Autism and Joy
March in Bloom
March has begun in all its dry, baking heat in Bangalore, the kind that settles early in the day and lingers, pressing gently but persistently against skin and stone alike.
March 5, 2026
March has begun in all its dry, baking heat in Bangalore, the kind that settles early in the day and lingers, pressing gently but persistently against skin and stone alike.
Today marks the sun’s northward movement after the winter solstice. Makara Sankranti, celebrated all over India—a time that marks fresh harvests, new beginnings, and a quiet turning inward towards spiritual
For 20 years, I believed H hated me. I had never met her. Had never spoken to her. And yet, because of circumstances, I believed this completely. And then, in
The night is dark and tender, charcoal and purple, a quiet canvas stretched wide across the sky, where pinpricks of light twinkle and gleam in the black velvet expanse, distant
There’s something soft about the night, where the dark is like an embrace that tells you it’s all going to be fine, that gentles your pain and blunts the sharp
The parenting journey is full of sleepless nights and exhausting days; autism parenting, much more so. These sleepless nights, though, sometimes bring a kind of clarity that gets lost in
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
Yesterday was Father’s Day. Let me confess: I had no idea such a day existed. I didn’t check LinkedIn till night. Then someone mentioned it, and of course I had
Let me tell you a mother’s story. Illiterate, underprivileged—and with such phenomenal grit and love that I am dumbfounded. Before the redoubtable Manjamma began working for me, I was looking
“No, my son isn’t autistic,” a young mother said, her eyes filling. “He has virtual autism.” Krishna’s therapist shared that this happens quite frequently nowadays. I had to go and
“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
“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