Once upon a time there was a little boy, who lived in a special sort of house - one whose windows were made of crystal. They were crystal clear and afforded the most fabulous views from the ground floor where the boy liked to spend all his days. What the boy could perceive through them was very much alive, lush, and impressive. So much so that the boy preferred to look at the world like this, through the windows, at a safe distance. Whatever happened beyond it was close enough to the boy and made even more beautiful and interesting by the crystalline nature of the windows.
Each winter he observed the snow falling softly and settling quietly on the ground in peace and quiet his house provided. Each spring he perceived the buds on the trees opening up and leaves unfurling - the windows made it seem as if he was looking at them through a magnifying glass, with every detail, even the tiniest dewdrop, clearly visible. Each summer, he could almost taste the fruit and vegetables that grew on the vegetable patch next to the house - the windows intensified the colours and the texture of the produce and seemed to admit the enticing smell of the plants and what grew on them. Each autumn the boy admired the hues of leaves that were turning the most beautiful colours: rust, brown, vermillion, magenta, and his nose seemed to fill with the hints of winter that were becoming present as the year progressed toward its snowy end. Whenever it rained he looked through the glass panes to see how the world was cleaning itself with lashings of water; he could almost smell the petrichor that rose after the rain, and he was truly happy. When the sun shone the boy put a cushion by the window and sunned himself in the sharp rays entering the room through the crystalline windows, unobstructed by any dust or dirt, thinking that the sunshine that filtered through such magnificent windows aided his growth more than it did other children’s. At home, he felt secure and sure that whatever was happening outside was not to be a part of his life - it was to be witnessed.
Needless to say the boy never ever left his house. Everything he needed was inside of it - his toys, his books, and his family. The seasons and all kinds of weather were there for him to admire through the windows. Even the children, so frequently playing in front of the house whether in the adjoining park, at the playground or in the vegetable garden, were like friends to him - he had seen them very many times and felt they WERE friends. Quite a few of them knew him too - they would approach the window at which he sat and smile at him, gesture to him, and sometimes show him little notes that had words of greetings written on them. The friendliest ones of them were invitations to come outside and play. The boy read them with pleasure and…rejected the offers by shaking his head firmly. He had no idea why anyone expected him to leave the house - after all, he could see what was taking place outside within the safety, ease, and comfort of his house. Why would he want to get dirty by planting potatoes? Why would he want to climb the slide if that meant he could fall backward and crack his precious skull? Why would he want to step into a puddle when it could make him ill with all its dirty water and predatory bacteria it contained?
To him, other children seemed foolish in their desire to spend time in nature, get dirty, run, and scream. His family, after years of trying to encourage him to take some fresh air and meet friends, no longer tried to convince him that going outside could be good for him. Whenever they said: “How about you go to the park?” he would reply: “But I can see it clearly through our windows.” When they said: “How about making some friends?” he would reply: “I see them so often I feel that I already know them. They come and visit anyway.” When they said: “Running and playing outside is good for your health,” he would reply: “I feel healthy without that!”
There was one boy, however, who sometimes knocked on his window, whom he thought not foolish but adventurous - he spent time apart from other children a lot and walked about with his hands behind his back, brooding and admiring the beauty of nature without needing to run through the mud and climb trees. He knew his name was Abasi and that he lived in the red-brick house on the corner of the street. They once even had a long conversation when Abasi brought a notebook with him to the window and wrote whole sentences for the boy at the window to read and respond to. One of the questions he asked was about why the boy never joined other children. To that the boy replied: “I can see clearly from where I am.” And how true it was.
One September day, when the boy was admiring the leaves turning brown, he noticed Abasi walking about in his usual state of thoughtful reverie. His legs carried him here and there and his eyes seemed to be preoccupied not with the dry leaves underneath his feet or the bird soaring over his head but some ideas that needed his attention. This is why he did not notice that a group of boys, who usually did not play in this part of the town, arrived. Their leader, a certain Rob, was the most unruly boy the town has ever seen, always looking for trouble. And it was not any different this time round. The boy saw how Rob approached Abasi and asked him a question or two but, not being happy with the answer, he pushed Abasi hard. Abasi fell. He was on his own and could not hope for any other child to come to his succour. Rob stood over Abasi and grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket - it was clear, crystal clear that he wanted to hurt him. The boy at the window thought something needed to be done. But what? By whom? There was no one there in the park but Rob and his gang and Abasi. And then a thought appeared in the boy’s head: “Perhaps I could help him? But how could I? I would have to get outside… It is getting dark and it is cold. And I am not even wearing a jumper. I could catch a cold and die and then I would be of no help to Abasi!” His head was spinning, his thoughts were getting more and more confused, but he knew he had to act. His hand, almost unknowingly, picked up a heavy book he had been leafing through and hit the crystal window. Much to the boy's surprise, not only did he put a hole in it but the window disappeared, shattered into myriad smithereens it would take two days to sweep later on. In spite of his fear of fresh air, mud, and cold, he jumped out of the window and ran toward Abasi. Rob was about to push him again when the boy grabbed one of his hands and held it with all his might so that it would not descend toward the frightened boy on the ground. This gave his friend the chance to get back on his feet and run toward the boy’s house. At the window the boy’s father, brought to it by the noise of crashing glass, stood and called out to his son. Rob quickly pretended that he was actually only shaking the boy’s hand. He and his gang departed. The boy returned home with Abasi, who needed help with his grazed elbows. Once it was sure Abasi was fine, the boy invited his new ‘real’ friend to stay for supper, which he readily accepted. They had a merry time together, talking, joking, and exchanging ideas, thoughts, and comments they could not for such a long time, with the wind streaming through the broken window and playing with their hair.
Ever since the boy’s fear of the outside and his need to stay away from things he deemed risky subsided. In return he gained the friendship of not only Abasi and very many children but also that of the sun, moon, seasons, weather, and nature. When outside, he never looked back and when he did, he saw with the clarity of a crystal that the house was there to provide shelter rather than serve as a voluntary cage and a way to avoid what seemed terrifying, strange, and challenging.