we were always special. and then the realization that he was ill all this while, that he hid from me all along, dented that feeling. I thought he taught me vulnerability, trust, honesty, love, sex, running, a rediscovery of literature, and courage. now I know it was getting to know him that taught me all of that; he barely knew those things himself. he was barely surviving, struggling since ever that he had forgotten it took so much effort. but we are still special, the two of us. 

and did you see the moon today? I was driving back when it just got dark and I saw it low in the sky suddenly to my left. it scared me how beautiful it was. perfect, round, and glowing. I showed it to him from our window when I got back. he also said it was 'scary'. its probably today I understand why the word 'stunning' is used to describe beauty sometimes. 

Gods were probably creations of schizophrenic or anxiety ruled minds, or those on psychedelics (also naturally occuring, just like illnesses). The idea of heaven and hell probably added by hope and inspiration seeking depressed minds? Or maybe to rationalize some concepts of morality for social cooperation. Rituals must have come from OCD patients. And maybe dervishes and the idea of religious fervor and trances arose from bipolar highs. 

so in one way, religion is probably a concoction of mental illnesses. but on the other, for that very reason, it's basis exists naturally in the human mind. what to make of that? 

seems like I had been unconsciously preparing for this for the last few years with all that reading about genetics, mental illnesses, psychedelics, and the human mind. new purpose in life, or my fate. 

we are both in therapy now. he is back to his reader self and I realize how and why I missed that so much (he reads so much faster than me). and I'm feeling superheroic too. I always knew life wasn't a gift. Now more than ever when I'm overwhelmed though, all I need sometimes is a look up into the trees and hear the birdsound and look at those various shapes of green leaves. or a run in the park.

and I should have never come back to India.

sometimes I love reading books written decades ago to know the words used then, to understand the dilemmas occupying their minds then. to learn more about the origins of and the evolution of our thoughts and language. 

Raja Rao writes of his first meeting with Nehru, and I learn that there was/is a dialect called Deccani Urdu. That in the northern Urdu, idol was translated as 'budh', probably connected with the idea of Buddha. and that 'murti' is in fact Deccani Urdu for the same.

I learn that Nehru had a British passport, and probably so did Indians then as British subjects. but it seems like Raja Rao did not; did he have a French one because he married a French woman?

I have earlier read Nehru write about his visit/stay in the black forest in Germany. today Raja Rao describes visiting Nehru there. and for a while I transcend the passage of time and find myself thinking their thoughts and listening to their conversation.

there's also an essay where Rao extolls EM Forster (one of my idols/loves), but I have yet to read that. 

and I learn new words when I read old writings. chthonic; esurient.

But there are also the women who claim to be feminists but are ironically sexist in this regard. They assume that men can only want any advances they make toward them, verbal or physical, subscribing to the sexist myth than a guy wants all the sex and female attention he can get. Women also need to keep their hands to themselves, also need to understand consent; because although feminism is about women's (sexual and others) liberation, it is more importantly about equality. And consent is crucial to equality, either way. Any analysis of harassment or inappropriate touching/talking should be gender neutral.

boys (in India and elsewhere) grow up being told a whole set of lies about human sexuality in complete contrast with the silence we girls receive. about their need to masturbate in contrast with the taboo-ness regarding female masturbation, about their need for sex in contrast with the myth that women don't really enjoy sex but do it for the man.

so they as men are moulded by talk and treatment (and porn) to become (sometimes) unpleasant sexual partners. the holding her head in fellatio, hell even in intercourse, the objectifying of the breasts as having their own identity separate from the person (or the butt for that matter). I've always pointed it out when it happens to make him stop doing it cos of how inanimate it makes me feel. and it needs to be pointed out, every time every instance. 

even when we tell a street harasser that it's not ok, we somewhat correct the imbalance in conversation around sexuality. even when you kick away that leg from invading your personal space on a flight or bus. 

many years I wondered how such sexist parents brought up reasonably feminist sons like him and his brother. now (I'm a slow learner) I realise how much the sexism of the parents has percolated within them. 

the things the mom says, "Because she's a girl she must have told you everything.... she will come around ..."; and thinks and suggests, "having a kid will solve all problems". 

someday I will still probably write that book, now it will have to be about honesty and sexism and marriage and proximity to someone with mental illness (and how it sometimes feels contagious not by touch of course but by connectedness of minds and by the togetherness of dealing with it, the sharing of thoughts and the effort to obliterate myself so I can be less judgmental and less upset). 

just this morning he told me about this other blog and in comparison I felt like a coward because even in my mostly anonymous state here I haven't had the courage to confess and tell; therefore this today.