Forty years ago, I was growing up as a disabled child, draped in the folds of stark poverty. I now wonder how I confronted the world. There was no awareness in society or in me that a 90 per cent disabled child needs special amenities to realise his abilities. My parents were more worried about how I would confront the world rather than about my education. My mother would carry me in her arms to a film or a traditional theatre performance outside our village. My father would take me on his bicycle to show me a river, or the Bay of Bengal, where the Godavari voided. But after the family shifted to Amalapuram town, my mother wouldn’t move out. I missed my classes at the Shiva temple, and missed my friends grazing their cattle on the banks of the pond, where I would sit for hours.