HOLDING A PENCIL

 Today, I felt like a child again. But this time, it wasn’t tiny fingers struggling to hold a pencil—it was my grown-up hands, a little out of practice, tracing letters that felt both new and familiar. The pencil scratched against the paper, leaving light smudges on my fingers. My wrist started aching after writing the same letter nearly fifty times , until it wasn’t just on the paper but engraved in my mind. It reminded me of school days—when learning felt slow, sometimes frustrating, but also exciting..

I was born in Punjab but raised in Mumbai. Yet, if you heard me speak Punjabi, you’d never guess I spent my whole life here. I grew up in a home where Punjabi wasn’t just a language—it was the air we breathed. And while I could speak it fluently, the irony was that I never learned to read or write it.

Lately, I’ve felt the pull to reconnect with my roots, and learning Punjabi properly felt like the next step. So, I started with the basics—ਓ (Oo’Rhaa), and ਆ (Ai’rhaa). It felt like stepping back in time, like those childhood moments of skipping homework, except now, there was a quiet joy in the learning.

I don’t know how quickly I’ll learn this language, but I’m glad today was different. There was something comforting about holding a pencil again...light in my hand, free of pressure. It made me wonder, why does this little pencil feel so good? 

Maybe because, unlike a pen, it doesn’t demand perfection. One wrong stroke with a pen, and the mark stays. But a pencil? A pencil forgives. It lets you erase, rewrite, and try again. And maybe that’s why it felt so freeing, like a quiet reminder that learning, much like life, isn’t about getting it right the first time. It’s about having the courage to keep going, knowing you can always start over..