Sahil Prashar leans back on an armchair in his Caledon living room, bathed in winter light streaming from the windows.

The 17-year-old smiles, eyes upturned, listening for his cue from a laptop on the coffee table.

At the sound of the opening piano chords for Burton Cummings’ classic “Stand Tall,” Sahil sits up straight and brings his mouth to the microphone in front of him.

“Never been this bluuue,” he croons, hitting the first note right on key.

“Never knew the meaning of a heartache …”

He matches Cummings’ distinctive vocals riff for riff, his high, clear voice drowning out the original until the last bars fade away. Then he moves on to Carly Simon, George Michael and Lady Gaga. He sings classical Indian pieces and Bollywood tunes in Hindi and Punjabi.

Between songs, Sahil is silent. He has autism and doesn’t converse beyond the odd word here and there. Nor does he read or write. Yet he has memorized dozens of songs in three languages.

His parents are amazed. He’s never had formal music lessons. The family always speaks English at home.

Yet singing has become Sahil’s way of communicating, a ritual that brings father and son together for two hours every day.

When Sahil sings, “there is no autism,” says his dad Anoop. On his singing chair, restlessness and agitation fall away. Sahil is focused and calm, hands loosely clasped, bare feet crossed at the ankles, eyes bright. He can go on for hours, says Anoop.

“All the years whatever I was listening to he was paying attention and I didn’t know it.”

At the same time, “I cannot give him instructions or tell him anything. He gets upset.” So instead, Anoop runs him through vocal exercises he’s found online and then plays one song after another, either original versions he’s downloaded or karaoke tracks. They rehearse Sahil’s favourites, then start learning new ones. Anoop hits play, Sahil follows the song. They stop and start again.

Anoop frequently posts sessions on social media — youtube, Facebook — in hopes it will lead to something.

He works in the building industry and says he knows little about music or how to teach it. “I just throw everything at him.” If he starts in the middle of a piece, Sahil quickly gets his bearings. Anoop figures his son probably knows 100 songs.

Once, when stopped at a red light, they heard an unfamiliar tune booming from the car in the next lane. Later at home, Sahil sang it.

His musical ear has been evident since he was diagnosed at age 3. His parents had kiddie keyboards in every room and he bashed away on them. His mother Sudha, a former teacher, remembers him being captivated by singsong nursery rhymes.

But between daily intensive behavioural therapy, medical appointments and school, there wasn’t time to develop it.

When Sahil was 10, a teacher heard him sing. Then at a morning assembly, they handed him the mic and he sang the national anthem, accompanied by the school band. At the beginning, some of the kids were laughing. By the end he got a rousing cheer, and the next day students were still high-fiving him.

This year at Parkholme School, a Brampton high school for teens with developmental disabilities, most mornings begin with Sahil singing the anthem into the loudspeaker before the daily announcements.

The focus on music began three years ago when the Prashars left Brampton and moved to a larger home in Caledon, where they could turn up the reverb and let Sahil sing to his heart’s content. And that’s what they do most days as soon as he steps off the school bus, has his shower and a snack. Sometimes his sister Jiya, 7, acts as production assistant.

Their first microphone came from the dollar store. Recently they invested in a much better one. They also rely on a laptop, a second-hand karaoke machine and some outdated speakers. Anoop regularly records new songs on his smartphone and uploads them to his son’s Facebook page.

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He hopes social media might connect him with a musical expert who could provide advice on how to take him to the next level. His dream is that one day Sahil will be able to perform at local seniors’ residences or other community venues.

Anoop also wonders if Sahil’s musical memory might help autism researchers shed light on the mysteries of the autistic brain.

But even more important, he wants to help his son shine. So that instead of looking at Sahil and seeing a disability, people see his abilities. He’d like to encourage others to look at people with autism or other special needs the same way.

Sahil never had birthday party invitations or a buddy over to play videogames. Maybe music can be a vehicle to help change that.

“We want him to have a friend, somebody to come and shake his hand and say ‘how are you doing?’”

Exploring the link between music and autism

Music has a powerful impact on the brain. Now neuroscientists are exploring how it can help people with autism and other developmental disorders communicate.

“The brain changes by engaging in music,” says Eunice Kang, music therapist at Holland Bloorview Kids Rehabilitation Hospital in Toronto.

“There is lots of evidence that speech and language and musical skills overlap.”

Kang uses music to interact with children who have autism and other developmental delays, using rhythm, repetition, melody and intonation to try and build language skills.

One strategy, for example, involves showing a child how to mimic rhythmic tapping, leading to clapping, humming a simple melody and then adding words to the tune. Recently, one young child who had never spoken said his name aloud during a music therapy session.

However, neuroscientists believe normal language sparks different brain circuits than language set to music, says Lee Bartel, music professor at the University of Toronto and associate director of the Music and Health Research Collaboratory.

They are investigating whether using music to stimulate the brain of a person with autism can activate circuits used for spoken language.

Bartel notes that music can also be an important way for people with autism who struggle with social interactions to connect with others. His own grown son who has Asperger’s bonded with family and peers through his guitar-playing.

Mansi Bagwe Das, an autism consultant from India who is researching music and autism, says she’s seen many children who don’t speak but sing and respond to music, similar to Sahil Prashar.

Observing Sahil recently during a daily practice session at his home, she noted he relies on his strong auditory memory. He doesn’t need to understand the meaning of the lyrics because the rhythm, pitch, intonation and melody help him remember.

Unlike conversations — which involve facial expressions, body language, eye contact and a host of other sensory information that can be overwhelming to those with autism — musical lyrics can be easier to process and express.

Several initiatives in Toronto could shed more light music’s impact. Holland Bloorview is hiring a music scientist in its research division, which will be a shared position with U of T’s faculty of music.

Its research division is also collaborating with Sick Kids Hospital in a new study on music perception among children with autism.