The Man with No Watch

The Man with No Watch
By Tariq Shah

In a city ruled by clocks and deadlines, there lived a man who never wore a watch. His name was Haroon, and people often joked that he must have lost track of time—literally and figuratively.

But Haroon hadn’t always been this way.

Years ago, he was a high-flying banker. A man of precision. His day was carved into thirty-minute blocks. He woke up at 5:45 AM sharp, hit the gym at 6:00, was at the office by 8:00, and didn’t see home again until well after dark. He owned three designer watches, rotated weekly, and none of them were ever off by more than a second.

He thought that controlling time meant controlling life.

Until life proved him wrong.

It happened on a rainy Tuesday. His driver was late, and for the first time in years, Haroon had to walk. He was rushing down the sidewalk, checking his wrist every few seconds, when he passed a small tea stall tucked between two old brick buildings.

An old man behind the stall called out, “You look like you need a break.”

Haroon barely glanced at him. “I’m late.”

The old man smiled. “Then you’re right on time.”

Haroon paused. That made no sense. He looked at the man again—wrinkled face, crooked back, calm eyes. There was nothing extraordinary about him. Just a kettle of steaming tea and a sense of peace that didn’t match the noisy street.

Without thinking, Haroon turned back. “Make it quick. I’ve got five minutes.”

The tea was too sweet and slightly overboiled, but it warmed him in a way espresso never did. He left without saying much.

But the next morning, he returned.

And again the next day.

Over time, their conversations grew deeper. The tea vendor—Fareed—shared stories, simple ones about people, faith, mistakes, and joy. He never checked a phone, never looked at a clock.

Haroon asked him once, “How do you run a business without knowing the time?”

Fareed chuckled. “Son, when your heart is open, you don’t need a watch to tell you what moment you’re in. You just feel it.”

Haroon started to notice things he never had before: the way the morning sun hit the pavement, how strangers greeted each other, how birds sang even in traffic. Something inside him was changing.

One evening, he looked at his luxury watch and felt nothing. It was just metal now. A symbol of the time he had spent living for appointments instead of people.

The next morning, Haroon didn’t wear his watch. He arrived at the tea stall early, eager to sit and talk.

But Fareed was gone.

In his place was a small wooden sign:

> “Time is a teacher. Some lessons come late.
Thank you for listening to mine.
— Fareed”



Haroon stood there for several minutes, reading the note over and over again. It felt like the first time he’d truly been still in years.

He never saw Fareed again.

But the lesson stayed.

Haroon began walking more, slowing down. He started spending time with his mother, reading books he never finished, and even reconnecting with old friends. He left his job six months later. The office couldn’t understand it.

“You gave up everything. For what?”

“For what I never had,” he replied.

A year passed.

Then one day, on the same street where he first met Fareed, Haroon opened a tea stall of his own. It was simple—just a wooden table, a pot of sweet tea, and a sign that read:

> “No Wi-Fi. No Watch. Just Time to Listen.”



He served tea to anyone who looked lost or tired. Not for profit, but for connection. The busy city folk still rushed by, but a few stopped. And those few, day by day, became many.

One rainy morning, a young man in a suit stopped at the stall.

“I don’t have much time,” he said, eyes glued to his phone.

Haroon handed him a steaming cup and smiled.

“Then you’re exactly on time.”