The Golden Watch

The Golden Watch

BY:Ubaid

That night, my father came home unusually late. He walked straight into his room without greeting anyone. Normally, he would always bring something—fruits, sweets, or little treats for me. But today, his hands were empty, his face expressionless, and his silence heavy.

My mother’s eyes filled with worry, and even I sensed something strange. As I tried to follow my father to his room, my mother raised her hand to stop me and went in herself. I paced nervously in the courtyard, my heart restless with unease. When she finally returned, her face was stern.

“Your father is calling you,” she said sharply, without another word.

I felt a cold wave of fear. Had I done something wrong? I ran after her, asking, “Mother, what happened? Why does he want me?” But she ignored me and walked into the kitchen.

Just then, my father’s thunderous voice struck my ears:
“Hamdan! Didn’t you hear me? Come at once!”

Trembling, I entered his room. “Yes, Father,” I whispered, too afraid to look at him.

“Sit down here, beside me,” he said—not harshly this time, but with a weight in his tone that made me uneasy.

I quickly sat down, my heart beating fast.

“Do you remember your very first day at high school, and the advice I gave you?” he asked slowly, his voice tinged with disappointment.

“Yes, Father. I remember everything. I have followed all your advice,” I replied earnestly, looking directly into his eyes so he could see I wasn’t lying.

“Good. Then go and bring me your school bag.”

I blinked in confusion. “My bag, Father?”

“Didn’t you hear me? Bring it!” His tone grew sharp again.

I rushed to fetch my bag and placed it in his hands. He snatched it, unzipped both compartments, and began searching furiously. When nothing appeared, he upended the bag, spilling all my books and notebooks onto the bed. And there, between the scattered pages, something glittered.

A golden wristwatch.

It shone under the dim light, unmistakably expensive.

My father’s eyes burned into mine. He lifted the watch in one hand and gripped my arm with the other.
“Where did this come from? Speak! Answer me!”

Tears welled in my eyes. “Father, I swear I don’t know! I’ve never seen this before.”

“Lies!” he roared. “Don’t play games with me!”

Shaken, I tried to recall every moment of the past few days. And then it struck me—the day of the political leader’s visit.


---

That morning, it had been raining heavily. I didn’t want to go to school at all. But Father, carrying an umbrella, insisted:
“Get ready quickly, Hamdan. I’ll wait. Today we’ll take a rickshaw.”

I hurried through breakfast and joined him. On the way, he explained, “The principal has organized a special gathering. A politician, Mr. Dilawar Chaudhry, is visiting. We need funds for repairs—the roof leaks, the water tank is broken, and we need more classrooms. If he agrees, it will save the school.”

Father wasn’t just the canteen owner; he was also deeply involved in school functions. That day, he was busy preparing food for the guests, while I was on duty recording the names of latecomers—a responsibility given to each class monitor in turn.

As I noted the names, my classmate Faisal arrived late. His eyes flashed with anger.

“Don’t you dare write my name,” he warned rudely.

“I’m just doing my duty. Everyone’s name goes in,” I replied firmly and wrote it down.

He pointed a finger at me. “I’ll deal with you later.”

Faisal had already been struggling—he hadn’t completed his physics practicals, and when the teacher scolded him, he begged me to do the work for him. I refused. When the teacher finally sent him to the principal’s office, it was bad luck for him that the visiting politician was there at that very moment. The principal humiliated Faisal in front of everyone, punishing him by making him stand with his ears held and one leg raised.

Students mocked him during recess. I saw the rage in his eyes. That was when I noticed something else: from the office window, I saw Faisal secretly holding a shiny golden watch. His mischievous glance told me it wasn’t his.

The watch belonged to Mr. Chaudhry. He had removed it in the office before stepping into the hall for his speech. In the chaos of the event, he forgot to put it back on. Faisal must have taken it then.

What I didn’t realize was that he had slipped it into my schoolbag.

Later, when my father sent me to fetch tissues from the principal’s office, many boys saw me there. By then Faisal had disappeared. So when the politician later reported his missing watch, suspicion fell entirely on me.


---

As I finished recounting the whole story, my father’s eyes softened. He pressed my forehead gently and kissed it. “I believe you, my son,” he whispered.

Together, we went to Faisal’s house. Confronted by the truth, Faisal broke down in tears. He admitted his mischief, apologized to both me and my father, and promised never to repeat such behavior again.

The watch was returned to Mr. Chaudhry through the school.

And I learned that day how a small act of malice can almost ruin someone’s life—and how a father’s trust can save it.