The Clockmaker’s Promise

By: KAVYA ARYA

In the bustling town of Brindle, where traders shouted in the market and bells rang from every tower, there lived an old clockmaker named Ravi. His shop was small and dusty, hidden between tall bakeries and noisy blacksmith stalls. Children loved peeking through his windows, watching the rows of clocks tick together like a chorus of tiny hearts.

Ravi was known for repairing anything that ticked—grandfather clocks, pocket watches, even windup toys. Yet, despite his skill, he never grew wealthy. He charged only a few coins, often less than the worth of the parts. When asked why, he simply said, “Time is already too costly for many. Why should I make it heavier?”

One chilly winter morning, a wealthy merchant stormed into his shop. The man carried a goldplated clock encrusted with jewels. “This belonged to my father,” the merchant said impatiently.

“Fix it quickly. I leave for the city in three days.” Ravi examined the clock carefully. Its gears were tangled, its hands stuck. Repairing it would take at least a week. “It will need time,” he said softly. “Time is what I don’t have,” snapped the merchant. “I will pay you thrice your usual fee.” Ravi shook his head. “I cannot make the sun hurry, nor force a seed to bloom before its season. If you want it done well, it must take its time.” Angry, the merchant snatched the clock back. “You’re a fool, old man! Others will fix it faster.” He stormed out. That evening, a little girl named Lira entered Ravi’s shop. She was shivering, clutching a cracked wooden toy bird. “Sir,” she whispered, “can you make it sing again? It was my brother’s before he went away.” The bird’s mechanism was rusty, its spring almost broken. Ravi smiled kindly. “Yes, but it may take many nights.” “I don’t mind waiting,” Lira said, her eyes bright with hope.
So, while the snow fell outside, Ravi worked. Night after night, his lantern glowed as he polished, mended, and fitted the bird with care. Sometimes, he whispered stories to it, as if reminding the toy of the joy it once carried.

Meanwhile, the wealthy merchant found another craftsman who rushed to fix his clock in two days. But when he proudly wound it up, the hands spun wildly, the jewels loosened, and the mechanism snapped. Furious, he returned to Ravi’s shop weeks later, only to see a small crowd gathered outside.

Inside, Lira stood beaming as her toy bird flapped its tiny wings and whistled a sweet tune. The
villagers clapped, delighted by the sound. The old clockmaker bowed his head humbly, though his eyes sparkled with quiet pride.

The merchant pushed forward, placing the broken golden clock on the counter. His voice was softer now. “Can you fix it? I… was wrong to hurry.” Ravi lifted the clock gently. “Time punishes those who rush it, but it forgives those who learn patience,” he murmured. “Yes, I will mend it—but only if you promise to wait.” This time, the merchant agreed. Weeks passed before he returned, and when he did, the clock ticked steadily, its hands moving with dignity once more. Something had changed in the merchant too. He no longer barked orders in the market; instead, he listened, waited, and even shared food with the poor.

From then on, the townspeople often repeated the clockmaker’s words: “Time cannot be bought with gold, only honoured with patience.”

And Ravi, though never rich in coins, became rich in something greater—gratitude. For every clock he fixed was more than a machine; it was a promise kept, a memory restored, and a reminder that life itself ticks best when we move with patience.

Moral of the Story:
Patience is more valuable than wealth. In a world that rushes, true worth is found not in speed, but in the care we give to each moment.