Muriel and I are out on our weekly grocery shopping junket. On the way home in her car, I tell her all about Jiggs the Herbivore and his bathroom encounter with Kookie the Kodiak Bear last week. We’re still chuckling as she turns into the Dunkin Donuts parking lot. “Uh-oh!” she says. “Looks like you have a visitor...” Sure enough: there’s another car parked in the driveway. And Jiggs is struggling up the front steps with a suitcase the size of Sri Lanka.

I leap out of Muriel’s car, hauling grocery bags in both hands. Entering the hallway I see Bins and Jiggs at my open front door gazing at me like benevolent landlords at the entrance to their estate. “BINS!” I say, using my All Capitals voice, “WHAT’S GOING ON?” He responds with “Ah! There you are! Did you remember the artichokes?”

“NEVER MIND THE ARTICHOKES!” I say, wishing I could build up the energy to scream or swear. Alas, that’s not how my vocal chords are arranged. Whenever I try to yell, I only succeed in sounding like a hysterical mouse. “I THOUGHT WE HAD AN UNDERSTANDING?” Then I turn to Jiggs. In a softer tone but still in All Caps I say, “PLEASE DON’T FORCE ME TO BE RUDE BUT I’M SORRY YOU JUST CAN’T STAY WITH US!”

Jiggs is so embarrassed he’s practically wetting himself. “Umm ... err ...” he mumbles, “I think I will just get some laddoos now ” Bins is waving his hands about up in the pose of a conductor telling the trombones to ease off. “Now, now,” he says. “The calamity is under control. Really. He is not staying with us ” Jiggs, who can no longer bear the tension, ducks his head and heads for the door. That leaves me with smoke pouring from my ears and a week’s worth of groceries still hanging from my hands. “HIS SUITCASE,” I say. “IT’S ALREADY INSIDE, ISN’T IT?”

“Yes, but only his suitcase ” says Bins. “The rest of him will be outside.” I ask Bins if he knows how crazy that sounds. Bins says, “He’ll live in his car! Only his suitcase will stay inside”

Groaning aloud, I shove him aside, step through the door and trip on the suitcase, which fills the narrow corridor. Five grocery bags fly out of my hands and burst open. Eggs smash, milk spills, tomatoes splat and artichokes go bouncing in all directions.

I am just wondering whether it’s possible to slash my wrists using a jagged eggshell when I hear a familiar female voice in the distance. “Oo!” it says. “These are GOOD! What d’you call them?” It’s DingDong, miraculously returned from the void. “Laddoos,” says Jiggs. “They are pure vegetarian sweets from India.” DingDong opens the door to her apartment. “Mmmm!” she purrs, “they’re great. Say, d’you know anything about fixing shelves?” Her door clicks shut. Bins helps me to my feet. He’s looking wistfully over his shoulder. “You think he’ll be safe with her?” he wants to know. “Safer than with me,” I say as I pick carrots off the floor.

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

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