib now flowed facts in the form of news, shaping the belief of a young nation. He was often seen clipped to the white pockets of this journalist, becoming the talk of the town.
But time marches on. The year is 1975. Ratty has entered his 40s, and his new "father" isn't so young anymore either. Whispers spread across the nation: a few of Ratty’s counterparts have signed a piece of paper putting limits on what Ratty is allowed to write.
Ratty is enraged. He does everything but stop. Memories of his childhood resurface, channeling the "Views of the Voiceless". But just as his words reach the people, he faces a strange encounter - someone he thought was a trouble of the past. Ratty is brought before The Sword. Only this time, it is the Sword of Justice.
"Phew, different guy," Ratty exclaims, preparing to explain his case.
But before he can finish, a sentence is read out to him: "According to Section 124A of the IPC - the Indian Pen Code - you are charged with sedition, which amounts to Imprisonment for Life."
"The Swords do get to have the last laugh, don't they?" Ratty mutters with a dismayed smile.
Imprisonment is tough, but it is tougher when you have a glorious past. Ratty finds his new home in captivity, chained to the desks of public institutions like banks. As dichotomous as it is, he still gets to write, though his prose is now limited to the tedious details of withdrawal slips.
A small placard reading "Please do not take the pen with you" sits at the base of his deathbed.
"We won't trust you with a pen, but you should definitely trust us with your life's income" , are Ratty's final, ironic thoughts.
He lies on the counter, chained and weary, staring across the table at a currency note being handed to a banker - staring into the eyes of his First Father, printed on the paper he is no longer allowed to write on.
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