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All the watch news, reviews, videos you want, brought to you from fellow collectors
All the watch news, reviews, videos you want, brought to you from fellow collectors
August 1988, Kolkata.
The sky had turned the colour of overripe mangoes, a stubborn sun fighting through the remnants of an afternoon shower. A five-year-old boy stood barefoot on the front porch, damp footprints trailing across the white marble floor. His clothes were streaked with mud, his small hands clutching a well-worn football, the scent of wet earth clinging to his skin.
Inside, his mother’s voice rang out in exasperation. “We really need to get this boy a watch! He has no concept of time. And just look at him! Dirty and muddy—who will give him a bath now?”
His father, ever the no-nonsense man, offered his own verdict. “He doesn’t need a watch. He needs a good beating.”
Later that night, freshly scrubbed and wrapped in the comforting scent of talcum powder, the boy lay awake, his mind caught on a single word.
“Ma, what is a watch?”
“It’s something we wear on our wrists to tell time. Like that wall clock also tells time, but a watch is smaller.”
“Ma?”
“Yes, Arka?”
“Can I get a watch?”
She smiled, smoothing his hair. “One day my boy. Now please go to sleep, it's late”.
February 2025, Mumbai.
It’s late at night. Sleep eludes me as I sit at my desk, pen in hand, staring at the watch before me. The house is quiet—my son is asleep in his room. But my thoughts refuse to settle.
“Why won’t you talk to me?”
“Inspire me…”
“Tell me what to write.”
For as long as I can remember, I have been chasing time—not just collecting watches, but collecting stories. Each watch in my box carries a story. My first Rolex allocation, during peak hype, was nothing short of a miracle. My Moonwatch, forever linked to my grandmother’s name, held the weight of memory. So many words, so many stories.
But tonight, the words won’t come.
And I wonder—has the allure faded? Have I drifted too far from the boy who once asked, wide-eyed, “Can I get a watch?”
A soft shuffle at the door breaks my trance.
“Daddy, I saw the light. You’re not sleeping?”
I look up to see my son, his sleepy eyes blinking against the dim glow of the study lamp.
“No, bachcha. I’m trying to write a story for Karan Uncle about this watch, but I just can’t find the words.”
He walks over and picks up the watch, turning it over in his small hands. There is something familiar about the way he looks at it—the silent curiosity, the quiet promise of a dream beginning to take shape.
For a fleeting second, our eyes meet.
He smiles. “Daddy, remember you told me once; that the greatest journeys always begin with a single question?”
“Yes.”
He pauses, then asks, “Daddy… Can I get a watch?”
A slow smile spreads across my face.
“Of course you will, but go to sleep now. It’s getting late.”
As he turns to leave, he glances back. “You found your words, Daddy?”
I look down at the watch, then back at him.
“The words were always there. But you helped me find my story.”
“This watch tells a story now?”
“No my dear boy, a watch never tells any story, it’s just a watch. You, my son, you are the story….. Much like I was when I first asked your Mimmu: Can I have a watch?”
August 1988, Kolkata.
The sky had turned the colour of overripe mangoes, a stubborn sun fighting through the remnants of an afternoon shower. A five-year-old boy stood barefoot on the front porch, damp footprints trailing across the white marble floor. His clothes were streaked with mud, his small hands clutching a well-worn football, the scent of wet earth clinging to his skin.
Inside, his mother’s voice rang out in exasperation. “We really need to get this boy a watch! He has no concept of time. And just look at him! Dirty and muddy—who will give him a bath now?”
His father, ever the no-nonsense man, offered his own verdict. “He doesn’t need a watch. He needs a good beating.”
Later that night, freshly scrubbed and wrapped in the comforting scent of talcum powder, the boy lay awake, his mind caught on a single word.
“Ma, what is a watch?”
“It’s something we wear on our wrists to tell time. Like that wall clock also tells time, but a watch is smaller.”
“Ma?”
“Yes, Arka?”
“Can I get a watch?”
She smiled, smoothing his hair. “One day my boy. Now please go to sleep, it's late”.
February 2025, Mumbai.
It’s late at night. Sleep eludes me as I sit at my desk, pen in hand, staring at the watch before me. The house is quiet—my son is asleep in his room. But my thoughts refuse to settle.
“Why won’t you talk to me?”
“Inspire me…”
“Tell me what to write.”
For as long as I can remember, I have been chasing time—not just collecting watches, but collecting stories. Each watch in my box carries a story. My first Rolex allocation, during peak hype, was nothing short of a miracle. My Moonwatch, forever linked to my grandmother’s name, held the weight of memory. So many words, so many stories.
But tonight, the words won’t come.
And I wonder—has the allure faded? Have I drifted too far from the boy who once asked, wide-eyed, “Can I get a watch?”
A soft shuffle at the door breaks my trance.
“Daddy, I saw the light. You’re not sleeping?”
I look up to see my son, his sleepy eyes blinking against the dim glow of the study lamp.
“No, bachcha. I’m trying to write a story for Karan Uncle about this watch, but I just can’t find the words.”
He walks over and picks up the watch, turning it over in his small hands. There is something familiar about the way he looks at it—the silent curiosity, the quiet promise of a dream beginning to take shape.
For a fleeting second, our eyes meet.
He smiles. “Daddy, remember you told me once; that the greatest journeys always begin with a single question?”
“Yes.”
He pauses, then asks, “Daddy… Can I get a watch?”
A slow smile spreads across my face.
“Of course you will, but go to sleep now. It’s getting late.”
As he turns to leave, he glances back. “You found your words, Daddy?”
I look down at the watch, then back at him.
“The words were always there. But you helped me find my story.”
“This watch tells a story now?”
“No my dear boy, a watch never tells any story, it’s just a watch. You, my son, you are the story….. Much like I was when I first asked your Mimmu: Can I have a watch?”
