A Tall Tale and a Tiny Pen
After directing a film for 100 years of the Montblanc Meisterstück, Wes Anderson dreamed up a pen so charming, it inspired this rather unbelievable tale
ML KRISHNENDU HAD A GLIB MANNER ABOUT HIM. Short and wide and in his early 40s, he was the editor of a small-time magazine in a hill town. Among his several baffling unfulfilled aspirations was becoming the next Stefan Zweig. He had recently come into possession of the most bizarre idea after having a series of dreams about a curious little pen no bigger than the smallest finger of towering Uncle Joy, the Anglo-Indian brother of his stepmother.
From what he could recall of his dreams, the harbinger of this epiphany had a vivid green and yellow barrel. Its nib was engraved with an intricate emblem that he couldn’t really describe but instantly recognised. The cap top was like a candy button or even a miniature beret. But the most important information that all these dreams contained was that if Krishnendu wrote his stories with it, the little writing instrument would unlock the doors to his very unbridled literary ambition.
His stories about dirigibles and missing twins would win maybe even the Hans Christian Andersen Award. Such were his widely travelled fancies.
And so, one day, a baby-faced editorial intern—eager for a job offer—marched up to Krishnendu’s desk and told him that a filmmaker from America, having decided to write his final telenovela, was in town. The filmmaker was looking to collaborate with late-blooming prodigies from the celebrated town of Doolally. Preparations were being made for a short story contest to be held at Doolally Bagh and Herbarium where entrants had to write about Montblanc’s Schreiberling, the coveted baby pen that the celebrated auteur had designed for the maison.
“And why are you telling me this? I want to write novels about Doolally’s bucolic charm, not movies about America’s capitalist tyrannies.”
“Because, Mr Krishnendu, the prize is the Schreiberling. One of the only 1,969 released.”
Krishnendu pursed his brow. He forgot to pull his pants up, which was something he did every five minutes or so. He googled the Schreiberling. Its barrel finished in vibrant green and yellow lacquer, encrusted with platinum-coated fittings and supplied with a coral-coloured cap top, the tiny writing instrument was truly one of a kind.
His heart skipped a beat—in the way that it does—and his eyes lit up—in the way that they do. He leapt up from his ramshackle revolving chair and almost stepped on the foot of the poor intern. He was on his way. “Sir, where will you be?”
“Doolally Bagh it was, did you say?”
That was my entry. You go next.
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