“You haven’t started Avaz for Krishna yet? How will he communicate?” “You are still carrying Krishna on your back? How will he become independent?” “You don’t enforce eating at the dining table? How will he develop
After Krishna was diagnosed as autistic seven years ago, his school asked him to leave. It was a CBSE school. They were supposed to provide a shadow teacher to facilitate learning for children with special needs.
“Krishna, it’s time to eat!” Krishna’s little head popped up from the sofa. He eyed the dish in my hand suspiciously. Pulled it towards him. Inhaled, gently. Considered. Then a thin hand shot out and grabbed
“Krishna goes to therapy? What about school?” someone asked me. “He can’t handle school as of now,” I replied. “Oh, how sad. You must try, you know. Don’t say he can’t handle it. Put him back
“But why me???” I too cried this question out to the universe when Krishna was diagnosed as autistic. And many times after that, whenever it all became just too much to handle. I could answer myself
“How do I handle disappointment when my child forgets a skill he knew?” a parent asked me. We were talking about the immense effort we put in to help our children learn something. They seem to
When Krishna was first diagnosed as autistic, I thought I had accepted it—after I got over the disbelief and grief. Yet, when someone spoke to him and he didn’t answer, or said a few words that