Two streets down from where I live, there’s a shop called The Panhandler. It’s filled with equipment for beautiful kitchens and dining rooms. Two years ago, I would have barely noticed it. Now, as the Master of My Own Cutting Board, whenever I pass by, I sense magnetic feelers pulling me in.

I have succumbed a number of times, spending half the day just staring at the colourful enamelled pots, ceramic dishes and countless small gadgets that I mostly can’t afford. A butter-spreader in the shape of a plump boy, for using on hot corn-cobs. A strawberry huller for pulling out the central plug of a strawberry. A wooden rolling pin for punching out small ravioli squares in pasta dough. And much more besides.

Anyway. Last week, I told myself that I needed to buy gifts to bring back to India and what better place to visit but this paradise of elegant items? So I went in. An hour later, I emerged with a cast iron saucepan, two ceramic kitchen knives and a kitchen timer for myself, plus one tiny garlic-grinder as a gift. On my way home, I stopped at another favourite shop, Ace Hardware, and bought a couple of batteries.

That was a Friday afternoon. On Saturday, late in the evening, I happened to look in my purse for my credit card and discovered it wasn’t there. Immediately, a black hole appeared in the middle of my tummy. I could not breathe or swallow. I’m absent-minded so I’ve trained myself to always put the card back in the same place: inside a slender card-wallet, inside my purse. When I use it while shopping, I take the card-wallet out and keep it in my hand until I’ve received the card back. But the wallet is empty.

I can remember using the card at Ace Hardware. It’s a Sunday but the shop opens after noon. I go over with my receipts. Nope, not there. I search up and down the street and the pavement from Ace Hardware to my house, knowing all the while that it’s hopeless. The card could not possibly have fallen out of the wallet. Nor have there been any visiting burglars. The only possible explanation is that space aliens have taken it. Maybe it works really well on Mars.

I can’t call the bank because it’s a Sunday. Not that I want to: the account will surely be emptied by now, which means I will have no option but to slit my wrists with my smart new kitchen knives. After all, I don’t have enough cash in the house to get to the airport and fly back to India. I spend a restless night, dreaming of low-cost forms of self-dispatch. On Monday, despite knowing it’s useless, I go to Panhandler’s and… it’s there. The owner, a charming, friendly lady, knew I would be anxious but she had no number for me.

I am speechless with relief. I’d gone to Ace Hardware before the Panhandler. Mystery solved, I buy several more garlic -grinders as gifts and sleep soundly that night.

(Manjula Padmanabhan author and artist, tells of her parallel life in Elsewhere, US, in this fortnightly series )

>marginalien.blogspot. in

Related Topics