One night his brother Amando asked.
“Jo, what’s this you have drawn?” Eight-year old Joseph looked at the piece of paper.
“Naga,” he said with a straight face, one that does not invite more questions after that revelation.
“Na-ga? What’s that?” the brother asked as he looked at a crayon drawing of a sillhouette of something that has nose that looks like a seagull’s beak and eyes and skewed arms and legs winding to an object with wheels or perhaps transforming into another set of limbs.
“Naga.” The intonation of the first syllable climbed ever higher to drop at ground zero on the second syllable. His eyes meant business.
Another brother passed by and saw the dark creature that looks like a chicken man from a distance, and said “you draw a lot of strange things that don’t even exist, Jo. What the hell is that?”
“What’s a naga?” said the two brothers joined together for the hour’s guessing game.
“That drawing shows you what a naga is.” Then he left the two still figuring out a code hidden somewhere or maybe a line or shape or figure that their empirical eyes missed.