How I ended up with a Rolex.

"The things people leave behind often tell more about them than the things they take with them."

— Colson Whitehead

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The first time I saw the watch, it was by accident, buried in dust, hidden away in the attic of my home. Its golden hue had gone dull with time, the bracelet tarnished, yet the insignia of Rolex remained on the dial. With a gentle shake, the second hand moved in a smooth, silent sweep, as if it had merely been waiting. My father, the village Gaonbura, watched as I turned it in my hands and then spoke words that would tie me to a history I had never truly understood.

"A farmer found it," he said. "A long time ago, in the lower fields."

That field was south of our village, close to where the British had set up camp during the final years of their reign. It was in those days, just after the war had ended, that they drew the lines across the land that divided our people, separating villages and history itself. The partitioning of the Naga people was not a matter of war but of bureaucratic pens, carving borders across hills and forests that had never known or had such boundaries. And somewhere in that fateful period, a British officer lost this watch—a relic now resting in my hands.

A Rolex from a Forgotten Era

After the war, British officers lingered, overseeing the restructuring of lands under their rule. They held meetings with village elders, discussing governance and tribal affairs. Their words spoke of order, yet their actions carved divisions, fragmenting identities that had existed for generations. Among them was probably an officer, who likely wore this Rolex as a token of his status, an emblem of the empire he served.

Did he glance at it while sitting at a negotiation table, deciding which hills would belong to which state? Was it on his wrist when he stood, marking lines that would alter our history forever? Or had he lost it in an unremarkable moment—while trekking through the forest, caught in the rains, or simply distracted by the weight of the decisions he carried?

Whatever the reason, the watch disappeared. And for years, the earth kept it hidden.

Buried and Found

The land does not forget.

A farmer, digging a new patch for his crops, struck something hard beneath the earth. When he pulled it out, it was covered in dirt, the glass faintly scratched but the hands still intact. A slight shake, and the mechanism inside stirred, moving again for the first time in years.

The farmer had no way of knowing its worth, only that it was unlike anything he had seen before. He brought it to my father, the Gaonbura, who recognized its value—not just in money, but in history. He bought it from the farmer and kept it, not as a mere possession, but as a silent testament to the past.

He smiled as he recounted the tale, handing it to me with a nod. “It’s yours now,” he said. “A piece of history in your hands.”

I have kept it ever since, a silent witness to a daunting past. There are no Rolex showrooms or pawn shops in my village where I could verify its origin, no expert to trace its journey back to the wrist of the officer who once owned it. But I do not need validation. Now, in my hands, the Rolex serves as more than just proof of a British officer’s presence in our village. It is a relic of division, a symbol of the lines they drew through our land and people. The weight of it is more than gold and metal—it is a reminder that we, the descendants of those who lived through that era, still carry the consequences of choices made long before our time.

And though the officer may have long forgotten his missing watch, our land did not.