Hello, I’m Rohini

My grandfather kept one pen on his desk in the old town, and I was not allowed to touch it. Years later I bought a battered one from a stationery stall in a lane near the market, rinsed it under the tap, and watched teal ink swirl down the sink. I have not stopped since.

Now I mend pens at a low desk by the window, test every ink on the same paper, and write down what I learn. When the monsoon comes the light turns grey and soft, which is the best light I know for judging a line of ink. Everything I sell is something I use myself.