“Where to next?” asks Rocky, as he watches me pack. “Chennai,” I tell him. “Oh goody!” he squeaks, jumping right in. “Are you sure about travelling inside my bag?” I ask him, but he’s already asleep.

At the airport in Delhi I watch nervously as the bag goes through the scanner. Sure enough, it’s pulled off the conveyor belt. “What’s THIS?” — plastic explosives?” asks Security, pointing to three small packets. I explain it’s only modelling clay. “Hmmm,” they say, reading the labels suspiciously. Rocky sleeps through it all, even snoring softly. I can’t resist asking them why they don’t even glance at the slumbering animal. They look surprised and point to their sign, saying, “But madam, live raccoons are not on the ‘FORBIDDEN’ list!” And sure enough! They’re not.

Our stay in Chennai is action-packed from start to finish. We stay of course with my sister G, niece M, niecelet M — this my word for “niece’s daughter” — and their extremely badly-behaved yet lovable beagle, Couscous. Rocky eyes him nervously, while sitting on my shoulders. But Couscous is only interested in chewing up my slippers. When he sees that I won’t donate to his cause, he sits under the sofa and stares at me with mournful eyes. “He didn’t even notice me!” Rocky whispers in my ears. “He can’t eat you,” I say, “and that’s all he’s interested in doing!”

There are excitements every day. On Thursday, a prize-giving ceremony for The Hindu Theatre Competition. This year the winner is journalist Annie Zaidi. “Wow!” says Rocky, as he snuffles up the small-eats being circulated by waiters, “Isn’t she way too pretty to be clever too?” I tell him that remarks like this don’t fly well in today’s gender-sensitive climate. “Yum,” he says, changing the subject as he samples the dessert buffet, “These tiny macarons are to die for.”

On Friday we have lunch at the newly-opened Shiraz Café, owned by a friend of my sister’s. It’s a collaboration with Tryst, a highly successful bakery-restaurant. They make great meals together, and we have a long lazy afternoon watching a family of cats gamboling in the enclosed sunlit courtyard as we eat berry pilaf, luscious kebabs and dream-soft flatbread. On Saturday, I take Rocky to a book launch at my publisher Tulika’s new office-cum-shop, off TTK Avenue. The children who come to hear me talk about my book Shrinking Vanita are delighted to meet Rocky. “I do all the writing,” he lies to my young audience, “she just does the drawings.”

On Sunday, a joyous family barbecue, on Monday we eat one last lovely meal at Amethyst, our favourite restaurant-boutique of all time, and on Tuesday, it’s Departure Day. Rocky decides to ride with me in the cabin and enjoys the hot snacks being passed around by Indigo’s smart, mini-skirted waitresses. In Delhi, we’re scooped up by our favourite Gurgaon-buddy E, for a two-night sleepover. “Goo’night!” says Rocky drowsily, “that was FUN!”

Manjula Padmanabhan, author and artist, writes of her life in the fictional town of Elsewhere, US, in this weekly column

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