“Yes, Uncle,” said Amal, glumly preparing for a conversation. The man sat at the edge of the bed, as if he’d been told to by a wave of the hand. The company itself had never been so perfunctory with him.

“Nice room you have,” he said, uttering a truth in a hapless way to make it sound like a lie. When, in the past, he’d presented his reports and the relevant taxation figures to his superiors, even the worst-compiled of them had more conviction than his platitude. The question that short-sighted politicians and bureaucrats had been asking of companies such as his—was it worth it?—the toothpaste, the colas, the enamel paint, the butter—was one he suddenly found asking himself. He picked up a dinky toy and put it down again.

The boy said nothing; then, moving his body towards Mr. Gupta, handed him the large drawing book he had in his hands.

“I drew these pictures today,” he said quietly, without modesty but without bravado, either.

“Oh, that’s nice!” said Mr. Gupta, finding it easier to lie as time wore on, staring at the clumsy figures in blue and yellow as if they were some sort of cipher, or somehow part of that other, more recalcitrant code he was trying to interpret. He bent his head, almost submissively, and said, “What’s this?”

He looked very gravely at a misshapen green creature, obviously an animal in the early days of its evolution, with what looked like rain falling behind it. It was as if the creature had floated out of nowhere into his immediate vision.

“That’s a horse,” said the boy, simply. “That’s the sky,” pointing to the crowded blue strokes. The man nodded slowly like one who, without realising it, had been made more knowledgeable, as indeed he had; what had seemed like clouds in his confused, self-created landscape, massed and obfuscating, were resolving themselves into ordinary shapes and forms.

Not finished, he noted a scarecrow-like figure with large eyes. Cheerfully, as if he were now more adept at this game, he asked:

“What’s this?” The boy picked up the tepid cola from the floor and sipped it as the man respectfully waited for an answer.

“That’s baba,” the boy revealed casually. Mr. Gupta started; he felt a secret had been revealed to him that no one else in the company knew. So this was how his father, Gupta’s own boss, appeared in the eyes of what was hidden, what lay at the source of questions and solutions that he would not be able to understand. Quickly he asked, still struggling to put his impulses into words: