“Well,” says Bins, “I’ve set you up to give a talk!” He’s just returned from his morning walk, which means I’m not entirely awake. “Wha-a-a?” I say, trying to buy time with my eyes still shut.

“At a school for smart little kids,” he continues. “A Montessori. You went to one of those, didn’t you?” He did too, which is why he associates such institutions with smartness. “The lady who sells me coffee in Cumberland —” the 24-hour convenience-store next door “— says her daughter works at a Montessori.” One thing led to another, resulting in the invitation to have me visit a class. “They’re learning about books and authors,” he says. “They will like to meet a living, breathing writer! From a faraway dark-skinned country where normally there are only tigers and typhoons!” He knows that this ghastly description will wake me up faster than a speeding bullet.

A week later, I go over to the school. It’s in a low-slung building, with French windows and views of sunny lawns. Bins has come along with me. Together we meet the sweet-faced young woman, Ms Cunningham, whose class I’m about to enter. “It’s very kind of you to come,” she says. “The kids are looking forward to meeting a Real Author. And Illustrator too!” I smile weakly, trying hard to look real.

I can see Bins out of the corner of my eye, smiling encouragingly. He alone knows my dark secret: I am terrified of children. Even though I write and draw for young readers, I very rarely have any direct contact with actual small humans. I believe I make them nervous because they can see right away that I’m not like most grown people. For instance I don’t grin brightly or try to pick them up or pinch their cheeks or do whatever it is that most people do when they meet little ones.

The three of us enter an airy space, the walls covered with drawings and artwork. There are junior-scale tables and chairs, but also a springy mat taking up the central area. About 12 seven-year-olds look up expectantly. I am introduced. I bring out the book that I’ve brought along as proof that I am indeed a writer-artist. It’s called Shrinking Vanita . I hold it up and display its pictures, while describing the story as I go along.

There are instant questions! Little voices want to know: Why does Vanita shrink? How does she get back to normal? How long did I take to write the book? When did I learn to draw? I have promised them a drawing lesson after the reading. This proves to be a great hit. At the end of the session several of them give me samples of their efforts. We say goodbye.

“Wah!” says Bins as we walk away. “I am impressed. The children were happy. You were completely normal!” I groan softly. “Coffee,” I whisper. “Lotsa coffee!”

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

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