The Golden Pencil: A Lesson in Trust and Talent

The Golden Pencil

BY ubaid

Mukhtar Ahmed Fawad was a painter — and everything about him looked the part.
A broad frame, fair skin, long shoulder-length hair, a white muslin kurta and pajama, and a betel leaf always tucked in his mouth. He had a small but vibrant studio in a busy part of the city. That little space was his world — his workshop, his gallery, and sometimes even his refuge.

Fawad painted everything — landscapes, portraits, abstract art — but what made him famous were his pencil sketches. There was life in his lines, depth in every shadow, and a subtle emotion in every stroke. People came from all around to get their portraits made. Magazines and children’s storybooks often commissioned him to illustrate their covers.

One afternoon, while he was lost in shading a portrait, a familiar voice called out,
“Fawad!”
He looked up to see an old friend — Khalid. The two had grown up in the same neighborhood, gone to the same school, but life had taken them in different directions. They shook hands warmly, laughter and memories spilling into the air.

After some conversation, Khalid finally revealed why he had come.
“Actually, I need a favor. My son Hamid loves drawing. He’s in ninth grade now — very bright and hardworking. I want him to learn under you.”

Fawad’s face lit up.
“I’d be happy to teach him! You should’ve brought him along today. Bring him tomorrow — I’ll see what he can do.”

The next day, Khalid returned with Hamid — a shy, fair boy of about fifteen, polite and soft-spoken. Fawad handed him a pencil and paper and said,
“Let’s see your work, young man.”

Hamid quietly sat down and began to draw. Within ten minutes, he stood up and handed the paper to Fawad. The artist’s eyes widened — the boy had sketched him and Khalid in conversation, their expressions captured with stunning accuracy.

Fawad rose from his chair, placed a hand affectionately on Hamid’s head, and said,
“You have a gift, my boy. Your hand is steady, and your observation is remarkable. You’ll become a great artist one day.”

From that day on, Hamid came to the studio every afternoon after school. He wasn’t just talented — he was diligent. He helped clean the dusty old canvases, arranged scattered paintings neatly, and turned the cluttered studio into a tidy, bright space.

Fawad, who had long ignored such chores, was impressed. He rewarded Hamid with a hundred rupees — though the boy hesitated to take it until Fawad insisted.

Soon, Hamid learned the differences between brush sizes, canvas textures, and color brands. He even began helping with magazine illustrations, and Fawad paid him for every piece. On the first of every month, he also gave Hamid a small allowance as appreciation.

Hamid’s discipline made Fawad’s life easier. He began keeping a record of commissions in a notebook, ensuring that every client received their work on time. Fawad’s reputation grew — and so did his affection for his young apprentice.

One afternoon, Fawad asked Hamid,
“Do you eat lunch before coming here?”
Hamid shook his head. “No, sir. If I go home for lunch, I’ll be late.”
Fawad felt a pang of guilt. From the next day, he began taking Hamid home for lunch. His wife, Shazia, was always ready with food. Hamid was shy at first, eating quietly and sparingly, but Shazia liked him immediately. He reminded her of her younger brother.

When she saw Hamid’s drawings — some published in magazines — she was astonished. “At this age? He’s brilliant,” she said to Fawad. From then on, she made sure to cook dishes Hamid liked.


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A few weeks later, a friend of Fawad’s returned from London and brought him a gift — a pencil made of pure gold, studded with tiny diamonds. It had a mechanical button on top and came with special sketching leads. It was beautiful — more like a piece of jewelry than a tool.

Hamid was fascinated by it, his eyes sparkling as he examined it. Fawad smiled — he could tell the boy loved it.

The next day, Hamid came to the studio as usual, but he seemed quiet. He worked silently on a series of drawings for a children’s storybook. When a client arrived, Fawad got busy talking, while Hamid moved around the table looking for something.

A few minutes later, Hamid came up to him and said softly,
“Sir, may I leave early today?”
Fawad smiled. “Of course. Going to the circus, perhaps?”
Hamid blushed. “No, sir. Just... need to get home.”
Fawad nodded, and the boy left.

After the client left, Fawad reached for his golden pencil — but it wasn’t there. He searched the desk, the drawers, even the floor. Gone. A cold thought crept into his mind: Hamid.

He tried to dismiss it. No… not him. But the memory replayed — Hamid’s curiosity, his searching around the table, and his sudden request to leave early.

By evening, Fawad had convinced himself. Hamid must have taken it.
He went home, upset and disappointed.

Shazia noticed immediately. “What’s wrong?”
Fawad told her the whole story.

She burst out laughing.
“Oh, Fawad! You think that sweet boy stole your pencil?”
Fawad frowned. “It’s easy for you to laugh. That pencil was worth a fortune!”
Still smiling, Shazia handed him a cup of tea. “Before you scold your student tomorrow… maybe check your ear.”

“My ear?” Fawad reached up — and froze.
There it was. The golden pencil, tucked neatly behind his ear the whole time.

For a moment, silence. Then both of them laughed — Fawad’s laughter tinged with embarrassment.
“I doubted an innocent boy,” he said softly. “Never again. It’s wrong to accuse without proof.”

Shazia smiled. “You should give that shiny pencil to Hamid. It suits his young hands better than yours.”

The next day, when Hamid returned, Fawad greeted him with a warm smile — and a golden pencil wrapped in tissue paper.


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Moral:
Never let suspicion overpower trust. True talent, like honesty, shines brighter than gold.