Ammanji and His Mysterious Box (706 words)

My great-granddaughter gave me a Polo mint this morning, and it brought back memories of an elderly granduncle who, during my teens, would hand me a small, round white mint candy every time I met him. I had written about him years ago, and the memory felt warm enough to revisit.

I was a schoolboy then. Since my school was close to home, I came home for lunch every day. One afternoon, as I stepped in, I found my mother in tears. She asked me to accompany her to my grandfather’s house a few miles away. When I inquired why she was crying, she said, “You know Ammanji, your grandfather’s cousin. He passed away last night, and the cremation is in a few hours. I need to go now, and you must come with me.”

I agreed. All I really knew about him was that he constantly chewed raw arecanuts and kept, in his almirah, a carpenter’s kit, some cobbler’s tools, and an old wooden box. Still, I was secretly happy at the chance to skip school that day.

I had seen him many times during my visits to my grandfather’s house, a frail, short man with thick glasses, dressed in a white upper garment that was neither a vest nor a shirt. He wasn’t a real cousin of my grandpa, just a distant relative. He had lost his wife early in life and had no children or close family. My grandfather, comfortably well-off and living in a sprawling old house full of helpers, had persuaded him to come and stay there. And though no one quite knew the exact relationship, everyone called him Ammanji and treated him with dignity and affection.

He had once been a schoolteacher, known for his command of English. A voracious reader, he rarely returned from the local library without a new book. Though reticent by nature, he could fill a room with laughter when he chose to speak, his comments always laced with gentle wit.

I suspected he had little income beyond what he needed for daily necessities and for his beloved arecanut. To be honest, I never felt particularly drawn to him and even feared him a little; his features reminded me of a bulldog. Yet he always smiled when our eyes met. He would hand me round white mint candies, the kind that tasted even sweeter after a sip of water.

He had a small wall-mounted almirah of his own. Inside it sat a little wooden box that fascinated all of us children. He rarely opened it in anyone’s presence, but we knew he peeked into it twice a day,  once in the morning and once in the evening, staring quietly for a few minutes before locking it again. The key, tied to sacred thread across his shoulder, was never out of his sight. We boys often speculated and invented imaginative theories: perhaps it held gold jewellery belonging to his late wife, or bundles of currency, or, as one mischievous boy suggested, old love letters.

 Once, I mentioned his strange habit to my uncle, hoping for some revelation. Instead, I received a sharp rebuke for poking my nose into others’ private matters and was warned to mend my behaviour.

As I accompanied my mother that day, memories of the arecanut, the mint candies, and the mysterious box played in my mind. The atmosphere at my grandfather’s house was heavy with grief. My grandfather, whom I had always seen as strong and stoic, was in uncontrollable tears. Many elders and former students of Ammanji had gathered, praising his teaching and his gentle, virtuous character.

About ten days later, I went with my mother again for the concluding rituals. The subject of the mysterious box naturally came up. My grandfather asked one of my uncles to fetch it, and using the key recovered from Ammanji’s body, he opened it. All of us, uncles, aunts and cousins, crowded around eagerly.

To everyone’s disappointment, the box was almost empty. Inside lay only a few coins, a copy of the Bhagavad Gita, and a faded, postcard-sized black-and-white photograph, turned brown by time. My grandfather’s eyes grew misty as he picked it up.

“Ammanji and his wife,” he murmured.