“Get real. You’re a mother now. Your child needs you. And you want to go away to work?” “Arre, what are you trying to prove? Your son is autistic. This much will do for him.” “You
“No,” says the surgeon. “I won’t operate now. See me after two months.” I smile immediately. There is energy in my voice, a spring in my step as I say, “Thank you, doctor. See you in
The doctors are holding Krishna’s hand down so they can inject him with anaesthesia. “Vendama!” I don’t want it. He fights ferociously, but at the prick of the needle, his little form sags into my arms,
There are moments when I just want to jump into my car and drive away. Just, away. All by myself. There are moments when my husband and I remember our double-income-no-kids days with considerable fondness. We
Buildings and trees whizz past. 110 kmph. I’m skimming the speed limit on the expressway. The concrete hypnotizes with mirages that gleam when the sun appears. And then dull clouds hide the brightness. The car’s motor
The Invisible Weight of Autism Caregiving About four or five years ago, I was on the phone with Krishna’s psychiatrist. I remember I was walking around the garden while I spoke to her because the house
When “enough” becomes an impossible question—and how to ask what is needed now Am I doing enough? It is such a familiar question in autism parenting that we can almost skip past the word doing and
It was a dark and stormy night! Krishna was about two years old. He was thrilled by the storm and his father was holding him in front of the bedroom window. The trees danced madly in
“Did he get down at all today?” It was about 7 in the evening. My husband had just gotten back home from work. I had been pacing up and down our terrace for hours with Krishna
Invisible cognitive load. Chronic vigilance. Decision fatigue. Uncertainty. All wonderful, accurate terms. What do they mean? I shoot upright in an instant. From deep sleep. Zero to 100 kmph in a nanosecond. For a moment I
“Krishna is on the autism spectrum,” the doctor said. The words hit me like a freight train. Once I got over the shock, I assumed that a year or two of therapy would “set him right.”
We were washing poop sheets for the nth time that night. It was around two in the morning. Exhausted, my husband looked at me. His gaze softened for a moment. “At least I get to go