The Weight of His Watch

I was twenty-one, making my fortnightly trip to see Dadu. Halfway through our usual chat he pointed to the teak cupboard in the corner. “Open the top shelf,” he said. Inside lay a single watch box.

“That,” he told me, “was one of the first expensive things I ever bought for myself. Don’t give it away—it’s precious.” Then he eased the watch onto my wrist, the worn leather still warm from his hands.

The original reference

Since that day, whenever I’ve stood at a crossroads, I glance at its dial and ask, What would Dadu do? The answer always appears, steady as the seconds hand.

His lessons seeped in through little rituals. Before I leave for work, I choose a good perfume, knot every button, slip a crisply folded handkerchief into my pocket. They’re small gestures, but they make me feel like he is walking out the door with me.

Of course, I was his favourite—everyone knew it, especially me. Whenever I flew to see him, a diplomat-flagged car met my plane; my bags materialised, traffic signals vanished, and sometimes Dadu himself waited at the gate. No one else received that treatment, and he made sure I understood why: You are loved, and I’m proud to show it.

Yet beneath the royal welcome ran a deeper instruction: carry yourself with grace, poise, and dignity—because the world notices how you enter a room.

The watch still ticks on my wrist. It weighs almost nothing, yet it carries the heft of his standards, his faith in me, and the memory of walking beside a man who showed me what it means to stand tall.

– Aman