10,000 Miles Towards Belonging: A Journey with “P” A.K.A“Mango”

It was 3 a.m. on a chilly February morning in 2024. I was standing outside Terminal 3 of Delhi Airport, heart racing, eyes glued to the arrivals gate. My friend P hadn’t shown up, and his phone was off. Minutes turned into hours. I had no way of knowing where he was—or if he was safe.

After waiting for nearly two hours, anxiety gnawing at my insides, I returned to my hotel, praying for some form of communication. Fifteen minutes later, my phone rang. The caller was a stranger at the airport who had found P and was trying to help him through immigration. I could finally breathe again.

I instructed the stranger to get him to Terminal 2—we had a connecting flight to Goa in just a few hours, where we planned to spend the next few weeks together. What I didn’t know then was that meeting P would change my life completely.

Oh, and did I mention? I had never met P before.

He was an acquaintance introduced to me through mutual contacts who knew I worked in the disability sector. He was planning a solo vacation to India and needed someone to help him figure out logistics, itineraries, cultural nuances—basically how to navigate the unfamiliar.

In our early conversations, I learned that P was a 29-year-old autistic man from the United States. He had read about India, watched travel vlogs, dreamed about visiting Punjab, and decided—on his own—to make the 10,000-mile journey from his home to a place he had never been, all with little to no support.

It was bold. It was risky. And it was entirely on his terms.

I couldn’t help but admire the courage it took to make that leap. For anyone, international travel can be overwhelming. For someone with autism, especially navigating invisible barriers like sensory overload, social anxiety, or unfamiliar systems—it can feel nearly impossible.

But P had done it. Three flights. Four airports. Crossing cultures and continents. All with a quiet determination to find something—something he hadn’t quite articulated yet, but that he was chasing with everything he had.

At first glance, you wouldn’t know P was autistic. Years of developing coping strategies and masking behaviors made his disability almost invisible. But as I got to know him, I began to understand the incredible effort that went into his daily functioning. He had routines, preferences, triggers, and incredible emotional intelligence. He didn’t always make eye contact, struggled with video calls, and sometimes needed time to process his thoughts, but his presence, insight, and empathy were unmistakable.

I kept wondering: Why India? Why was he so drawn to this place? Why was it so important to visit Punjab? Why the obsession with trying every Indian fruit, especially mangoes?

The answer was simple yet layered.

P wasn’t just looking for a vacation. He was looking for belonging. He wanted to experience friendships and relationships in a culture where warmth, hospitality, and community were woven into everyday life. Perhaps it was something he didn’t find back home—or perhaps, he saw a reflection of himself in the rhythm of India’s chaos and kindness.

In the weeks that followed, I watched something extraordinary unfold.

The same person who once avoided eye contact began initiating conversations with strangers. He socialized, went out for walks and runs, bought groceries, tried street food, played board games, and helped out around the house. He used Google Translate to communicate with my mother, patiently crafting his messages to break through the language barrier. The connection they formed—one between an Indian mother and an American autistic man—was a lesson in universal language.

He even taught my family and me a few things along the way—about neurodiversity, independence, and what it truly means to be capable.

P shattered every assumption people around him had about autism. That autistic people aren’t social, aren’t emotional, can’t travel, can’t live independently. That they can’t seek out love, adventure,or connection. P did all of that—because he believed he could. And because someone had told him he couldn’t.

The experience made me think deeply about the narratives we create around disability. How often we reduce people to diagnoses or deficits? How rarely we expect autonomy or agency. And how incredible things can happen when we shift that lens—even a little.

P came to India chasing a dream. But what he left behind was so much more. He inspired conversations in my home, my community, and within myself—about inclusion, about the invisible strength of people with disabilities, and the transformative power of trust and human connection.

He didn’t just visit India. He became part of it.

Even today, months after he has returned home, I find myself thinking of him when I see a ripe mango, hear a Hindi-English translation app playing, or walk through the same grocery store where he once insisted on picking his fruits. In so many ways, his journey mirrors the longing that lives in all of us—to be seen, to be understood, and to belong.

And all it took was one man’s belief that it was possible.

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About the Author:

Rachit Pandey was named the recipient of the 2025 ANCOR Rising Star

Mid-Career Impact Award. Currently serving as the Director Consultant at Bayberry Inc., he leads strategic initiatives aimed at driving growth, innovation, and meaningful change within the disability sector. His work spans community engagement, advocacy, event design, curriculum development, and global partnerships. A former high school dropout, he defied the odds and built a career grounded in empathy, strategy, and a fierce belief in human potential. He holds a master’s degree in political science and is a proud alumnus of the Diploma in Education—Intellectual and Developmental Disabilities (IDD) from PYSSUM.

Inclusivity

As teachers, we had quite a hectic schedule to adhere to. The new session had commenced. There were talks in the staff room about who would get the best class i.e., ‘Section-A’, where the students were quite bright. As usual, the conversation floated around the bright, dull and mediocre students and their performances. All hoped to get the best class. As it was in the hands of the management, I hardly gave it a thought. Whichever class was given to us, the expectation was that we would ideally give it our hundred percent effort. I got Section-B. The school was buzzing with activity. The tiny tots were crying for their parents as teachers tried to coax them into their classes. We all became alert as we saw aayaji  running to ring the bell; the assembly was about to start and all children gathered in the playground. 

            Just as I entered my new class to keep my files, I was shocked to see a thirteen-year-old boy strapped to a chair. He was smiling. I had not been informed about him. I tried to ask if he was comfortable, but no words came out of his mouth. Saliva was dripping from one side of his lips. Instead of joining in the assembly, I decided to sit in the class with him. After a while, as the noise and stomping of shoes grew louder, I knew the students were coming back. Before they settled in their seats, one boy got up  and took out a small, rough cotton cloth from the physically challenged boy's bag and wiped his mouth with it. Then he made him drink water from the water bottle.

            As the first period started I took the attendance and found out that his name was Rahul. As I took his name, he tried to nod as if registering his presence in the class.

            ‌Throughout the day, subject teachers came and went, but I noticed they hardly paid any attention to him. Neither was there any talk about this physically challenged child in the staffroom.

            Some time passed. My class had now been shifted to the third floor in the school building. One day I came early and saw  Rahul's mother carrying him in her arms, sweating profusely as she climbed the stairs and brought him up to the third floor. She told me all about Rahul, how he had undergone surgeries and that there was one last surgery to be performed, which involved high risk. If he survived, there was a possibility that he might be able to stand on his feet and speak clearly. She requested that the class be shifted to the ground floor, but the school had its own limitations. Her request went unheeded. I gathered all the information about him from his mother and other children. I came to know that he had a strange, sharp intelligence. Whatever was taught in the class got recorded in his mind. He could remember a hundred and fifty mobile numbers after having heard them just once.

            ‌I marvelled at the strong memory and retention power of his brain. Now I realised that it was good judgment on the part of the school administration to admit him with the other children, but it seemed that the school’s responsibility ended with that. He was actually being looked after by his classmates alone. ‌It was because of these sensitive, innocent souls that he was able to be there and be happy. 

            The educated and the knowledgeable neither had the time nor the inclination to even look twice at him. Eventually, the mother had to withdraw the physically challenged child from the school as she was unable to carry him to the third floor every day.

            ‌So many mainstream schools admit children with special needs with the intention to be inclusive but do they have the right tools and trained teachers for teaching specially abled children with some understanding of physical and mental impairments? Isolating and leaving them in their own world is not the solution. By not being equipped early at the school level, we shut many doors of opportunity, growth and potential, and this does not just stop with the school. It is when these students grow up and enter the world that they have to face an amplified stream of negative responses in society and the professional world. Only a child's parents can ultimately feel the pain of the treatment meted out to them, which unconsciously deters them from living with integrity and facing a society which tolerates nothing less than perfect.

            Finally, the responsibility falls on the parents to stand by their children proudly and give them an environment which is conducive to growth, to make them useful members of society where they are able to play a productive role, and ,themselves feel valued for their contributions.

            Most of us hardly realise our full potential though we are not challenged in any way. Acceptance and inclusivity are all we need. Disability Studies should be given a place as a subject in the school curriculum, so that, as adults, we become better informed and sensitive human beings who are able to make a positive impact on society. Children hardly discriminate while mingling with their classmates. It is we adults who interfere with their innocent choices.

            ‌Physically challenged children find themselves progressively more and more isolated, and in most cases, it has adverse effects. They don't need our pity; they need our acceptance, a change in our outlook, a friendly, kind smile, a shared space. Through rejections, derision, ridicule, and labels, we are consciously or unconsciously systematically pushing them to the periphery. Instead of valuing them for whatever attributes they have—like trust, love, commitment, honesty and simplicity— we are expecting from them what they lack or don't have!

            This is where the special schools step in and rise to the occasion, embracing these children in their comforting arms. They nourish, nurture and see that they grow and prosper like a tree. These special schools not only work as caregivers but also as role models. They provide an ideal society where children are the focus of all attention and care. It is this positive, constructive environment which gives them wings to fly, or act as a springboard to take the first dive.

            As the old proverb goes: ‘one swallow doesn't make a summer.’ The initiatives of these special schools are actually teamwork work, and it is their collective representation at various platforms that makes their voices reach the concerned people. 

            Time changes, societies change, and values also undergo changes. Today, in this highly competitive world where everyone is struggling to extract and create value for themselves, the concept of SRV plays an important role. Specially abled children consciously or unconsciously perform many roles which are useful in our daily lives. The only need is to tap into their potential and accept them as God has made them: as human beings.

            Apart from medical aid, we actually have to win their trust and love to bring out their hidden and suppressed talents. The present Indian government is also making efforts to ensure its representation in government offices and jobs. But this is not even a drop in the ocean. Because of the attitude and views of the mainstream society, the stigma remains.

            As in the case of Rahul, it was not a question of accessibility, where schools may provide lifts and ramps for the children, but rather a case of acceptance and consideration. Just a little bit of sensitivity may have saved the disappointment and harassment which his parents faced.  As such, it is a hard struggle for the parents to raise the child decently, let alone brave the rejections of society!

            In my teaching career, I have received many compliments from my students, and many of them have also referred to me as their favourite teacher. But the day Rahul pointed towards me with his fingers, when asked who his favourite teacher was, in front of my colleagues, it was different.  I truly felt that my life and my job had been worthwhile.

            The special and challenged children make a difference in our lives. It is perhaps just a lack of awareness and knowledge about autism that is the reason for our ignorance and attitudes. It is important to understand the severity of the case. An early diagnosis coupled with a sensitive and humane society can create limitless possibilities for specially abled children and their parents.

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About the Author:

Namita Rai is a dedicated and sincere teacher. In addition to her role as an educator, she is also a published bilingual poet and writer. Her work has found place in prestigious national and international magazines. She continues to contribute to the literary world through her writings.

Review of Ranu Uniyal's "This Could Be a Love Poem for You"

This Could be a Love Poem for You

By Ranu Uniyal

Published by Red River, 2024

ASIN ‏ : ‎ B0DS8T59VR

Price: 300 INR

Language : ‎English, pp.91

Can we learn to let go of our own grief? Can we learn to forget about grief, knowing it exists beneath and underneath, beside and alongside our bodies, less tractable and a lot intractable? What binds together the poems of Ranu Uniyal’s This Could Be a Love Poem For You is grief that at times has the pull of gravity that keeps us on the ground and the push of the buoyant force that eventually goes away, but together with it swallows us even as we are afloat. It is the seeping and sweeping nature of grief that for the poet is “beyond shelf life” and “outlives us all”(31). Grief is both sticky and fleeting, but it is also an ingredient for writing poetry:

“Pour it on paper it becomes an elegy, share it with your bed it becomes yours forever.” (38)

In addition to the weight of grief, the fragility that comes with ageing increases the vulnerabilities present in the poems. Grief coupled with ageing occupies a central theme in the poem and often attacks the romantic overestimate of the two. Not just the physical vulnerability that age brings but also the psychological that it attacks. The

“pyramids of memory stacked inside the brain [that] might soon dissolve into Alzheimer’s”

makes the poet dread that her name would too be lost in the oblivion that drives her writing. (25) Even though grief does never age, in the moments overpowering with depressive bouts, the writer also dusts her regrets associated with age and still clings to life.

Between depression, vulnerability, and fragility, there also are poems that speak of the political. The poem "English in Me" that the collection begins with comments on the English in her that has often been ridiculed for existing alongside her Sanskrit accent. English drifts through her as both a reminder of her longing and belonging. The second section marks a departure from the first in that it takes an overtly political tone with gender placed at the heart of it. The poem "Be a Good Girl" speaks of irony embedded in given gender roles—the tension between embodying and defying the idea of a 'good girl' lingers throughout. “Good girls are hanged, dumped, shot…and yet they say be a good girl” (59), writes the poet aching with the same pain as that in Alok Dhanwa’s Bhagi Hui Ladkiyan and Shailja Tripathi’s Yaad Rakhna.

What begins as a rendering of life's fragility in the first two sections deepens into a full weight of loss in the final section, Thy Eternal Grace. Memories of the loved ones lost cling to the body as ‘You remember more of what is no more,’ says Uniyal (78). Even as the collection renders grief, loss, politics into lyrics, it employs words that the readers touch, feel, and smell as they flip through the pages with occasional painting that adapts to the mood of the poems.

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About the Reviewer

Aman Nawaz teaches English at Sri Venkateswara College, Delhi University.