After the call, Mum started chopping garlic and onions for the risotto she was making us for dinner. As I measured out the rice, she said, “Kiki, I know you overheard what I said to Granny and Gramps about your art . . .”

“Would that be the part where you said I’m brilliant?” I asked, smiling angelically.

She rolled her eyes. “I know what it’s like to love something so much that you hate to be parted from it. I could read books and scribble with my pencil all day.”

“I’d do that, too, but I’d also need cake,” I said firmly.

She considered that. “Same, actually.” And then she gave herself a quick shake. “The point is, it’s okay to love the worlds inside your head.”

“But?”

“No, that’s it,” she said, and smiled. “It’s okay. Yes, it’s annoying when I have to yell your name six times before you hear me but, you know, pot and kettle. If this is what makes you feel better on a bad day, then I’m glad you have it.”

Guilt and love and gratitude made my throat tight, so I just hugged her. I had never told her just how bad it got sometimes inside my brain, but maybe I didn’t need to. She understood me anyway. She got me.

Later, teeth brushed and pajamas on, I went back to my room and, more importantly, back to my sketchbook. Ashwini took shape on the clean white paper, a girl with a sharp dark bob, merry brown eyes, a red leather jacket, and an expression of pure glee on her face as she battled one of Mahishasura’s demon soldiers.

In my story, Ashwini was the leader of a group of rebel kids who were trying to take Mysore back from the Asuras. They called themselves the Crows, because crows are stubborn and cunning and loyal, and they lived in a lovely crooked house that had a talent for hiding them from Mahishasura’s minions.

The crooked house wasn’t going to be in this sketch, though. I wasn’t sure what the background would be yet, but it would be outdoors, maybe on a large arched bridge over the Kaveri.

I sketched out the finer details of the Asura that Ashwini was fighting. He was a dragon demon, like the one the god Indra had defeated in one of the myths, and he was the size of a horse, with enormous black wings, slit nostrils that breathed smoke, a spiky scarlet tongue, and shiny black jewels for scales. Before Ashwini had tracked him down, he had been one of Mahishasura’s most feared minions. The sight of his silhouette swooping across the night sky had made the people of Mysore tremble in fear.

I inked over the pale pencil lines and reached for my box of colored pencils. Sweeping black lines and blocks of rich color transformed the white paper into something alive. Soon, the battle felt so real that I could almost feel the hiss of the Asura’s breath on my face.