Let me tell you a story about a common misconception: when someone doesn’t respond, they haven’t heard you.
Especially when that someone is autistic.
“Krishna, blue coloured ball!” CLAP!
The ball was bright, shiny blue. It bounced and rolled in front of Krishna, but he resolutely ignored it.
Krishna was about four. It was his first speech therapy session.
The therapist was trying hard to get his attention. He scattered toys. He sang songs. He blew bubbles. The ball was his brahmastram.
Alas, that too failed.
Despite the resounding clap after each attempt, Krishna refused to even look at him.
“Why are you clapping?” I asked.
“Krishna must look at me. The loud noise will attract his attention.”
And he clapped again.
And again.
And again.
No use.
“Is he hearing impaired?” he asked.
“Not at all,” I replied.
This was seven years ago.
It is a different story that Krishna hasn’t uttered a single word in all these years. Nor has he been able to consistently express what he wants through other means.
However, in these years—did he listen, observe, learn something?
Anything?
You tell me after reading this.
A couple of days ago, my husband and I were driving Krishna home from therapy, talking about something mundane. Home repairs, I think.
And quite arbitrarily, I said, “Give Krishna a thousand kisses.”
The same deadpan tone I used while discussing the blocked drain.
“Ha! Ha! Ha!”
Krishna’s immediate glee startled both of us.
I hadn’t expected any reaction. He was curled up in the backseat, hiding under his comforter, as usual.
Back home, he dashed upstairs to his room, to curl up under his comforter there.
I was still downstairs, telling my mother, “You know what happened today! We were talking about something and in between, I randomly said give Krishna a thousand kisses—”
“Ha! Ha! Ha!”
The little eavesdropper startled all of us again.
Hearing impaired?
Hardly.
Once again, I had proof that Krishna’s receptive communication is intact.
Both times, I was speaking in normal, complete sentences—not simplified instructions.
And Krishna does not laugh merely on hearing his name, or when I babble endearments at him.
So, dear parents and caregivers, your child may be absorbing and understanding far more than they can express or demonstrate.
Please be mindful of what you say—and how you say it—in their presence.
Be careful when expressing your disappointments.
Be mindful when discussing them with doctors, therapists, or teachers.
Sometimes, it is best to keep them engaged elsewhere during such conversations, because you may not realise how deeply they are impacted.
And if you are stuck in a blue-coloured-ball-CLAP situation:
First, the child needs time to connect with the therapist or teacher.
Second, the “what’s in it for me” for any task or activity must be made very clear—especially for autistic children.
If you manage both of these, watch the magic happen.
