Bins and Rocky return from Vermont in high spirits. “We’re going to have an exhibition!” says Bins. “Who’s ‘we’?” I want to know. “Me and Rocky,” says Bins, “who else?” I try to point out that raccoons are not famed as brush-smiths. “Sure, Rocky likes paint — but to eat, not to use on canvas,” I say. “As for you, Bins, you’ve never shown the slightest interest in art!”

Both of them give me cold stares. “See?” says Rocky to Bins. “Species-ism! I told you she won’t be able handle it when a non-human discovers his creative genius.” Bins says, “Yeah. And let me tell you, she’s sexist too! We’re both guys, you know? She can’t stand it when guys get together and do stuff.” I go off to make tea. When I get back, with a saucer of milk for Rocky and two mugs for the humans, the boys are discussing what to call the show.

“This is a historic collaboration between humans and raccoons,” says Bins. “The name should reflect that fact.” “Right,” says Rocky. “How about: PICASSO REINCARNATED?” “Superb,” says Bins. “High recognition value and mentioning reincarnation adds that oriental touch.” “But neither of you is oriental!” I point out. Bins clutches his head. “Mais oui!” he exclaims, breaking into his Tamil-accented French. “L’orientale – c’est toi! You are, of course, crucial to our show!”

It turns out that the plan involves Rocky covering his paws with paint and walking on canvases. Possibly while eating laddoos. “The laddoos are my inspiration you see,” he says. “Eating them has altered my perception of reality. They have released my Inner Artist.” Privately, I am hoping that they will not also release his inner digestive tract, but I manage to suppress this thought. Artists are known to be hypersensitive, after all.

“My role,” says Bins, “is to arrange the art materials so that the artist can perform without pause.” Rocky says, “But I HAVE to use my paws!” Then they both fall over, laughing at their own terrible pun. My job, I gather, is to assemble the resulting mess so that it looks suitably arty. “It’ll be a hit, believe me” says Bins. “Also, Rocky will read some poetry at the opening ceremony. Art lovers like to hear poetry in combination with paintings. And I will play my flute. It will be truly a ‘bijou’ occasion.”

“Alright, then,” I say. “I can see you’ve got it all worked out. What about your Artist Statement and images for the brochure and — what’s the matter? You’re both shaking your heads.” “No printed material,” says Rocky. “We’ll hand out fresh leaves at the opening and ask patrons to think of the suffering caused to Nature by humans.” “It’s called deep messaging,” says Bins. “The show will be a huge success. We will become millionaires. Then we can buy up forest lands so that wild animals can live safely!” I nod. “Wow. Great. When is this amazing spectacle scheduled for?” “Next week,” says Bins.

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

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