“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 went off on a holiday, leaving your child? Your autistic child? How unfeeling!” “You’re the mother! How come you don’t know what’s bothering your

“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 two months!” A tiny part of me notices all this: the involuntary smile, the sudden energy, the cheerful departure from a consulting room where

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, deep in sleep. And then they take him from me and carry him into the operation theatre. That was the first time my husband

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 travelled. We ate out. We made plans without first calculating who would stay with whom, what they would eat, how long we could be