Rocky wants to go exploring right away. “It’s 3 am,” I tell him. “So what?” he says. “I’m a raccoon! We’re nocturnal. This is MY time to be out and about!” I remind him that he’s a visitor from the other side of the planet. “There are creatures here that you’ve never seen before.” “Like what?” he wants to know. “Cobras!” I say. “Mongeese! Elephants! Tigers —”

Bins, who has been listening to this exchange, opens the door. “You go on out,” he says to Rocky. “Avoid the wild, crazy trucks because they have right of way. Do not argue with the stray cats because they’re homicidal maniacs. Be respectful to the cows because they’re sacred.” Rocky scampers off without a backward glance. I glare at Bins. “How could you do that? Poor little guy! He’s from the quiet, safe streets of Elsewhere! Never been to the tropics!” “Ohhh,” groans Bins, striking his forehead. “Rocky’s an animal! Not a tourist. He has instincts. He has whiskers. He has teeth and claws. He’ll be FINE.”

But the hours pass with no raccoon in sight. At breakfast, I say to Bins, “If he never returns it’ll be YOUR FAULT!” Bins twiddles his moustache and shrugs. “Firstly, you worry too much. Secondly, if he never returns, it means he has found a girlfriend of another species and is happy making little baby hybrids. Thirdly ...” He stops. “What?” I ask. “Well,” says Bins, “I was going to say, if he dies, at least we don’t have to worry about smuggling him BACK to America —” he glances nervously in my direction “— but of course I would never actually say such a thing.” I am too angry to even bother snarling.

Lunch comes and goes. Teatime. Dinner. A sleepless night. By breakfast the next day Bins and I are no longer talking. My friends and family don’t believe it when I say that I can’t leave the house because I’m waiting for Rocky to come back. “You can’t have brought a raccoon in your backpack!” they tell me. “No one in their right minds brings wild creatures INTO India. All the animal smuggling goes the other way!” The second night comes and goes. No Rocky. Bins refuses to worry but I notice him sneaking out at odd hours, scanning the trees in the nearby park with his binoculars.

In the middle of the third night, I hear a faint scratching outside the TV room door. I leap up from the armchair where I’ve been keeping vigil. Rocky saunters in with his tail held high. He’s got an orange smear on his narrow forehead and a garland of marigolds around his neck. “Got lost,” he says yawning and stretching. “Slept in a tree. Woke up to find orange stuff smeared on me. People throwing food. Garlands. Singing. So I stuffed myself silly. Then came home.” He washes his paws and whiskers before curling up on a cushion. “Om Sweet Om,” he murmurs before falling fast asleep.

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

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