The Hours and the Donkey

In the peaceful valley of Chandpur, where golden fields rolled like waves under the sun and birds sang morning hymns, lived a donkey named Kallu. He was a strong, quiet creature with shaggy gray fur, long ears, and the calmest eyes in all the village.

Kallu belonged to an old farmer named Baba Gulzar. Baba Gulzar was known across the village not just for his fine wheat and juicy sugarcane, but for something else entirely—his obsession with time.

Everything in Baba Gulzar's life was ruled by the ticking of his large brass clock that sat proudly on a shelf in his mud house. “Time is wealth, Kallu,” Baba often said. “One hour for water. Two for plowing. Three for rest. No more, no less!”

Kallu, of course, didn’t understand hours. He understood the warmth of the morning sun, the coolness of dusk, and the rhythm of hooves on the soil. He worked honestly, never rushed, never idle. But every time he paused to breathe or nibble on a bush, Baba Gulzar would shout, “Kallu! We are losing the hours!”

One fine spring morning, Baba Gulzar woke up with a grand plan. “We must plow the backfield today,” he told Kallu as he buckled the harness. “We’ll follow the schedule exactly. No delays!”

Kallu blinked slowly and yawned. He was ready, but in his own way.

At 7 o'clock sharp, they set off. The sun was just rising, casting soft shadows over the fields. Baba Gulzar glanced at his watch every few minutes, tapping his cane impatiently. “Pick up the pace, Kallu! We only have two hours to finish this patch.”

Kallu pulled the plow steadily, his ears twitching with every command. He didn’t hurry—he believed in walking with purpose, not pressure. Birds flew overhead, calling out to him, but he stayed focused on the furrowed path.

Midway through the task, dark clouds began to gather above. The sky, once clear and blue, turned a moody gray. Wind rushed across the fields, carrying the scent of rain.

“Oh no,” Baba Gulzar muttered, checking his watch again. “It’s not even noon! The rain isn’t in the schedule! Kallu, faster!”

But Kallu didn’t change. His pace remained the same—sure, solid, and dependable. He stopped once to drink from a muddy stream, once to shake off the dust, and once more to stare up at the clouds, as if silently greeting the sky.

The first drops of rain fell as they neared the end of the field. Thunder rolled in the distance. Baba Gulzar groaned, “We’re behind by five hours! We’ll never finish in time!”

Just then, something unexpected happened. The wind that had been against them now began to push gently from behind. The soil, freshly moistened, turned softer and easier to till. The plow cut through like butter, and the last row was completed faster than any of the others.

Kallu stopped and looked back, the furrows neat and perfect. Baba Gulzar stood in silence, dripping wet, staring at the field.

It was done. Despite the rain. Despite the broken schedule.

Baba Gulzar took off his soaked turban and sat down on a stone. The clock in his pocket had stopped ticking.

Kallu trotted over and nuzzled his shoulder gently.

The old man chuckled. “Maybe I was wrong all along, Kallu. It’s not the hours that do the work. It’s the heart behind them.”

From that day forward, things changed on Baba Gulzar’s farm. The brass clock was moved from the shelf to the storeroom, replaced by a small wind chime that sang with the breeze.

Baba still worked hard, but he stopped chasing time. He learned to read the sky like Kallu did, to listen to the land instead of the ticking hand.

Villagers began to notice the change too. Baba Gulzar smiled more, argued less, and even let Kallu rest under the mango tree without fussing.

And every evening, as the sun dipped below the hills, Baba would pat Kallu and say, “Patience wears a crown, my friend. And you wear it best.”

Kallu would give a quiet bray, his ears flicking happily.

In the end, the donkey who didn’t care for hours taught a man the true value of time.

Not in minutes or seconds—but in moments lived well, slowly, and with peace.
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