The Man Who Never Missed a Day
A story about discipline, commitment, and walking a solitary path
We called him “The Clock” behind his back. Not maliciously, but out of a kind of stunned respect. Deepak was his real name. For four years of engineering college, I watched him operate with the precision of a finely tuned machine.
Every morning at exactly 8:17 AM, he would walk through the college gates. Not 8:16. Not 8:18. Always 8:17. I once asked him why that specific time, and he explained that it allowed him exactly 13 minutes to reach the classroom, review his notes, and be seated before the professor arrived at 8:30.
In our first year of Bachelor of Engineering, most of us were still adjusting to college life, figuring out the balance between freedom and responsibility. But Deepak had arrived with his life already balanced, weighed, and measured.
His notebooks were works of art: color-coded, meticulously organized, with headings underlined using a ruler. While we scrambled to copy formulas during lectures, Deepak’s notes flowed with preplanned structure, as if he had anticipated exactly what the professor would say.
“Come to the movie with us this weekend,” we’d invite him.
“Thank you, but I have allocated that time for completing the fluid mechanics assignment and reviewing last week’s material.”
That was Deepak. He didn’t speak in casual language but in terms of “allocating time” and “maximizing efficiency.” He wasn’t unfriendly, just focused with an intensity that made the rest of us seem like we were sleepwalking through college.
Four years. That’s 8 semesters. Approximately 720 college days. Deepak had zero absences. Not one.
Even when he caught a terrible flu in our third year, he sat in the last row with a mask on, tissues in hand, refusing to break his perfect record. The professors had stopped marking attendance for him; his presence was as reliable as the sunrise.
The Diwali Incident
But there was one day that cemented Deepak’s legend in our college forever. It was the day after Diwali, the Festival of Lights.
Diwali is the biggest festival in India. Families gather, sweets are exchanged, and firecrackers light up the night sky. Traditionally, the day after Diwali is also considered part of the celebration. Although our college had officially scheduled it as a regular working day, everyone knew it was an unwritten rule that no one would show up. Even professors planned their lectures knowing the halls would be empty.
The night before, our WhatsApp group buzzed with confirmations:
“No one’s going tomorrow, right?”
“Of course not!”
“Even Prof. Sharma said not to bother.”
Someone remembered to check with Deepak:
“Hey Deepak, you’re not seriously planning to go tomorrow, are you?”
His reply was immediate and concise:
“The college schedule indicates it is a working day. I will be there at the usual time.”
We laughed it off. Surely even Deepak had limits.
The next morning, my phone buzzed at 8:20 AM. It was a message from a security guard who had become friendly with our group. Attached was a photo that would become legendary in our college: Deepak, sitting alone in an empty classroom, notebook open, pen in hand, waiting for a lecture that everyone knew would never happen.
The guard’s message :
“Your friend is something else! He’s the ONLY one in the entire college today. Even half the staff didn’t come!”
Deepak sat there for six hours. The full schedule. He completed his assignments, revised his notes, and left at exactly 3:30 PM, the official end of the college day.
When we returned to college the following day, amazed by his dedication, we asked him why he bothered.
He looked at us, slightly confused by the question, and replied:
“It was a working day. My commitment isn’t conditional on what others decide to do.”
There was no pride in his voice, no judgment of our choices. For him, it was simple logic. A fact, like gravity or the speed of light.
We often called Deepak a robot, teased him for his rigid ways. But looking back now, years later, I realize what we interpreted as inflexibility was actually extraordinary strength of character. In a world where commitments bend under the slightest pressure of convenience, Deepak was immovable.
Deepak graduated at the top of our class, of course. He received job offers from three multinational companies before our final semester even began. He accepted the one that aligned most closely with his five-year career plan. a plan he had written during our first semester and updated quarterly.
I lost touch with Deepak after graduation, as many college friendships fade. But eight years later, I was not surprised to learn he had founded his own highly successful tech startup, PrecisionAI Systems. According to mutual friends, he still arrives at his office at precisely the same time each day, despite being the CEO. His company’s legendary execution and reliability have made it the darling of investors, with his systematic approach to business becoming a case study at top business schools.
Some might find his life sad or limited. I used to think that way too. But I’ve come to realize that there’s something profound in his unwavering commitment to his chosen path. In a world of endless distractions and broken promises, there’s a quiet nobility in someone who simply does what they say they will do, every single time, regardless of whether anyone is watching.
The day after Diwali, when Deepak sat alone in that empty college, he wasn’t just being stubborn. He was being himself in the purest sense. And perhaps that’s the hardest thing of all to achieve in this life.
A Lesson in Commitment
Consistency is not about what others are doing.
It’s about honoring the promises you make to yourself.
