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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