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.