THE OLD WOODEN BOX: a 1000 word story

THE OLD WOODEN BOX: a 1000 word story


I do not believe in lotteries, raffles, auctions, races or roulette games etc. I do not believe in luck. But the following incident suggests there might actually be something like this.

One Sunday morning, about three years ago, I saw an advertisement for an auction at a nearby auctioneer’s, suitably titled Old Hands. They specialized in acquiring and disposing old stuff, maybe because the owner himself was rather old, in his late seventies. He loved his stuff and, after the bid was done and the price paid, he parted with the goods with a look of distinct sadness in his eyes. That Sunday, something within me urged to attend the auction. I don’t know what spurred me, but there was that feeling that, somehow, I must go there. Maybe the reason was that this particular auction was meant for old military items. My having served as a Captain in the Army Medical Corps during 1965-1968 might have something to do with the urge.

As I went there at the appointed time, I found a motley crowd of persons, mostly either past fifty, with distinct army style moustaches, now graying, or those in their teens, who had wide-eyed visions of grandeur and heroism whenever they thought of army, navy or the air force. All they could think of was marching on enemy land and vanquishing the foe; conquering the waves; or, mastering the skies and performing all sorts of unimaginable sorties. They were too young to think of anything like the body bags returning from Iraq; the prisoners interned in Guantanamo; or, nearer home, Lieutenant Saurabh Kalia’s body returned to India by Pakistan with tell tale signs of torture—cigarette and electric burns, multiple fractures, eyes gouged out—after he was taken POW, (Prisoner of War), in the Kargil war with Pakistan which India had won recently.


I had no particular interest in any item there. Unlike others, I was not fascinated by the memorabilia of the first or second world wars. The old style pistols, guns, grenades, rifles, bayonets, boots, belts, binoculars etc. held little interest for me. The only weapons I had actually wielded in my army career were a scalpel, a few needles and syringes and a stethoscope, though I had been duly trained in the use of the regular weapons. In fact, I did not want to buy anything. However, as per habit, while I was gazing at a large black wooden box and mentally calculating its dimensions, for no particular reason, the old man happened to watch me. He thought I was interested in buying it and weaved such a tale around it that he convinced me it was worth buying at whatever price.

The box was strikingly similar to the one I was supplied with when I joined army, with the difference that in my days, we had progressed from wood to steel. Or, maybe the onslaught on forests had made it impossible to procure enough teak wood to supply boxes to army officers. This type of box was meant to be sufficient for all the personal belongings of an army officer while on the move. I still remember a feeling of pity for the fine teak grain that invariably got lost underneath the thick coat of black paint. But that is how army operates. Its first principle is to abolish everything personal or personally unique. All men must look similar-- uniform, hair style, gadgets and all-- except those things that even the might of army can’t change, such as the height, the colour and the tone of voice.

When the auction started, the old man announced that the reserved price was Rs. 500/- (About 10 dollars). There were three more bidders and each time I raised my offer, one of the three upped it by a hundred rupees at a time. Ultimately, it was mine for Rs. 1500/- (I later came to know that the three were his own friends whose only job was to artificially jack up the bids).

Carrying the box home was another problem. It was too big to fit into the boot of my car. I had to pay another Rs. 250/- to hire a mini-truck for carrying it home. And, when I reached home, I had to face a 2-day long barrage of questions, sneers and scowls from my wife, who wanted to know why I must keep on adding to the junk already piling up in the house.

All said and done, it was after about 2 days that I was able to spend some time with my newly acquired treasure. And, what a treasure it turned out to be! When I examined it minutely, I found printed in one corner of the box the magic words: “Lt. Col. James Stein, AMC”. The moment I saw this, I knew it was no ordinary box. It had once belonged to the first officer ever to command the Army Medical Corps when it was first constituted in the British times. Who could forget those words, J.S., that stood at the top of the list of various commandants of the AMC since its inception which decorated the ornate wall of the AMC Officers Mess where I had dined for 3 years during my army career?

My only regret was that I found this box forty years too late. Had I found it earlier, I would have coolly presented it as a gift to my OC (Officer Commanding) and earned a much needed promotion. Maybe, having become a Major, I would not have thought of leaving army at all to become a professor. How different would life have been, just for a wooden black box! However, my immediate concern was, “Is it worth the money, a solid Rs. 1750/-“. I wish there was a clear answer.

(Word count = 965)



• Written for "The Writer's Cramp" , “The Writer's Cramp”, for the prompt: “Write a short story or poem about accidently bidding on a wooden box at an auction. You didn't really want it and spent way too much money to get it, but once you got it home and opened it you found... What did you find and was it worth the money?”


M C Gupta
7 August 2009