The Box

“Yes! It washes 7 kgs at one go and see,the clothes come out 100 per cent dry… well,99 per cent… and you can only dry 3.5 kgs at one time,but doesn’t matter… because see,it has a steriliser and a deodoriser and an orange emergency lever that broke the first time I pulled it and…”.

My wife ran her through the full company demo,occasionally reading from a manual the size of a telephone directory (by the way do they make telephone directories anymore?). But my daughter’s eyes were shining elsewhere.

“Wow! And look at the Box! Mama,can I please have it? Pleeease?”

Her mother,who was busy trying to calculate the optimum spin cycle that would completely dry 17 cotton T-shirts,19 boxer shorts,1 pair of jeans and 1 bedsheet,muttered something like: “Hmm.”

Which was conveniently interpreted by my daughter (and later presented as unshakeable evidence for the defence) to mean an unequivocal “Yes”.

“Thank you,thank you!”

And that,my friends,was that. The Box was promptly installed bang in the centre of my daughter’s bedroom.

First it was covered by a razai,not because it would feel cold,as I initially thought,but so that it would look like a tent. Then my daughter proceeded to convert her precious Box into a large,three bedroom,Mumbai-sized,apartment. Cleverly,she hung a torch,my torch (Maglite),from the ceiling. Then she made a shelf for her Gameboy and my old laptop and another shelf for her Malory Towers and St Clare’s books. Then she threw a couple of cushions in,and a rug,drew a few masterpieces to adorn the walls. And voila!

“Daddy! What do you think of my new house?” I peered into the thing with what I hoped would pass for interest: “Er… great! Looks great. Do you think you have some space for a washing machine?”

For the next few days all the kids in our complex lived in my house. Or to be more precise,lived in “Ahana’s Box”. And somehow,strangely,our home,began to reverberate with the laughter and excited chatter of children.

Where had I heard those sounds before? Suddenly I remembered: These were the sounds of my childhood. When children were children,not social networkers.

Though when we were growing up,I have to confess,we never ever had a Box. But that I think is only because buckets never came in boxes. Nevertheless even in the absence of such luxuries,we managed,by the simple invention of stretching a bed-sheet across two chairs. That was our tent.

Hours would be spent hunting wild animals from its cozy confines while simultaneously scanning the skies for “Schweinhund Boche” from the small tear in the canopy of our Supermarine Spitfire. The girls,of course,had their own house,in which they smashed all kinds of leaves to form a never-ending stream of inedible chutneys that had a profound impact on my digestive system for all time.

My mind exited flashback with a startled realisation: Incredibly,our daughter had found my childhood.

Television was forgotten. Computer games were forgotten. Facebook was forgotten. That damned Box had managed to do what my wife and I had been trying to achieve for years.

So maybe there is hope for this new generation yet. And maybe it is this: Get a Box!

(adipochas@yahoo.com)