Three years ago, looking for fuel on my way to the rental car return, I turned into a street distinguished only by a Shell petrol sign sticking out from a strip-mall. Filling up the tank, I had walked up to the cashier and realised she was short of change. Looking round the counter, I eyed a row of teddy bears arranged on a rack. That afternoon, from a nondescript gas station in Birmingham, Alabama, someone had stumbled into our lives.

“Clover”, as my then 7-year-old Amrita had named the teddy bear, became an instant household hit. Smaller than a baby’s fist, “she” possessed a beady and expressive set of eyes. My daughter started lavishing her attention on the cuddly creature, even designing frocks and blankets for her furry companion. Not a night passed without Clover being offered a pride of place in my daughter’s bed.

In the years to follow, a few frayed stitches appeared on her head indicating that the teddy bear was indeed coming apart. Worse, she was once forgotten under a restaurant table and was retrieved only the following morning, the night having been spent in teary anticipation. A few other touch-and-go situations underscored the need for a replacement strategy.

Recently, I needed to make a business trip to Birmingham, and swore to hunt for the bear in that very store where she came from. In preparation, I scoured the web for all Shell stations within a radius of 10 miles, even emboldening myself to ask these store attendants for a description of all their teddy bears.

... contd.