THE BOX

bumpkin version,

by Roger Maioli

Here is the box in my hands at last. Uncle U is dead these three days, and he left it to me. So odd, I was in this very hammock, it is tooenty years since, when Uncle U told me about the box, that he would someday quit all, and now indeed the box is be-quitted. Post-tomb-ously. It is a fine box, all endowed with corners, and guess: you throw it up, down it comes again. Ha ha ha. What is inside? That Uncle U didn’t tell. What do you expect, he was so meagre with words, never spoke much except it was to ask Mom, when will I leave the hammock and get myself into a job? I never approved much of his sowing ideas into Mom’s head, for then she grew full inquisitive herself, and I had to tell her, imperial tone, that this was between me and the hammock, adding some un-complementary reflections on Uncle. And then Mom said I was too hard on him, and if only I could see through him, but I was such a chap. But then Uncle was such a chap, you couldn’t have enough of his leaving you alone. He was the sort of person who would wake up of a morning and go tiptoeing to your bedside and watch you sleep, scrutinising you all over with great mirth while you were slumbering and drooling, all helpless. How does one like such an intermeddlesome fellow, even if one is his Heir Nominee? Furthersides, he was so puzzling, so fond of riddles, one of his most favourite was, A ghoul does boo and a cow does moo, what does a cockatoo doo? I told him I wouldn’t know a cockatoo if I found one in my porridge, and so he might as well tell me, what does it doo? And he only grinned and never told, and I was so provoked. He was such a chap, I am glad he died. But I keep my peace, for Mom would be wondrous pissed if she heard me abuse the dead. And then there is the box. What is inside? I am curious, I will soon open it. There is them stories when one receives a like box and one never stops talking philosophie despite we only want to know what is in the damn box. I read one such story, with all them long words, and what do you think but that the box was never opened? I was so provoked, I remember I gave poor Chummy a whomp, despite he was not to blame, the fault was an Irish lady’s: Miss O’Jajee, I gather. You don’t mess with mee, Sarah O’Jajee! Ha ha ha I gather I should write poetree: I have such a way with words, never saw the like. But later, now I am wondrous busy with this here box. I even told Mom to keep her mop company in the meanwhile. But before I set about opening it, I would fain know if it is worth the trouble. What can be inside? The only thing I would want now is Catherine Z. Tajones, and it is not her. I know it because I pressed my ear against the cardboard and called, Is it you, Miss Tajones?, and waited a good many minutes with no answer coming. Ha ha ha, as if she would fit in this here box, I deserve a whomp myself. Serious, the only thing I would want now is a beer, one of those that go fzzzz when one opens it, but then the fzzzz gets gone so soon, I don’t believe it would stand tooenty years in the box. Uncle U, if he died some nineteen years ago, at least there would be some chance that I had opened it and Lo, there is the beer, what with I am dying in this heat. But then nineteen years ago I was all for candies and little Laura Lee. Not that I am less fond of Laura Lee now, but beer, I found it stank so. Die whenever Uncle might, seems this box just can’t satisfy. But then, Uncle U was forever disappointing me. There is Aunt, she is damn pretty, I wonder what she saw in Uncle. He was short of one foot, and had such a gap between his teeth, he might spit a chestnut at you and never lower his jaw. Ha ha ha, this was huge funny. Where is Chummy, I need tell him this, he will laugh his molars out. Item: if anyone is peeking into these my loo cabrations, Chummy is my nephew, I am his uncle. I am an uncle of sorts too, but of a superior sort than Uncle U. I think I might be called Uncle Double U, just like George Bush and George Double U Bush. That is an improvement, I gather. But I was prosopopondering on Aunt: I would get a crush on Aunt if she was not Aunt, but then she was and what is one to do? The most I did was to watch her bow down to pick up her shoes, she sported such charming underthings, with stars, balloons, pandas, altocumuli, flagships, tango dancers, Eiffel towers, walruses. I once told Uncle to buy her shoes very sticky and hard to pick up, and he only grinned and never bought them, he was such a chap. But if aunts are sacrossacred, a cousin is only a lass who shares your aunt’s zip code. They are famous to practice kissing with, and so one prefers them pretty. And since Aunt was so looring, you might bet I would have the prettimost cousins in all Gloomystershire. But my cousins, if they had Aunt’s columns and arc-boutants, their façade was all ruined by Uncle’s brand of front teeth. But then I’ve already told you that Uncle was forever finding ways to plague me. When Loocy or Rapoonzel smiles, it seems it is Uncle teasing me by proxy. Now, redux: I am a superior sort of uncle. Chummy, he will have the prettifullest cousins, as soon as I manage to heighten Laura Lee’s opinion of my predicates. But it is safer for Chummy not to go about a-kissing, or I will have him whomped handsomely. I told him so the other day, and even procured him a sample, so as to render him watchful. I didn’t put too much emphasis on it though, for my purpose is disciplinastic, I am what they call a man of them worthy intentions. And I am fond of the brat, I own it. He has tooenty thousand freckles too much, but he is still the best thing Pam did. And I am his famous uncle. Now Uncle U, he could be a better uncle, hadn’t he been so morose and all. I gather he morosed down after he lost his foot back in the hazelnut festival, when one of them boisterous fellows who get by selling fireworks made a big show of his pyrotechnics, sending up a good many crackers, bangers, squibs, torpedoes, mortars, jack-of-all-devils and Old Cholmondeley’s gas station. Now Dad himself went rocketing over the parson’s roof and wasn’t any moodier for that, he even wore a placid countenance in his coffin. Uncle took it too much to heart, I say. I was only a boy (the dullest on sale), but I remember: before that he was a man-about-business, always talking masonry & roof-building, and I never heard he went about the place be-quitting boxes without Miss Tajones inside. And then he grew all laidback, and that is perhaps why he became in time so vociferous that such a one and such a one was jobless: I gather he wanted to hush down his own do-nothingness by trumpeting other fellows’. Mom says I am too hard on him, but then he took care to win her over: ever since Big Bang he took to visiting us religiously, bringing herrings and soap, and fixing small things, and sowing ideas into Mom’s head, and staring in silence, and it was then that he mentioned the box: that it would come to me after God took his other foot, as he put it. Now here is the box, and I never seem to get around to opening it. But Uncle U was such a chap, he gave me the creeps. Not that he was all funereal or that sort of thing: he grinned aplenty. But he had such ways. He would look at the birds and then look at you, and make you feel there is something wrong in not being up there with the buzzards. All shut up in himself, like this box. I tell you: I wouldn’t wonder if I found his lost foot in this box. That would be glamorous, and just like Uncle. (I might make Chummy deadly a-frightened with that foot, I say.) Or perhaps there is just a long letter, where he finally tells me what it is that a cockatoo does doo. That would be glamorous too, I wouldn’t mind some knowledge at this time of day. Talk of time, Mom is calling. The herrings are ready, the last herrings Uncle brought. They are splendiferous with butter, I will miss them. Will see to them in a minute, as soon as I am done with this here momentous business. Know what? In the end I am glad I have this box. Made me think of Uncle, I hadn’t really thought of him these many years, despite he was there so often, hop-hopping around and displaying a full Gibraltar at every grin, looking at them birds and sowing ideas into Mom’s mind. Such a chap. Perhaps he knew I would think of him. But then how would he know that, he didn’t have five ideas in that bald skull. The only way is, Uncle’s uncle left him a box too, and Uncle thought of his uncle then. The box may even have been the selfsame this one. There you have it. Wonder, I am full thoughtful today. Now, suppose this box is so prognostically entailed to mee, what is inside? I wonder if Uncle U knew. The way he was, it wouldn’t have occurred to him that boxes come with an inside, promising in contents. Go figure. Says Mom what she may, I never made head or tail of the old corpse. And I even tried, every Friday. But he gave me the creeps. Mom says it is time set people apart, it is generations. How come then Aunt and me were so pally? Here, peremptory and out loud: Uncle should have treated me better. He never realized I took exception to all his scrutinising and intermeddling. It is not generations, Dad was different after all. And I am myself different, a better sort of uncle, all open, a regular beeped. Chummy will tell you that. Ibid: he would. Good Chummy, I am so fond of the brat, above all now that Pam is gone for good with that rogue Fitzwilliam, if I set my hands on him he won’t hold a card before this full moon. But I am here for Chummy. I wonder if some day he will stop and think of what a famous uncle he had. I tell you: I know what I will do with the box. I will let it be. I will have the herrings & butter, and then I will call Chummy and talk business with him. Come one day I am off-hammocked (I really should write poetree), the box will descend to him. Then let him open it.

And see.

THE BOX (rustic Indian version)

By Saroja Phoney

There was the box in my hands at last.

Uncle had passed away after a brief illness, leaving behind many heirlooms from his own curiosity shop.

* * * * *

“Where are you, Little Anju?”

I pretended not to listen. The strange mounds in the semi-dark room frightened me, but I dared not switch on the light for fear that it would reveal other shapes with deliberating claws and tiny, menacing legs. A quick shudder ran down my whole body. But my eyes remained hypnotically fixed on the casket.

The wooden box was never hidden away; indeed it had always been the most obvious object in the room, the only one which was not covered or wrapped in lengths of cloth. But there was that dainty lock, deceptively tenacious.


My cousin’s eyes gleamed. Only the thought of breaking something could get him genuinely interested. He put in all his effort and expertise with professional dedication, but the lock stayed where it was: unperturbed, tolerant, twinkling at us.

“Hey, catch it, catch it! Groaaan!” “Come on you good-for-nothing, when will you learn to field?”

That call from the playground was enough to remind our Shattersmith of his greater loyalty and he darted out of the room snatching the cricket bat from the corner.

“The grapes are sour!” I muttered to myself scowling at his vanishing back.


Now I was here once more, but this time I was resolutely alone.

I reached for the box. I ran my fingers over the lid, delicately carved with the shapes of white elephants, a few coconut palms in relief. I remembered the time Granny had wanted a small brass vessel from the attic and, jumping at the opportunity, I had walked in with her, all set to take her into confidence, hopeful of finally having something out of a well-informed source. She opened her mouth wide in a luxurious yawn.

“That kind of jewel-box was such a rage a few years ago! I remember many friends picking up similar boxes on visits to hill stations. Ideal gifts for weddings and house-warmings.”

“Granny!” I exclaimed with impatience and disappointment, for this was far from the mental picture I had formed of Granny’s reaction when she would see the box. “This is wrong!” protested a pleading voice within me. “Granny should go all wide-eyed and speak in a mysterious, hushed tone!”

In short, I got nothing out of her.


“Anju, aren’t you hungry?”

If Little Anju had been able to ignore her precocious olfactory sense that day, she may have made away with the box and hid it in the fold-mountains of her wardrobe. But her grit lost to the terrifying vision of ravenous Cousin and his equally gluttonous father – who happened to be the proprietor of the article she was about to thieve – devouring every morsel of grandmother’s mango pudding made sparingly on exactly two Sundays every summer. Anju’s unfailingly sensible mind told her that an immediate and guaranteed blessing was not to be thrown away for a merely probable one.


What made me so curious, so covetous of the box? I can find no explanation but the obvious one: the fascination of a child with an active mind and fertile imagination nourished plentifully with a perennial supply of illustrated storybooks. And Uncle’s enigmatic ways.

Every once in a while, Uncle would visit the attic room and survey the objects there. He would always keep the door shut, but would leave it unlocked. So we often managed sneak peeks into the room. On these occasions, he would pick up the box in the corner, scrutinise the lock and wipe the dust off the box with a thoughtful expression.

Unable to contain my inquisitiveness, I made oblique references to the box whenever I could. But Uncle would only offer the remark, “Ah! That is a special box.”

On one such occasion I was convinced that I had finally got him talking. “Let me tell you a story”, he began, and I held my breath at the prospect of the revelation.

“Do you know what happens when you are too greedy?”

I quickly averted my eyes.

“Let us go back to our story then. Portia, The noble and beautiful maiden, had several suitors…”

I listened captivated, sure that uncle had had adventures in strange lands.

Three boxes appeared in the tale. I waited and waited for Uncle himself to make an appearance, but Portia wed and there was no sign of Uncle. Shakespeare had hoodwinked me.

Four summers passed by in this treasure hunt, but I still had had no luck with the box. Next summer I would not be back at my uncle’s house, for he was to lock up the large ancestral home and leave for Singapore. Meanwhile, I was ‘growing up’ and was to be soon packed off to a boarding school. I decided in desperation that confrontation was the only course left.

“Uncle…”

Uncle was seated on his favourite swing, enjoying the cool shade of the veranda, with a dreamy expression on his face and half-closed eyes.

“Hello, Anju”, he replied without opening his eyes.

“Uncle, may I ask you something?” I ventured, nervously fingering the tassels of my skirt.

Uncle was by no means a formidable person. Never would he reprimand children or so much as look sternly at them. But there was an inexplicable air of self-possession in him, mingled with a tinge of astuteness and a glint in his eyes that bespoke of what all clever children learn to be watchful of: intelligence. Uncle was regarded as the very epitome of virtue by every one of his acquaintances. Respected and admired by all the adults in the family for his uprightness and few words, he had a special place among the children as well. The kids were both immensely fond of him and wary of him, for he had the uncanny knack of gliding into the exclusive fortified world children build for themselves, that most obtuse adults can never enter.

I struggled to phrase the next sentence.

“What about the box, Anju?”

I was so startled that I nearly ripped off the delicate tassels. When I looked up, I saw that Uncle was smiling broadly at me, evidently enjoying the effect of his remark. When I finally managed to shut my mouth, which had hung open for a full minute, he said to me kindly, “You are an inquisitive little girl. Let us have a deal. The box shall be your inheritance after my lifetime.”

This was such an unexpected statement that I could not grasp anything for a few minutes. He couldn't have been joking, for he had said it with a quiet finality. I understood that it was now a law: I was not to have any more designs on the box till it was rightfully mine.

* * * * *

Sixteen years later, the box still had the same lustrous, timeless look. The clasp was as strong as ever. The lock showed no signs of rust; it twinkled familiarly at me in a mischievous way as it had whenever I had tried to tamper with it. With a slight jolt I took in the perplexing feeling that it was the same twinkle I had glimpsed so often in my late uncle’s eyes.

I opened the pouch handed over to me with the box and extracted the small nondescript key. Immediately, all those faded years in between gave way and Little Anju took possession of me. I ran to the terrace of the now ramshackle house. The lock clicked open as if it only needed the touch of my hand to oblige.

Two envelopes.

I saw Anju tiptoeing up to the room, carefree and assured that the afternoon had lulled all but her to sleep. Here Anju put out her hand for the box, as if it were an enchanted object. Ten-year-old Anju prodded at her grandmother’s false teeth, a furtive look in her eyes. Cousin and Anju stared with intent faces, trying to persuade the lock to yield. Anju’s scowl captured in all its natural grace glowered at me. And… in Anju’s hand lay a little colourful pendant stolen from a two-year-old cousin. I winced as the guilt of a motiveless childhood crime resurfaced like an unhealed wound.

My first reaction was hatred of my uncle for his brazen voyeurism into a child’s deepest secrets. But how and when had he managed to click all these photographs? It was eerie: he seemed to have followed me purposefully, as if he were aware of precisely what I would do. My hatred soon turned into embarrassment and amazement.

The second envelop seemed to be much older. It contained two photographs. One was of a teenager I recognised from an old album of uncle’s. I gave a start as I saw him clearly nicking money from the purse his mother had tucked beneath her pillow, even as granny dozed, her head resting on the pillow. At the back of the photograph were the words, “The Virtuous Man”. The second picture was of uncle on his swing, as I knew him, smiling at me his kind, wise smile.

In a moment he had won back all my affection redoubled.

Only one question remained in my mind: why had he never told anyone? I was about to shut the box when I saw a small slip of paper that had escaped my notice.

“None of us like to be caught, do we?”

As I retraced my steps back from the terrace, I saw my cousin huddled over something in the attic room, which was now almost bare. He raised his eyes as I walked in, a baffled look on his face. An assortment of tools lay about him. In his hands he held an old camera, so carefully as if it were the most fragile object on earth.

“Father left this to me saying he could not think of a more precious possession to bequeath his son.” I could detect a slight tremor in his voice.

“Funny I never saw him use it”, he added, as he sat there carefully mending it.


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