The_Last_Pen

#The_Last_Pen

Meenakshi Amman Temple entrance, Madurai.

Periyasamy. Age 60. Every morning at 6 AM, he would sit at the temple entrance. In front of him, a small cloth spread. On it—pens, pencils, erasers, compasses. A pavement shop. But no real business.

Periyasamy had one rule. Whenever someone asked for a pen, he would first ask:

“Son… is it for an exam?”

“Yes, grandfather. I have a maths exam today. I forgot my pen.”

Immediately, Periyasamy would pick a good pen and give it.

“Here. This is a lucky pen. Go get 100 marks.”

“How much, grandfather?”

“Money later. First write your exam. Come back and tell me your marks. Then pay.”

The children would laugh and run off. They never returned. Periyasamy never asked either.

His wife, Thangam, would scold him:

“Are you mad? One pen costs ten rupees. If you give them away like this, what will we eat? Who will pay the rent?”

Periyasamy would take out an old diary. In it, he had written entries by date:

“12.03.2010 – Ramesh – Maths exam – Pen – Pending”

“05.06.2011 – Sumathi – Hindi exam – Pen – Pending”

“18.09.2013 – Murugan – 10th Public Exam – Pen – Pending”

The diary was full of “pending” entries. When counted—around 3,000 pens. Thirty thousand rupees.

“Look, Thangam,” he would say, “this isn’t debt. It’s an investment. One day it will return.”

Thangam would sigh:

“Your ‘investment’ will turn to dust. You’re getting old. Who is going to come back now?”

Twenty years passed. Periyasamy was now 80. His eyesight had faded. Hearing was weak. Still, every day he sat at the same temple entrance. Same cloth. Same pens. But now, no business at all. Kids used gel pens, sketch pens, everything online.

One morning, a car stopped at the temple entrance. A man stepped out—about 35 years old. Suit and tie. Holding a bouquet.

He walked straight to Periyasamy and fell at his feet.

“Grandfather… do you recognize me?”

Periyasamy strained his eyes.

“Son… I’m old. I can’t see properly.”

“Grandfather… 18 years ago… 10th public exam. Maths paper. That morning I came crying. My pen had broken. I had no money. You gave me a pen and said, ‘This is a lucky pen. Go score 100 marks.’ You didn’t ask for money.”

A faint memory returned to Periyasamy.

“Son… you are…”

“I’m Murugan, grandfather. I wrote my exam with that pen. Scored 98 marks. I passed. Went to college. Today, I own a software company—‘Penna Technologies.’ My life started with your pen.”

Thangam stood at the doorway, listening, tears flowing silently.

Murugan took out a cover.

“Grandfather… that day I owed you ten rupees. Today, I return it with interest.”

Inside was a cheque—for ten lakhs.

Periyasamy’s hands trembled.

“Son… I don’t need money. You’ve become successful. That’s enough.”

“No, grandfather. This isn’t money. It’s your investment—returning with profit. You don’t need this pavement anymore. I’m here for both of you.”

The next day, newspapers carried the headline:

“A software entrepreneur offers Gurudakshina of ten lakhs to pavement grandfather.”

After reading the news, the next day another car arrived.

“Grandfather, I’m Sumathi. I took a pen for my Hindi exam. Now I’m a Hindi teacher.”

Then Ramesh came.

“Grandfather, I’m now an auditor. Your pen wrote my first balance sheet.”

Within a week, the temple entrance looked like a wedding house. Doctors, engineers, collectors, police officers—everyone came in line, fell at Periyasamy’s feet, bringing flowers, fruits, envelopes.

Thangam took out the old diary. Three thousand entries. Thirty thousand rupees pending. But now, what had come back was three crores.

Periyasamy wept and said:

“Thangam… I told you. This wasn’t debt. It was seeds. I sowed them. Today, it has grown into a forest.”

Today, at the Meenakshi temple entrance, there stands a big shop:

“Periyasamy Pen Store.” No rent. Murugan bought it.

A board in the shop reads:

“Pens are free here for students going to write exams. Just come back and tell your marks. Pay later.”

Below it, a small line:

“A ten-rupee pen can change a life. Believe it.”

And do you know who runs the shop now?

Murugan—the software company owner. Twice a week, he removes his suit, sits in the shop, and gives pens to children.

“Son… this is a lucky pen. Go get 100 marks.”

What you give is not just a pen—it’s hope. One day, that hope will return and bow at your feet. That day, you will realize—you were never poor. You were truly rich.