Diya

Dinner over, I keep Manu quiet by making him draw. We settle down with paper and crayons, and Kabir joins us. I slide a piece of paper and some crayons over to him. He fiddles a bit, but then begins scribbling away on his piece of paper just as enthusiastically as Manu. But while Manu draws men with guns, Kabir draws a forest, deep in snow, with a little space in the middle.

‘What’s that?’ Manu wants to know.

‘It’s a house in a forest,’ says Kabir.

Manu turns out to be an art critic. ‘That’s not a house,’ he says. ‘It’s just a square in the middle of a white field.’

‘It is a house,’ Kabir insists.

‘It’s got no roof.’

‘That’s so that you can see the stars.’

‘It’s got no windows.’

‘That’s so that the wind can come in.’

‘It’s got no door.’

‘So nobody needs to knock. Everyone is welcome. Always.’

I think about that. A house far away in the whiteness of snow. Where there is a roof of stars and where everyone is welcome. I would like that.

Manu looks at Kabir’s artwork again. ‘I like it. What is your house called?’

‘I call it a House of Stars,’ he says, signing it.

‘I’d like to live in a house like that,’ I say.

Kabir smiles and hands me the drawing. He has signed it ‘Afzal’.