To Stephen Hawking a Letter of Dreams and Determination

On 28 June 2009, Stephen Hawking hosted an unusual event at the University of Cambridge, an invitation-only party for time travellers. The catch was that the invitations were sent out after the event, with the hope that, one day, someone from the future would find them and use a time machine to attend, thus proving that time travel was indeed possible. The balloons, champagne and nibbles waited in vain, as no time travellers arrived. But from the future, Rahul Kushwaha has sent a letter back to that very moment. Here is what he has to say.

To

Professor Stephen Hawking

Gonville and Caius College

Trinity Street

Cambridge, England

(52° 12' 21" N, 0° 7' 4.7" E)

12:00 UT, 28 June 2009

By

Rahul Kushwaha

APJ Abdul Kalam Hall

Rajiv Gandhi National University of Law

Sidhuwal - Bhadson Road

Patiala, India

(30° 23' 15.96" N, 76° 19' 21.86" E)

11:30 IST, 27 April 2025

Dear Sir,

Yes, the time has arrived. Your invitation, sent across the universe with so much hope, has been answered — someone from the future has heard you. Though I could not come myself, bound by the simple yet firm reason that my exams are near, I have found another way to reach you. I have sent this letter across time, across continents, with a heart full of respect and a message that matters far beyond just me.

Sir, your contributions to science are countless. You changed the way humanity looks at the cosmos. You brought together quantum mechanics, general relativity and thermodynamics into a single breathtaking vision. Your book A Brief History of Time made galaxies, time warps and singularities accessible to ordinary minds like mine. You were not just a scientist — you became the world’s voice to understand the mysteries we live among.

I have always loved science and I often dreamed of sitting down with you to talk about the beauty of it all. But today, I write to you about something even more personal — something that joins our lives. Both you and I have been gifted differently by life. You, with your diagnosis of ALS at just 21, and I, with a progressive genetic eye disorder detected when I was only 7.

The early years of my life were filled with laughter, running freely on football fields, dreaming of joining the army one day. I would imagine myself in uniform, standing tall and proud. But life had its own plan. As I reached third grade, my world started blurring. My vision faded and the world around me, once so vivid, began slipping away. The doctors said it was irreversible. I was declared medically unfit for many dreams I held so close. I still remember the tears that silently slid down my mother’s face that day — a look I would never forget.

The playground no longer felt the same. I couldn't keep up with the games and slowly, I found myself alone, kicking a football across an empty field. My friends drifted away, many thinking my condition could somehow affect them, even though it wasn’t contagious. At school, classmates kept their distance. Teachers hesitated. Even my relatives, instead of offering support, often made cruel jokes — whispering that maybe I was being punished for something I must have done.

At one point, my parents were asked to send me to a "special school." But they refused. And today, I thank them from the deepest corner of my heart. They believed — and I have come to believe — that separating people with disabilities into different corners of society only strengthens the walls of exclusion. It teaches the world to see us as different, as lesser, rather than as equals who simply need the environment to be a little kinder, a little more understanding. Segregation would have crushed the spirit within me and I am grateful they fought against it.

Life grew darker, not just in sight but in spirit too. I kept my sadness locked inside, molding it into a football that I would kick away each day, trying to find a reason to smile again. Then one evening, my father told me about you. He showed me your story — a man who could not walk, could barely speak and yet made the world listen to the universe. That moment, dear sir, was my rebirth. "If he can," my father said, "then why can't you, Rahul?" And something inside me stood up.

Books became my world, but with my fading vision, reading was hard. I couldn’t manage alone and I relied on the voices of my family who read aloud to me. Though I could no longer dream of joining the army, I found new battles to fight. When the time came to choose between Mathematics and Home Science in tenth grade, the teachers were reluctant. They doubted whether a boy who couldn’t even see the blackboard could understand algebra or calculus. But I said I would try — and I did. I listened intently, imagined the figures and formulas in my mind’s eye and let my spirit do what my eyes could not. When the results came, I had scored 95 in Mathematics. It felt like a small miracle — a silent victory I will carry forever.

I chose to pursue the sciences further in eleventh grade, swimming deeper into the oceans of Physics, Chemistry and Mathematics. Yet by the end of school, I understood — I would need to find a different path. Law called out to me, offering a chance to not just survive, but stand up for justice — for myself and for others who lived in the shadows of a world designed without them in mind.

College has been a revelation. I found words for feelings I had carried silently for years — words like equity, dignity and inclusion. I attended lectures like the one in memory of Professor Shamnad Basheer, where Justice D.Y. Chandrachud spoke. He spoke of how infrastructure often silently discriminates — how ramps are so steep they mock the very idea of access, how laws promising equality often remain words on paper. He spoke of the deep human tendency to see people with disabilities not just as different but as lesser — and he named it for what it was: ableism.

Hearing these truths spoken openly was like a window opening. For years, I had struggled alone with broken roads, with footpaths I couldn’t walk on, lifts I couldn’t see buttons for, traffic lights that disappeared into darkness. Reading newspapers was a slow, painful process. Crowded railway stations overwhelmed my senses. It often felt like the world itself had been built for someone else, not for me.

Yet in other parts of the world, winds of change were blowing. I read about innovations like Be My Eyes, an app connecting visually impaired people to volunteers in real-time. I learned about tactile surfaces warning the blind at crossings, about startups like Touch2See making live sports accessible through touch. There were glimmers of a world that believed in inclusivity — a world still waiting to be born here in India.

I also remembered reading about your visit to the Qutub Minar, where special ramps were made so that you could experience its beauty. You and your wife insisted that these changes remain, not just for you but for all those who would come after. That small, powerful act touched me deeply.

Today, technology has become my new wings. Artificial intelligence speaks to me, reads for me, walks beside me in the form of a tablet. I spend hours talking to Google, learning, debating, exploring. Recently I read about Meta’s AI-powered Ray-Ban glasses — glasses that recognise text, objects, the world around. Soon they may reach India, and with them, another barrier might fall.

And yet, no matter how much progress we make, I often find myself shrinking into silence when I sense pity instead of understanding. At banks, at shops, a simple need for help turns into a spectacle. I hear people whisper, wondering why I cannot manage on my own if I am so "educated." Explaining my story again and again becomes a burden, followed by a flood of awkward kindness or uncomfortable sympathy. I wish they understood — we do not need pity. We need partnership. We do not seek admiration. We seek acceptance.

Dear Sir, I have also tried my hand at cocurricular activities, like arbitration. Yet even here, barriers rise. Researching complicated documents, reading body language in real-time — these challenges test me harder than they test my peers. Yet none of this means I lack the ability. It only means the playing field was never made level to begin with.

At times, I have hidden my disability, pretending to be like everyone else. Fear of being treated differently gnaws at many of us. Fear that people will see only the blindness, not the person. That they will measure our worth not by our thoughts but by our condition. But I am learning. Day by day, interaction by interaction, I am unlearning fear. I have found friends and teachers here who welcomed me, who listened, who walked beside me without judgment. Their kindness has slowly stitched up the old wounds. I have learned that even one door, knocked at bravely, can change a life.

Sir, you have long been an inspiration — not because you were a scientist who overcame challenges, but because you refused to let challenges define you.  I, too, hope to live a life that touches others — not by pity, but by proving that different can also mean extraordinary. I chose law with that mission burning in my heart: to build a world that embraces diversity, where no child stands alone on a football field, wondering why everyone left.

Your blessings would mean a lot. Perhaps, in some way, you may even find a way to send a reply letter forward — for with minds like yours, nothing is impossible.

With all my respect and heartfelt gratitude,

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Author: Rahul Kushwaha