I was flying east,
from New York to New Delhi,
a contract in my pocket—
millions, prestige,
my company ahead of rivals.
First class, beside me,
a man of my age,
reading “Artificial Intelligence: A Modern Approach.”
Russell and Norvig—
names I admired.
When drinks arrived,
he closed the book,
offered a smile,
a courtesy,
a brief acknowledgment.
We spoke of the book,
of journeys,
of business and sons.
He had visited his child—
the Indian Ambassador to the United States.
He himself was head
of a national investigation agency.
I said,
“You are lucky,
to have a son you can be proud of.”
But bitterness cracked my voice,
and he heard it.
He asked softly,
“Why so bitter,
when you have wealth,
a wife,
two boys,
a company that thrives?”
I told him:
My elder son lives with autism.
I tried everything—
doctors, teachers,
money could buy independence,
but not normalcy.
He learned to read,
to write,
to speak,
to endure crowds he hated.
Closest to his brother,
his savior, protector,
his cheerleader.
My neighbor sighed,
“You are lucky,
to have two wonderful children.”
Then he spoke:
“I too have two sons.
One brilliant,
the other born with Prader–Willi syndrome.
Insatiable hunger,
no cure,
only restrictions.
But how does a mother
deny her child food?
She smuggled meals,
hid them in his room.
He grew obese,
angry,
struck the nurse who refused him.
She quit,
injured,
broken.
Doctors urged an institution.
I agreed.
My wife did not.
She stopped speaking to me,
moved into our son’s room,
closed the door forever.
Now I live alone,
estranged from love,
from wife,
from child.
Tell me—
do you still think I am lucky?”
I was silent,
tears burning.
He said,
“If you think someone is lucky,
you do not know him well enough.”
We spoke of lighter things,
exchanged cards,
promised friendship.
I thought of him often.
I returned to a home
where my wife and autistic son waited.
He returned to silence,
to no one expecting him.
Years passed.
We met for lunches,
shared solace.
Then one day,
news arrived:
he had died of a heart attack.
I do not know
what became of his wife,
his son.
But I remember his words:
“If you think someone is lucky,
you do not know him well enough.”
