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The pencil was nearly finished. The red paint was chipped in places, revealing the wood beneath. The black stripes had faded from years of handling by small fingers. The eraser—once pink and pristine—was now a darkened nub. But the graphite core remained true. The pencil still wrote. It still drew. It still served its purpose, day after day, exam after exam, drawing after drawing. Chalti hi jaye. It keeps going. This simple observation—that a Nataraj pencil endures, that it o