I am a small object, but I have a big job. I am a pen. My life is full of stories because I help write them. From a busy factory to a quiet pencil box, my journey has been long. I have seen happy days and exam stress. I have written poems and solved math problems. Here is the story of my life, written for students from Class 1 to Class 12.
Essay on Autobiography of a Pen in 100 Words
I am a pen. I was born in a big factory. My body is made of blue plastic, and I have a shiny silver cap. I was packed in a box with many other pens. A truck took us to a stationery shop.
One day, a little boy named Rahul bought me. He was very happy to have me. He keeps me safe in his bag. I help him write his homework and draw lines. I love gliding on smooth paper. I feel proud when Rahul gets a gold star for his handwriting. I am his best friend in school.
Essay on Autobiography of a Pen in 150 Words
I am a ballpoint pen. My life began in a factory full of noise and machines. I was filled with blue ink and given a strong plastic body. After I was made, I traveled a long way to a bookshop. I lay on a shelf for many days, waiting for an owner.
Finally, a girl named Maya bought me. She treats me with great care. I live in a colorful pencil case with a pencil and an eraser. My job is to put her thoughts on paper. I help her write essays and letters. Sometimes, she chews on my cap when she is thinking. It hurts a little, but I do not mind.
I get scared when I fall on the floor. I am afraid my ink will leak. But Maya always picks me up quickly. I want to serve her until my last drop of ink is gone.
Essay on Autobiography of a Pen in 200 Words
I am a fountain pen, and I look very royal. I have a golden nib and a sleek black body. I was made in a factory that makes expensive pens. Unlike cheap pens, I am not thrown away. I can be filled with ink again and again.
I remember the day a man bought me as a gift for his son, Rohan. Rohan was passing his tenth grade. When Rohan held me, I felt warm. He uses me only for special exams and signing important papers. I run smoothly over the pages of his diary.
My life is not always easy. Sometimes, the ink dries up, and I feel thirsty. Rohan has to clean me and feed me fresh ink. Once, I rolled off the table and fell. I thought my nib was broken, but luckily, I was safe.
I have seen Rohan grow from a boy to a young man. I know his secrets because I write them in his diary. I am happy to be useful. People say the pen is mightier than the sword. I believe this is true because I help create peace and knowledge.
Essay on Autobiography of a Pen in 250 Words
My story starts in a factory where plastic and metal meet. I am a simple gel pen with a rubber grip. I was designed to write fast and clean. Along with my brothers and sisters, I was packed into a cardboard box. The darkness of the box was scary, but soon we arrived at a bright shop.
A college student picked me up. He tested me by scribbling on a notepad. ” smooth,” he said. He bought me for ten rupees. That was the start of my real life. I live in his pocket. I travel with him everywhere. I have seen classrooms, libraries, and coffee shops.
I work very hard. During exam season, I run for hours without stopping. I get hot and tired, but I do not stop. I know my master depends on me to pass. The best feeling is when he writes “The End” on an answer sheet. It feels like a victory for both of us.
However, I also have sad days. Sometimes, I get lost under the sofa or left behind on a desk. I feel lonely then. But my master always finds me. Now, my ink is running low. I can feel my life ending. I am not sad because I have lived a full life. I have helped someone learn and grow. When I am empty, I will be thrown away, but my words will stay on the paper forever.
Essay on Autobiography of a Pen in 300 Words
I am a pen, a tool of power and expression. I may look like a small stick of plastic, but I hold the power to change the world. I was manufactured in a large industrial plant. I remember the smell of hot plastic and the sound of machines. I was given a red body and filled with red ink. This meant I was special. I was not for writing ordinary words; I was for checking them.
My Journey
I was bought by a strict teacher. She placed me in her purse. My life in school is very busy. Every day, I march over piles of notebooks. I mark mistakes and give grades. Sometimes I draw a star for good work, and the student smiles. Other times, I have to mark a cross, and the student looks sad. I do not like making children sad, but I must tell the truth.
My Experiences
I have seen many things. I have seen hard-working students and lazy ones. I have seen neat handwriting and messy scribbles. I often get dizzy from moving so fast across the pages. My worst enemy is the correction fluid. It tries to hide what I write.
The Pain of Aging
As time passes, my ink flows slower. My tip has become blunt. I have scratches on my body. Once, I lost my cap. I felt cold and dry for two days until the teacher found it. It was a terrible experience.
Conclusion
My life is short. Soon, my red ink will finish. I will be useless. I might be thrown into the dustbin. But I am satisfied. I have done my duty. I have corrected hundreds of mistakes and helped students learn. I leave behind a legacy of red marks that guided young minds towards perfection.
Essay on Autobiography of a Pen in 500 Words
I am an object of humble origin but high purpose. I am a fountain pen. My body is made of polished resin, blue like the deep ocean, with gold trimmings. I was created in a factory in Germany. The process of my birth was long and precise. Skilled hands assembled my parts. When my gold nib was fitted, I felt a pulse of life. I was not just a tool; I was a piece of art.
The Beginning
I was shipped to a luxury store in a velvet box. For months, I lay there, watched by many eyes. People admired my beauty but found me too expensive. Finally, a young writer named Aryan bought me. He held me gently, like one holds a baby bird. He promised to take care of me.
My Life with the Writer
Aryan is a poet. My life with him is an adventure of words. We work late into the night. He dips me into an inkpot of dark blue ink. I drink the ink greedily. Then, we dance on the paper. Together, we have written poems about love, nature, and sadness. I feel his emotions through his fingers. When he is angry, he presses hard. When he is happy, he writes lightly.
I am his partner in creativity. Without me, his thoughts would vanish into the air. Without him, I am just a hollow tube. We complete each other.
A Scary Incident
One day, a terrible thing happened. Aryan was writing in a park. He got distracted and left me on the bench. I was terrified. A stray dog sniffed me. Then, it started to rain. I was cold and wet. I thought I was lost forever. Hours later, Aryan came running back. He found me and wiped me dry. He apologized to me. From that day, he never lets me out of his sight.
The Rivalry
Lately, a new enemy has entered our lives—the Laptop. Aryan spends a lot of time typing on it. The laptop is fast and can delete mistakes easily. I felt jealous. I thought he would replace me. But I was wrong. When he wants to write something truly special, he pushes the laptop away and reaches for me. He says that typing has no soul, but writing with a pen connects the heart to the paper.
Reflections on Purpose
I am getting old now. My nib is a bit scratchy, and my shine has faded. But I have a library of notebooks filled with my work. I have signed contracts, written love letters, and drafted stories. I have served my purpose well.
Conclusion
My life teaches a simple lesson: we are defined by what we create. I may be a small instrument, but I have left a mark on the world. I have preserved memories and ideas. Even when I am gone, the words I wrote will remain alive. That is the true magic of being a pen.
Essay on Autobiography of a Pen in 1000 Words
I am a witness to history, a keeper of secrets, and a tool of revolution. I am a pen. To be specific, I am a classic Parker ballpoint pen with a stainless steel body. I might look like a simple lifeless object to you, clipped onto a pocket or lying on a desk, but if I could speak, I would tell you tales of triumph and tragedy. My life has been a long journey from raw metal to a cherished possession.
Birth in the Factory
My story begins in a large manufacturing plant. It was a noisy place, filled with the smell of oil and metal. I was not born as a whole; I was born in pieces. My outer shell was cut from a sheet of steel. My inner refill was filled with high-quality ink. A tiny tungsten carbide ball was fitted into my tip. This ball is the secret of my smooth writing. It rolls as I move, releasing just the right amount of ink.
Once assembled, I was polished until I shone like a mirror. I was tested by a machine to ensure I didn’t skip or leak. Passing the test, I was packaged into a sleek box. I felt ready to face the world.
The Waiting Game
I was transported to a large stationery store in a busy city. I was placed in a glass display case. Every day, hundreds of people walked by. Some glanced at me; others ignored me. I watched them all. I saw students looking for cheap pens for exams. I saw businessmen looking for expensive pens to show off. I wondered who would choose me.
One rainy evening, a woman named Sarah walked in. She looked tired but determined. She asked the shopkeeper for a “reliable pen.” She picked me up, clicked my top, and wrote her name. “Perfect,” she said. She bought me, and I found my home.
My Life with Sarah
Sarah was a journalist. This meant my life was going to be fast and exciting. I lived in the front pocket of her leather bag. I traveled with her to press conferences, protest sites, and government offices.
I have written notes in the pouring rain and the scorching sun. I have scribbled down quotes from politicians and cries from the poor. Sarah wrote fast, often pressing hard in her excitement. I had to keep up. I never leaked or stopped working, no matter how fast she moved. I took pride in being her reliable weapon. As the saying goes, “The pen is mightier than the sword,” and I felt mighty in her hands.
Moments of Glory
One of my most memorable moments was when Sarah broke a big story about corruption. We sat in a small cafe for hours as she drafted the article. She chewed on my end nervously (a habit I disliked but tolerated). When the story was published, everyone praised her. I felt I deserved some credit too. After all, without me, the page would be blank.
Another special moment was when she used me to sign the lease for her first apartment. It was a happy moment. I felt her hand tremble with joy as she signed the paper. I was part of her biggest milestones.
The Threat of Technology
Over the years, the world changed. Sarah started using a smartphone to record interviews and a laptop to write stories. I spent more time in the bag than in her hand. I began to feel useless. Was my time over? Was I obsolete?
But I soon realized that technology could not replace the intimacy of ink. When Sarah wanted to write a thank-you note, she used me. When she brainstormed ideas, she used me. Electronic devices were for work, but I was for her personal thoughts. This realization gave me peace.
A Near-Death Experience
Tragedy struck one day during a crowded rally. Sarah was pushed, and her bag fell open. I slid out and landed in the mud. Sarah didn’t notice and moved on. I lay there, surrounded by trampling feet. I was terrified of being crushed.
For two days, I lay in the dirt. My steel body was stained, and my clicker was jammed with mud. I lost hope. Then, a street sweeper saw a glint of steel. He picked me up. He wasn’t Sarah, but he was kind. He wiped me clean and clicked me. I worked! He gave me to his little daughter to use for school.
A New Life
My life changed completely. I moved from the world of journalism to the world of a classroom. The little girl, named Riya, treated me like a treasure. She used me to learn multiplication tables and write essays.
It was a simpler life. I missed the excitement of Sarah’s job, but I loved the innocence of Riya. I helped her improve her handwriting. I watched her grow smart. In a way, teaching a child feels more important than reporting news. I was building the future.
The Final Days
Now, I am old. My ink is sputtering. I skip lines sometimes. Riya shakes me to get the ink flowing, but I know I have little left to give. My spring is loose, and my steel body has many scratches.
I am not afraid of the end. When a pen runs dry, it is usually discarded. I might end up in a landfill or a recycling bin. But I have no regrets. I have lived two lives. I have fought corruption with a journalist and built dreams with a student.
Conclusion
A pen’s life is a life of service. We do not write for ourselves; we write for others. We bleed ink so that humans can preserve their thoughts. We are the bridge between the mind and the world. As I write my final words, I hope that I am remembered not as a piece of plastic and metal, but as a loyal friend who never failed to leave a mark.
FAQ
What is an autobiography of a pen?
An autobiography of a pen is a story written from the pen’s point of view. It tells the story of its life, from being made in a factory to being used by a person.
Why is a pen called “mightier than the sword”?
A sword can only hurt people, but a pen can change minds. Words written by a pen can bring peace, start revolutions, or teach important lessons. This makes it more powerful.
What are the different types of pens?
There are many types of pens. The most common are ballpoint pens, gel pens, and fountain pens. Fountain pens use liquid ink, while ballpoint pens use a thick oil-based ink.
How does a ballpoint pen work?
A ballpoint pen has a tiny ball at its tip. When you write, the ball rolls. As it rolls, it picks up ink from inside the tube and puts it on the paper.
