The medicine chest had long been a source of friction between the two. She would forget opening it, and he never would. Which meant he would discover all those doses she had missed while he was out on his walks or on his way to fetch milk, and she would show him all the medicines she had taken, and he would then show her that she had taken all the wrong ones, or at the wrong time, or in the wrong sequence. And then they would argue about the same things — she saying that there was no point in taking all those medicines as she wasn’t getting better and he saying that this was the very reason she wasn’t getting better. Finally, one would run out of patience and walk away, or it would be time for their television programmes, or their neighbours would knock at their door to ask them if they were ready for their evening walks, or one of them would say something silly and the other would smile and that would end their arguments and this would have an even better effect on her than the medicines could have had.
The small two-room set they occupied were like many other two-room sets that had been converted from what had been a hotel when the town was living through better days. Actually, seen from a certain point of view, it was only now that the town was seeing better days. Earlier, before the three catastrophic events that followed one after another in quick succession — an earthquake higher up in the hills, a cloud-burst closer home, and a wild bull running amok in the bazaar injuring over a dozen tourists — the place had been the first choice for the harried folks from the city. That meant a lot of business for the shopkeepers and the hotel-owners; but with the place now fallen out of favour because of all these events some four years back, the shopkeepers and the hotel-owners had packed up and followed the cars coming in from the city on their way to the other side of the ridge where they started offering the same services and products to the same people. Meanwhile, the locals thanked their gods that they now had their place to themselves, their streets to walk on without having to worry about cars honking from behind, and their taps spewing enough water because they didn’t have to share it with the hotels and their guests.
While other hotels were being converted into houses only recently, this one had been lucky enough to find misfortune many years back, and was already home to several families. Between all the individual houses, the place still retained some of the hotel’s features. The hall where dinner used to be served between its chipped ceilings and the marbled floors and opposite the wide open windows that overlooked the valley below was still around because it made a lot of sense to the people who had bought the houses. Most of these houses were bought by old couples when their children moved out for work and opportunities, and it was this hall that became the centre of their social lives. When the hotel owner had decided to sell it to a small restaurant owner, the residents had collected the money and taken combined ownership of it, setting in it — among other things — a card table, a large bookcase, a chessboard, and some chairs. They had also set up a fund to pay a young boy to look after it and make them tea and run down the bazaar for little bites and snacks and a bottle of dark rum when they felt like celebrating some reason or the other.
That day, when the four or five families had gathered in at around six for a game of cards and for a bit of gossip, they looked around for the one couple that was missing. Normally, they were the first here, unless they were in the middle of their fight over the medicine chest from which they had to be dragged out. But that wasn’t the case today, as one man remarked as he slapped the queen of spades over another card lying face down. He had seen them from a distance walking towards Dr Baghchi’s clinic.
“Is it the 17th today?” A woman sitting with another at the small table near the window had asked in between sips of her tea without sugar. And when someone confirmed the date, she settled the matter.
“She is to get her reports today. And the city hospital was to send it to Dr Baghchi. Must have gone for that.”
While the explanation should have been enough to make them carry on with their own talks and activities, instead, it opened the window for others to chip in. And it started with the old man who had retired from the town’s Public Works Department and had just realised that he wasn’t going to win this round of cards.
“That would mean more medicines, more possibilities of Mrs N forgetting the ones to take, and more worries for Mr N.”
“I am surprised his blood pressure doesn’t shoot up.”
The gathering smiled, and at least a majority of them remembered that it was time for their own medicines. And on that lighter note, the talk veered not to the couple, or their health, or even their medicines. Instead, it drifted towards the medicine chest.
The wooden box wasn’t really a medicine chest. The intricately carved box that came with a lift-up lid was bordered with silver and had bits of the metal all over the design, forming a peacock’s eye here and an elephant’s tusks there, and was rumoured to have held the jewels of Alifa Bibi, the estranged wife of the Raja of this place. And this hotel had then served as a second palace to the Raja, and the only abode to the Bibi. Of course, at that point in the recent history of that place, the building had been much smaller as it was at the periphery of the small hill-kingdom, and there were none of these bazaars and the roads and these houses. It made for a pretty picture of a wooden bungalow surrounded by tall pine trees, and it was actually from a pretty picture hanging in the hall that people knew of all this. And because it had been in the hall when the hotel owner sold the place to the families, it belonged to all of them. But the Bibi’s jewellery box was another matter. It had been discovered from the rooms that the couple had bought, and only when they were getting a wall broken down to make room for a refrigerator they had bought, mostly for the medicines than for food. That the box was empty only proved what had been known about the Bibi. She had, as the story went, been asked to vacate even this place by the Raja when he learnt that the money he had been giving her every month was being spent on turning his loyalists against him. She was made to leave, and was ordered to take nothing with her other than what she could wear on her person. So that was what she did. It was said that when the Bibi left, she looked like she never had. A picture of irony — her state of mourning and loneliness and of abandonment in sharp contrast to the jewels, the fine clothes and the ornaments she wore as she walked, watched by the locals who had been instructed not to offer a helping hand or a word of solace. Dressed and decked up like a bride in her heaviest dress with threads of gold, and wearing every piece of jewellery she had ever owned, she walked all the way to the edge of the hill, from where she had paid for a horse and an umbrella with one earring, and for a woman-companion with the other. And that was the last anyone had ever heard of her. Till this box resurfaced in their talks. The entire story was repeated again today, in bits and pieces, by those present in the hall, and for nobody in particular. For everyone here knew it already. But it was just being used to reach the point of it all — the medicine box.
“Pity it should end up as a medicine box.”
“I would agree. But it is only natural that the box that was at the centre of a fight between the Raja and the Bibi should be at the centre of another.”
“She has jewellery of her own. Why won’t she use the box for what it was intended for?”
These statements, and similar ones had always been made in gatherings, or between smaller groups. But nobody took it beyond, everyone stopping short of saying what they all had been thinking almost from the day the box was discovered. Till today.
Mr J, the retired judge who had been transferred all over the country all his life and had finally come here to live his last few years in peace, had had one drink too many. He was known to hold it really well. But today he had read in the newspaper that his judgement in one of the most high-profile cases he had ever worked on, the one in which he had sentenced a high-ranking official to ten years in prison, had been overturned by a senior court. It didn’t hurt him to know that his decision had been reversed. What did, was the feeling of impotency that it evoked in him. Without his powers, his position, he wasn’t even given a chance to argue out in his own support. Worse, he wasn’t even acknowledged as a party to the sequence of events. Where his name should have appeared, all the piece mentioned was ‘… a lower court had earlier…’. That is all he was then, a brick-and-mortar hall with a chair in it. In the arguments given forth for the reversal of the judgement, all that was mentioned was ‘… the judge re-examined the proof that the earlier court had considered…’ and not a word about his experience that had made him see the evidence as only a man who had lived and seen so much could have. His own opinion, his interpretation of the law, his wisdom — all meant nothing. He wasn’t shaken so much by the age-old debate between justice and injustice, as by questions of his existence. Of the role of intellect in matters of the law. And it was in this mood, besides the effect of that last drink that his wife had cautioned him against as they had stepped out for a short walk before ending up here, that he said what no one else had said till date.
“What goes inside the box now is not the real question. The real question, if you ask me, is why should it be left to them to decide?”
The couples that gathered here almost every day were not just people who sought each other out because of the similarities in their conditions, because they were at a stage in life when they had only each other and their past to look at, because they all lived next to each other. While these things mattered too, but most of all, it was because they all genuinely cared for each other. They had, all the five couples — or six if you count the JPs who spent six months here and six with their daughter abroad — had chosen this life despite having other options. It wasn’t that their children were not keen on keeping them. Nor that they were all beyond the strength needed to work. All of them, at some point or the other, had been offered work at some place or the other. But having chosen this over everything else acted as a filter that resulted in this gathering being of a common mindset, that meant they all had respect for each other, and thought of most things in a similar way. Which is why nobody added immediately to what the retired judge said, each thinking if it should be left at that. After a pause, when the sun seemed to have given up on listening in on their conversation and had dipped over the far hill over which it had hung for a while, it was Mrs J, the judge’s wife, who finally broke in, more out of a desire to get her husband out of that strange look in which he seemed to be mumbling something to himself.
“Well, it was found in the house they bought. So it’s only fair.”
The judge looked up suddenly. He looked around at the people scattered around him, gradually slipping in the darkness caused by the sun’s departure and the delay in return of the boy who should have been here by now to switch on the lights and serve them a round of coffee.
“Fair? What is this word? Where did it come from? You think you separate the right from the wrong so easily, the black from white and assign this word to any side? Fair! If this was my court…”
He looked around again. This was his court. If he wasn’t sitting on judgement, he was at least sitting in front of people who should be told that fair wasn’t a word you could use so lightly. The wife, meanwhile, was struggling in her own way, rummaging within her bag of memories to find something that would pacify this man. But her husband didn’t give her enough time. He never did.
“If things could be sorted that easily, you wouldn’t need judges. You could ask people to vote to settle every conflict. Now take the matter of this wooden box. Was it found in their house? Everybody votes for yes. Did they knowingly take the house that had the box? Everybody votes for no. Does that make the box rightfully theirs?”
And he paused, and looked around. Shouldn’t these people be sitting at a lower level? Why wasn’t he having to lower his eyes to look at them? And why weren’t they answering?
“I am asking you. I really am. Does that make the box rightfully theirs?”
“Yes! It does!”
Such a strong voice — in his court! Mr J looked for the man responsible for this insolent behaviour and found himself looking at a woman. Mrs Q. Of course! Who else but Mrs Q.
Mrs Q was no ordinary woman. And Mr J could be excused for thinking he had heard a man speak when she had spoken. She had always lived here, in the town, through all its ups and downs and through its good days and bad, whichever point of view you held. And her being addressed to as a Mrs was no mean task either. To people who knew her only barely — and many preferred it that way — her habit of looking up with a jerk every time she was called out by her title, made them think she had taken offence. Though in truth she was merely being surprised at being called at all, for not many did. And the one person who never did was Mr Q. Mr Q, like Mrs Q, had always lived here. All his life. The two had gone to the same school, then the same college and then got married, for both didn’t look forward to a lot of change. And besides, Mr Q — though at that point he was just a lad — couldn’t go against Mrs Q — though at that point she was just a lass. He still couldn’t. But a retired judge on his second wind who felt he had been slighted, and who was a little drunk, and who in his mind was fighting a bigger battle than the issue at hand, could. What he didn’t know was that he had met Mrs Q on an evening of the day that had started with Mr Q going against her wife for the first time. It wasn’t a big thing. It was simply a matter of what colour they would choose for the wall, and as always the discussion was to be a short one with Mrs Q suggesting and Mr Q nodding, only that Mrs Q did what was expected of her but Mr Q shook his head instead and said, “I have never liked that pale blue colour you always choose. I want something brighter this time.” The only effect it had on the outcome was that reaching the decision to continue with the pale blue colour took more time than usual, and it left Mrs Q in a very dark mood. Was it the beginning of Mr Q finally wanting to assert himself in his old age, she wondered?
But Mr J had no way of knowing this when he confronted her. “And what makes you an authority on this subject?”
Mrs Q was sitting on a chair that half faced the room, while the other half was turned towards the valley outside. She had been talking to a few of the other occupants about this and that when the Bibi’s box had turned up. She got up, moved the chair to face the judge, and away from the others. She squared her shoulders and raised her chin. Mr J was used to lawyers arguing their case knowing the decision rested with this man, and also that it depended a lot on how they conducted themselves in his presence. Before this day, he had never had to contend with another judge. And today it was happening for the second time. In the first case he had been given no opportunity to support his decision. In this case he had, and he was going to make up for both.
“Now, now. There is no need to argue over this. I am sure they wouldn’t mind sharing the box with us all if we have a better use for it.” That was Mr G, the only working member of this small tribe. It couldn’t really be called working, for he had a shop here in the Bazaar that he opened more to air the interiors than for transacting business. If a stray customer did walk in, Mr G was known to try his best to make him walk out without having bought anything. “I can’t be bothered with all that effort that goes into taking things down from shelves and counting out money. And besides, I do like the shelves looking full, and every time I sell something, I need to replace it. Which is more work than I would like to do.” He had a daughter married off in a very good family that had invested some of his money in their business and being honest folks, the daughter’s new family gave him his profits every month. Even if they were making losses. Mrs G was happy with what they had, and not just because it covered the cost of their living, but because it also gave her an opportunity to tell anyone who cared to hear about how good her son-in-law was, and all the fears they had about not having someone to look after them in their old age were needless. When lives turn for the better in old age, it probably makes one satisfied, relaxed and with a tendency to avoid all possible confrontations. Which is what made Mr G try and intervene. But it was as if he hadn’t even spoken. For Mr J wasn’t used to taking into account any comment or phrase spoken by anybody in the audience. And Mrs Q wasn’t used to being interrupted either, because few ever spoke in her presence.
“I am an authority on anything and everything that happens here. I have lived here long enough to know this place, its history and its people. And the article that you are referring to belongs to this place. Who holds it now is a small matter. What matters is, that it is here and this is where it stays. Today it is theirs. Who knows who will hold it later? But the Bibi left it where they found it, and they have all the right to it. Till they choose to leave it someplace for others.”
The judge had tried to get in a word in at several points in the monologue. But all he could manage was a twitch around his lips as they struggled to part to speak a word. He would have one ready, hovering at the other side of his lips, but before he could part with it, Mrs Q would move on to the next sentence, forcing Mr J to come up with another word. But he had no time to let it out either because the lady would move on to the next. All this left him twitching his lips many times but not saying a word. And by the time she stopped talking, he wasn’t sure where he should start. Or maybe it was the alcohol that had slowed him down a bit. Mrs J had never seen him like this, and decided to help.
“It would be their choice if the thing belonged to them. But what’s under discussion is whether it does or not.”
Mr J thanked his wife silently and took over the reins of the argument.
“This is a matter of what’s right and what’s wrong. And not where it happened. What does your knowing this place have anything to do with it?”
What Mr J learnt in that moment, perhaps a little late in his life, was never to frame his arguments like a question. Not in front of people who needn’t adhere to the decorum of the court. He had flung the door open to a woman who hadn’t waited for a question to come back with answers. And now she had one.
“Every place has its own rules, and its own sensibilities. The trouble with this world is that there are men who would try and enforce common laws on everything, on everyone. And if it is not the law, then religion, or food habits. And somewhere out there, there will be colleges and universities teaching people from one book, painting this whole world in one man’s view of what is right and what is wrong. And no, I am not an authority on law. Because I don’t want to be one.”
“It is the law that is holding this place together. You think there are laws like gravity that are doing it? Ha! That sort of law applies to things so big that whoever breaks them will be well beyond our levels of influence, or enforcement. That it allows us to live here, in this place and anywhere else, is a matter of chance, or destiny, or divine providence. Who knows. But till such time one of those laws is broken and nothing remains the way it is, we have to preserve things in order. And these universal laws are what should apply to that box. Not your sense of localised taste passing off as the line that runs between what’s right and what’s wrong. And the law should be open to interpretation from people who have seen enough of it being applied in the wrong way, or right. And in every place.”
The discussion, as everyone gathered there had figured out by now, was really just a way for these two to win their battle on their own personal battlegrounds. And Mrs J and Mr Q decided to put an end to it. They had both had enough, not just today here in this hall, but throughout their lives.
“All right, this stops now!”
Mrs Q couldn’t believe it was her husband of all these years that had for the second time in the day spoken out like this. But before she could gather about herself her wits to say something that would show him his place, and also wipe that smirk from the judge’s face, another voice broke in. This time it was Mrs J, and she did wipe that smirk from the judge’s face.
“And if there are laws and lands that must be discussed, we are sure there is a time and place for it. But wherever and whenever that is, it is certainly not here and now. This hall and this time belongs to all of us. And we are not going to sit here and see them being taken away from us.”
“As for the box that belonged to the Bibi, it now belongs to an old couple who are using it for their medicines, and who at this moment are at Doctor Baghchi’s clinic, being told of the results of her tests that might tell us how long we will have her with us.”
Mrs Q would later say that it was the mention of the old couple and the tests they had gone to hear of that made her leave the argument, and not her husband’s words. But whatever the reason, she did turn her chair back, and so did the judge. The hall hung under a heavy fog of words that had been spoken in the evening, making the occupants breathe them in again and again, so that every breath was a reminder and there was no escaping it.
The mood was broken by a knock on the door that didn’t need any knocking as it was open to all who came here and was always unlocked when occupied. Expecting the boy to have finally returned, and expecting a round of tea, they all turned to look that way. It was the couple, holding each other for comfort, or support. Though they had not heard a single word of the debate, and many had not spoken, but those gathered in the hall were now acutely aware of their presence in their just-concluded conversation, and now in their midst. But before they could say anything, it was the old man, Mr N, who reached inside the big pocket of his overcoat and brought out a box of sweets. Only then did the company take notice of the fact that the two were smiling. They had been smiling ever since they had walked in, but it was through their own downcast mood that they had seen the two, and that was why they had failed to notice it till now.
“Well, here are some chum-chums, freshly picked from Omi’s Sweetshop.”
Nobody reached out to pick one, and the old man thought it was because he hadn’t yet explained why.
“Her tests have ruled out the worst of our fears. If anything, they have only shown how well she has responded to the treatment. And now the doctor says she can live on just two or three medicines a day.”
“And a chum-chum.” Mrs N said with a smile and picked one of those soft, syrup-soaked delicacies she had practically lived on till she started showing the symptoms of a disease that made the doctor put her on several medicines and forbade all outside food.
“Just once a week or so,” cautioned her husband, though looking pleased as he saw her bite into it with relish.
The mood had lightened now, and everyone was digging into a chum-chum each, when Mrs G brought up the matter that was on everyone’s mind. “So, what will you two fight over now? Now that the medicine chest will be practically empty now. No?” She had said it with a smile, and she did mean it that way.
The couple smiled, but as Mrs N was unable to answer with the syrup from the chum-chum flowing down her chin, it was left to Mr N to reply.
“We thought it was the Bibi’s misfortune that was trapped in it, and that’s what was making our troubles bigger than they were. So on our way back we threw it in the stream that flows by the khud.”
Mrs N couldn’t help but complete the answer, breaking off for a moment from taking another bite, “It went away the way the Bibi did. Alone, but glinting in the light like a bride.”