The Steady March of Time
In an old house in Madurai, where the scent of jasmine drifted in from the garden, Appa gently wiped the dust off an antique wall clock. The wooden frame had aged, but the clock’s hands moved steadily, marking time as they had for decades.
Just then, Biju, his son, walked in. A software engineer working in Chennai, he had come home for a break, burdened with frustration.
“Appa, I feel stuck. No matter how hard I work, I don’t seem to be making progress. Others are moving ahead, but I’m still in the same place,” he sighed, running a tired hand through his hair.
Appa smiled, still polishing the clock. “Come here, kanna,” he said, pointing at the clock’s face. “Do you see these hands? They move so slowly that we barely notice. But look at them long enough, and you’ll see—they are never still. No matter how slow, they keep moving, and in time, they reach where they need to be.”
Biju watched the second hand make its quiet journey forward. He had seen this clock his entire life, yet he had never thought of it that way.
“Life is the same, son,” Appa continued. “Progress is not always fast or visible, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t happening. As long as you keep going, you are moving forward.”
Biju took a deep breath, feeling the weight on his shoulders lighten. The ticking of the clock, once just background noise, now sounded like quiet encouragement.
That evening, as the sun cast golden hues on the old walls, Biju left Madurai with a new perspective—knowing that no matter how slow, every step forward counted.
And in that house, the antique clock kept ticking, just as it always had.
Appa smiled, still polishing the clock. “Come here, kanna,” he said, pointing at the clock’s face. “Do you see these hands? They move so slowly that we barely notice. But look at them long enough, and you’ll see—they are never still. No matter how slow, they keep moving, and in time, they reach where they need to be.”
Biju watched the second hand make its quiet journey forward. He had seen this clock his entire life, yet he had never thought of it that way.
“Life is the same, son,” Appa continued. “Progress is not always fast or visible, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t happening. As long as you keep going, you are moving forward.”
Biju took a deep breath, feeling the weight on his shoulders lighten. The ticking of the clock, once just background noise, now sounded like quiet encouragement.
That evening, as the sun cast golden hues on the old walls, Biju left Madurai with a new perspective—knowing that no matter how slow, every step forward counted.
And in that house, the antique clock kept ticking, just as it always had.
