Ashwin Karthik
By Ashwin Karthik
I was born in 1984 in Bangalore with quadriplegic Cerebral Palsy (CP), a condition that shaped every
aspect of my childhood, education, and career. The lack of oxygen at birth affected all four limbs and my speech. However, I never allowed it to touch my curiosity, my hunger to learn, or my belief that life had something meaningful in store for me.
When I look back, what I see is not a dramatic story but a long chain: the right people, the right systems, the right interventions, and the right opportunities arriving at the right moments.
The first battle began when I was around nine months old. My mother was convinced my developmental milestones were delayed, despite denials by the numerous doctors and specialists she consulted. Finally, they referred her to a neuro-physician who, after pronouncing his diagnosis of CP with 95% disability, added: “He will be nothing but a vegetable. Anyway you have another child (my brother Naveen, five years older). You can keep this one like a doll in a showcase.”
The author was conferred a National Award for his contribution to the disabled community by former president Pranab Mukherjee in 2013.
My parents were shattered. My mother locked herself in the bedroom for three months, crying, barely eating, harbouring suicidal thoughts. One day, when she hit rock bottom and considered doing away with herself and me, the lasting damage it would do to Naveen flashed in her mind. She snapped out of her depression and
decided to do everything humanly possible to give me a dignified life.
Then she began avidly reading everything she could find about CP and took me to the country’s top neurosurgeon of the time. He confirmed that I would be severely physically impaired — unable to walk, to open my fingers to hold an object, or to clearly enunciate speech. He then raised doubts about my mental capability and advised a cognitive test. So when I was not even 14 months old, I underwent an IQ test at National Institute of Mental Health and Neuro Sciences (NIMHANS) in Bengaluru. My mother breathed a sigh of relief when they told her I had the IQ of a four-year-old! Armed with this knowledge, she started looking for special schools.
School at 18 months
I started school at 18 months! At the Spastic Society of India (SSI) in Indiranagar, I was a fast learner. At home, my mother would shape each letter of the alphabet as a series of dots on a large sheet of paper. She would tie my right hand to a fat sketch pen with a strip of cloth and make me join the dots — by the time I turned two, I was able to write words.
My education was interrupted whenever my father, a bank official, was transferred. I had been at SSI for only six months when we moved to Delhi. After five years, he was posted back to Bengaluru, and two years later, to Chikkamagaluru. Each time, my mother, who observed that my potential had outgrown SSI, would renew her hunt for mainstream schools until one of them opened their doors to me — in Delhi, a government-supported school for the children of Afghan refugees; in Bengaluru, a school in Basaveshwara Nagar. But they wouldn’t accommodate me unless she stayed by my side the whole day. When I was given a task, the writing took me at least five hours more than it did my classmates.
In Chikkamagaluru, for the first time, I found a supportive residential school — Mountain View High School — whose principal said, “We will make sure he feels at home here.” My mother designed a diaper for me — her innovation, since there was no concept of an adult diaper back then. I finished high school there. During this time, friendships shaped my life more than anything else. Some friends helped me walk short distances, some carried my schoolbag, some wrote my classwork, and many simply included me as an equal.
Loss of a parent
When I was in the ninth standard, my father died, and since he died ‘in harness’, my mother got a clerical job in the bank ‘on compassionate grounds’. Our savings were depleted and my mother started giving tuitions to make ends meet. The school-leaving exams added yet another battle to her tally. She ran from pillar to post and finally to the chief of the SSLC board to get extra time sanctioned for me — just 20 minutes, as it turned out! After numerous procedural confusions, a ninth standard student was assigned as a scribe at the last minute. I passed with 84%, the highest in my class, and, to date, the highest ever scored in SSLC by a person with CP.
After school, I moved on to pre-university. I had wanted to be a writer and would have chosen arts, but for a careless comment I overheard: “What will he do after an arts course? Open a grocery store or a paan shop?” My mulish nature kicked in. “I will do science and nothing else,” I declared. I further stunned my family by announcing, “I want to be an engineer.”
Friend’s support
Naveen was in an engineering college in Chikkamagaluru, a 15-minute commute from my mother’s bank. Once I qualified for the entrance test (which I did), joining college would be easy-peasy, I thought. My mother, however, was preparing to launch her next battle. The selection for disabled candidates in the engineering stream entailed approval from a medical panel. The panel members took one look at me and were about to sign ‘rejected’ when I protested loudly. One of them said, “I can guarantee you will not clear the first semester.” I said, “Can you give that to me in writing?” My mother and I literally sat there in dharna all day until they gave in.
The next battle was to get into one of the only six colleges that had a ‘disability’ quota — the Chikkamagaluru college did not, but to cut a long story short, I managed to secure a payment seat there under the management quota. The turning point in my college life came through one friend in particular: Bharath. He was planning to re-appear for his 12th standard exam because he was unhappy with his rank. “I have six months free to prepare for my exams,” he told my mother. “I’ll take Ashwin to college, sit
there with my books, and study while he attends class.”
Those ‘six months’ miraculously extended to decades, for Bharath, who began as my scribe, assistant and mobility partner, became my friend and companion for life. If there is one fact about my journey that needs no embellishment, it is this: I did not do engineering alone. I remember how he climbed stairs with me (my very first class was on the third floor), copied notes borrowed from my classmates, helped me move across departments (each lab in each department was in a different room, often a different building), assisted me in my practical exams, and ensured I reached every single test on time.
I recall how I aced the most difficult subject, engineering drawing, which required me to draw 3D images on paper. I would visualise the image in my head — all the angles and perspectives from which the object could be viewed — and I would tell Bharath what to draw. We practised for hours. During the three-hour exam, many a curious head — professors, research students, you name it — popped into the room to watch me perform. Nobody expected me to pass that subject, let alone score 72%.
Cold corporate world
After completing my degree came the job hunt — the most brutal chapter of my professional life. I can never forget my first job interview where, after cracking the aptitude test (the HR person would not allow Bharath to be my scribe) and the technical interview, it came to discussing my salary with the HR person. She started firing questions: How will you come to work? How will you sit for eight hours? How will you manage your loo breaks? Finally, she pointed to a piece of paper on the table at which she sat, a few feet away, and said, “Here is your appointment letter. I have signed it. You have to walk up and take it from me.” Barely containing my fury, I called out to Bharath who was waiting outside, and left the room.
My breakthrough came through two channels. First, a software testing institute called QSpiders accepted me without hesitation and gave me an environment to learn. Their chief trainer not only taught me testing, but also allowed me to teach junior batches — an experience that strengthened my communication, logic, and confidence. Second, a chance encounter at a public grievance programme connected my family to Enable India, an organisation working exclusively on disability employment.
Enable India changed everything. With their support, I appeared for an interview at the IT company, Mphasis. This time, the system saw my ability, not my disability. I got the job. I had to undergo three months of training in Mangaluru, during which my family took turns to support me. I made new friends, studied hard, learned how corporate systems worked, and began testing software professionally. My first salary was not just money; it was proof that a person like me could be included meaningfully in the workforce if the right accommodations were in place.
How tech helped
Here I would like to highlight how technology became a game changer. I operate the computer almost entirely with a single finger, navigating systems smoothly and independently.
Over the years the evolution of new technologies changed the lives of the disabled. For many quadriplegic users, the computer became an equaliser as they relied on speech-to-text software, on-screen keyboards, head-tracking or eye-gaze systems for cursor control, switch-based clickers, large-key input devices, and accessibility settings such as sticky keys, predictive typing, and high-contrast displays. These adaptations turn complex digital tasks into achievable ones, allowing us to write, code, analyse, create, and participate fully in the digital world.
As my career progressed, technology expanded my independence. I began using a motorised wheelchair, which gave me mobility at work for the first time. Later, an assistive medical device allowed me to manage long office hours without worrying about restroom access.
Alongside work grew my voice. I began sharing my story to motivate students, employees, NGOs and organisations. Recognition followed — first the Rotary youth award, then other honours, and eventually the National Award from the Government of India. Speaking of the last-mentioned, I was waiting to receive my award along with
others who had won in various categories when I saw a familiar face. It was the HR person from my first job interview, set to receive an award for her company. She said, “Have we met before?” I replied, “We had a bittersweet meeting six years ago.”
One of the most memorable personal moments of my life came when I met Sachin Tendulkar — someone I had admired since childhood. When someone you admire calls you a champion, you remember it on the days your body feels heavy or the world feels inaccessible.
Story of disabled Indians
As I reflect on my journey in this first-person account, I am aware that my story is not just mine. It is intertwined with the story of the larger disability community of India — a community that is talented, ambitious, resourceful, and determined, but still largely under-recognised in mainstream spaces.
The data reflects this gap clearly. India has more than 2.68 crore persons with disabilities, yet workforce participation among us remains around 36%, compared with nearly 60% for non-disabled citizens. In some surveys, employment for persons with disabilities drops to as low as 22-23%, showing how steep the exclusion can be. An estimated 1.3 crore people with disabilities in India are employable — but barely 34 lakh hold formal jobs.
Over the years, I have heard many stories that mirror the collective struggle. A friend in Delhi who uses a wheelchair and codes with voice commands once told me: “My biggest barrier wasn’t disability; it was people assuming I could not perform.” Another visually impaired professional from Bengaluru said, “The day my employer installed a screen reader, I stopped feeling like a favour and started feeling like an employee.” These voices remind me that the disability community is not held back by ability, but by access.
The truth is simple: we don’t have a shortage of talent. We have a shortage of accessible infrastructure, inclusive systems, and equitable opportunities.
Inclusion is not charity. It is intelligent nation-building.
In our lives, disability is not the problem; exclusion is. And until that truth becomes universally understood, people like me will continue pushing doors that should already be open.
(The writer is an engineer, national awardee, author and disability activist.)