I’m reading-How Can I Talk If My Lips Don’t Move-subtitled- inside my autistic mind- by Tito Rajarshi Mukhopadhyay. The author is autistic, a “young man whose verbal expressive language is profoundly impaired but who communicates almost exclusively by independently writing or typing his thoughts and ideas on a computer.”
I am fascinated by his observations and experiences. “I believed that if you cared enough to listen, you could hear the sky and earth speaking to each other in the language of blue and brown.” He thinks in colors-voices of colors. Shadows caught his interest and he asked- “How would a shadow tell a story without having a color of its own?” He observed later on- “I could now imagine how a shadow could silence the interaction between other colors if those colors happened to fall within the territory of its silence.” He added many sentences later: “My boundary between imagining and experiencing something as a very delicate one.”
Life is a mystery. The mind is part of that mystery. Reading the author’s narration is like walking on one of the terraces of the mind. I find his observations beyond the ordinary, the familiar- with expressions uttered by a poetic imagination. And I’m only on page 22.