One of my earliest memories of Krishna is of him crawling fast to keep pace with his sisters as they ran inside their room. Just before going in, he would turn and flash the sweetest smile at me. A smile that spoke a hundred words and answered my unspoken fears and anxieties.
“Don’t worry. I will walk.”
And yes, he did.
Bringing up four children, two of whom have autism, brought the family close, though not in the beginning. The first eight years of childhood in our family were process-oriented and not person-oriented. We somehow survived those years, and then Krishna began conversations with his sister, Jayashree. He began sharing his anxieties about Lakshmi and Jayanthi, his sisters with autism.
We began sharing our stories. My husband and I would tell our kids about our childhood. They would share their experiences. When I co-founded a non-profit organisation to support people with disabilities, Krishna and his sisters walked those steps with me and became founding members. I realised how strongly Krishna felt connected to the organisation when he walked into the skill centre one day and found a teacher had quit. Krishna was in Class V then. “Why did you not tell me? You should have somehow kept the teacher back, Amma. People should stay with us.”
When his sister and closest friend, Jayashree, left for postgraduate studies at IIM Bodh Gaya, Krishna was the happiest. “I will miss her, but she must go, Amma. She must get a chance to do things her way.”
Krishna’s biggest fear for his two sisters with autism was that they would be restricted and not get to smell the air of freedom. This year, at the age of 22, both of them got the freedom that Krishna wanted for them when they moved into their own apartments in an assisted living community. Yet, his eyes looked drenched with unshed tears as he helped pack cartons with labels saying “Lakshmi’s home” and “Jayanthi’s home”.
It made me think back to the time when a nine-year-old Krishna had looked alarmed when I had ticked off Jayanthi for troubling me. Later that evening, when my husband, CP, and I were about to leave with Jayanthi for a doctor’s appointment, Krishna had stopped us. “Where are you taking Jayanthi? Please don’t leave her anywhere. Jayashree and I will take care of her.” His anxiety for his sister had shocked me, and I had reassured him that we were only going to the doctor.
When Krishna left home for higher studies, the entire family wept. The bond between the siblings, our emotional dependence on each other — everything was tested.
There was no doubt that Krishna found our family boring. We rarely go out, and when we do, it’s to the same places, the same restaurants. During his college years, he explored Bangalore, made new friends, and did a lot more than just study. Every time he came home, he seemed different.
When he graduated in business administration and returned home, it was without a dream. I felt he was a born entrepreneur, but he rejected my idea. “It’s too early. I need work experience.”
“I am not cut out for poring over books and passing exams. I will work,” he told me. Between applying for jobs, he enrolled in a leadership programme at a wealth management company. At the end of the programme, my son had found his passion.
Krishna now works at a financial services company during the day, and in late evenings, he pores over books and prepares for the exam he once said was not his cup of tea.
One more time, my son has changed.
In this period, Krishna found a new friend. His father — CP. Both of them spend time discussing Krishna’s pet topic of wealth management.
CP and I gave our children very limited freedom till they were around 18 years old, but gradually, we withdrew our controls to let them be so they could begin guiding themselves. I don’t think they have needed to use subterfuge with us.
Krishna and I have had conversations about women and relationships, and we’ve reached this point in our relationship by understanding and accepting each other with all our flaws. He also calls me out on my inadvertently conservative outlook.
He had gone for a late-night movie show. I called him up.
“Where are you?”
“I’m on my way home.”
“It’s late.”
“I know. I just dropped her home.”
“Her?”
“Yes. She called me for a movie.”
“Late night?” I squeaked.
“Why, Amma? Girls can’t go to movies at night?”
“No, no. Of course they can. It may not be safe.”
“I know that,” he says patiently. “We took a cab. I dropped her.”
“Her … parents know?”
“Amma, she is a friend. I have not run away with her. Of course, her parents know she went to a movie. I met them before we left for the theatre.”
“Yes. How nice,” I said weakly
“Please go to sleep. I’m coming home.”
Many years ago, a 12-year-old Krishna had come up to me.
“Amma, can I sing this evening during Sai bhajans?”
“You’ve learnt a bhajan?”
“Yes.”
That evening, Krishna stunned us by singing a good seven or eight bhajans, revealing his inherent understanding of tune and rhythm. For the next several years, Krishna continued to sing and learnt to play the tabla.
Not anymore. His musical voice and hands have become silent. As a mother, I have learnt to accept that while he may be talented in something, he may be interested in pursuing something else.
Parenting Krishna has taught me to wait. Parenting Krishna has taught me to let go. The plant has as much right to the sunlight and shade as the gardener does. Once the gardener has tilled the land and sown the seeds, it is time to let the plant go so that it can grow.
The writer is founder, Together Foundation, which works towards safety and independent living for people with autism and other special needs. She is also the author of Whatever It Takes: Autism, Parenting and a Dream
