Tomichan Matheikal's blog

A view from the Hilltop Resort, Karimkunnam A cousin of mine invited me yesterday to the inauguration of his new venture, a resort. Hilltop Resort at a place called Karimkunnam on Thodupuzha-Pala Road. Karimkunnam is a place on whose hills my boyhood found abundant delights because my mother’s brothers were living in those hills. A few hills belonged to the family entirely. There were rubber trees all over the hills in those days. Rubber has lost its glory among Malayalis now for various reasons. First of all, there isn’t much money in it now. The labour charges are so high in Kerala that the landowner will be left with little more than the cool shade of the rubber trees after the rubber is sold in any form – latex, solid blocks or sheets. No wonder my cousin chopped down all the rubber trees and built a resort there on his hill. It is quite an exotic place whose rustic charm will seep into your heart along with the cool breeze in the evening. You have verdant mountains all aroun

Fiction Something was amiss on top of the hill. I sensed it in my veins. My veins are the primary source of my awareness. As well as the little wisdom I’m gathering as I go on. I’m not wise. I’m just 30 years young. And I’m going to tell you a story about a woman who is just ten more years older than me. But she has grey hairs all over her head now. Her name is Sujata. I learnt that when I was a ten-year-old boy who was driven by the kind of curiosity that killed the proverbial cat. I was living in the valley whose sunset was always blocked by the hill in the west. That entire hill belonged to one family. Aristocratic family, my mother told me. The history of their aristocracy went back to some Aryan invasion and all that stuff. History never enthused me. But heights did. My history teacher told us about the Eiffel Tower that day in class. The tallest tower in the world. About its 1665 steps. About the grand vision it provided from its height. I imagined myself running up 1665 st

More than 700,000 people choose to commit suicide every year in the world. That is, nearly 2000 individuals end their lives every day and suicide is the leading cause of death in the age group of 15 to 29. 10 Sep is the World Suicide Prevention Day . Let me join fellow bloggers Manali and Sukaina in their endeavour to draw more people’s attention to the value of life. One of the most persuasive essays on why we should not choose death voluntarily in spite of the ordeals and absurdities of life is The Myth of Sisyphus by Albert Camus. Camus’s basic premise is that life is absurd. It has no meaning other than what you give to it. The universe is indifferent to you, if not hostile. The confrontation between the human need for clarity and the chaotic irrationality of the world can lead to existential despair. Suicide is not the answer to that despair, however. Camus looks for a philosophical answer in his essay. Not many people find consolation in philosophy. Most people seek a

Alfred Prufrock was sitting in a dimly lit café when a young boy, who was yet to reach adolescence, walked in. The boy looked as inquisitive as Prufrock looked flurried. ‘Hello,’ the boy said. ‘You look so… lonely. And sad too.’ ‘Sad? No, not sad. Just… contemplating. I am, as they say, measuring out my life with coffee spoons.’ ‘Aw! That’s strange. On my planet, I measure things by sunsets. I love sunsets. How can you measure life with something so small as a coffee spoon?’ ‘Did you say “my planet”?’ ‘Well, yes. I come from another planet. I’ve been travelling for quite some time, you know. Went to numerous planets and asteroids and met many strange creatures. Quite a lot of them are cranky.’ The boy laughed gently, almost like an adult. Prufrock looked at the boy with some scepticism and suspicion. He was already having too many worries of his own like whether he should part his hair in the middle and roll up the bottoms of his trousers. ‘They call me Little Prince,’

Alexis Zorba, the protagonist of Nikos Kazantzakis’s novel Zorba the Greek , lives life to its fullness. He embraces human experience with his whole heart. He is not interested in rational explanations and intellectual isms. His philosophy, if you can call it that at all, is earthy, spontaneous and passionate. He loves life passionately. He celebrates it. Happiness is a simple affair for him. “I felt once more how simple and frugal a thing happiness is,” he tells us. “A glass of wine, a roast chestnut, a wretched little brazier, the sound of the sea. Nothing else.” You don’t need a lot of things to be happy. Your possessions don’t bring you happiness. All that money you spent on your big house, big car, big everything… It helps to show off. But happiness? No way, happiness doesn’t come that way at all. Zorba loves to play his musical instrument, santouri. He loves to sing. To dance. But don’t get me wrong. He works too. He works hard. There’s no fullness of life without that hard w

“The more stupid one is, the clearer one is.” That is one of Ivan Karamazov’s numerous profound observations. Ivan is one of the most fascinating characters in literature for me. He is intelligent and troubled but he would rather be stupid and happy. He is sensitive but such sensitivity can drive one to insanity. He is sceptical but he’d rather be a genuine believer in God. But does God exist at all? If He does, is He a benign entity or a malign one? “If there is a God, then He is a malicious and cruel being,” Ivan asserts. On another occasion, we find him tortured by the thought that “If God exists, then, as the children are tortured, He must exist for the sake of tormenting them.” Children’s pains afflict Ivan particularly. Innocence does deserve better particularly if there is a God who cares. Ivan could not accept God because of the evil in the world. An omnipotent God could easily get rid of evil. And God is not only omnipotent but all-loving too. One of Ivan’s fundamental p

My copy of the novel The Germans thought that Hitler was going to be their Saviour. His very memory nauseates them now. Joseph Stalin met with a similar fate. Mussolini did too. What will be the fates of Putin, Xi Jinping, Kin Jong Un, and (should I say?) Narendra Modi? All of these ‘great’ leaders are people who misused power. They are cowards at heart, psychology would say. Ask Eric Fromm, for details. O V Vijayan’s novel, The Saga of Dharmapuri , published in Malayalam originally, is about the cowardice of mighty leaders. You can claim to have a 56-inch chest. The moment you make that claim, you’re revealing the coward that lies deep in your heart. Such cowards wreak havoc of all sorts. They kill a lot of people. Never by themselves. They kill a lot of people using others. Using others in the name of religion or something similar. Killing is important. It proves that they are not cowards. Violent power is inevitably related to cowardice. That is one of the core themes of Vij

Let me bring here today an old Malayalam story written by M T Vasudevan Nair who turned 90 a couple of months back. Titled The Sacred Sword and Anklet , the story is about an oracle [ velichapadu ] in a Kerala temple. Though the oracle’s name is Ramakkurup, no one calls him by that name. He has no identity other than that of the oracle. He has no name as far as the villagers are concerned. Nobody is concerned either about his living conditions. Ramakkurup became an oracle in his youth when his father, the former oracle, died. His grandfather was an oracle too. When Ramakkurup took up the profession, which by now had become a family profession, the devotees were happy because the young oracle had a tremendous lot of physical energy and churning passion. He would even bring the oracle’s sword down on his own forehead cutting it. Only his wife was anguished by the intensity of such passion. Even she didn’t, in all probability, understand that it was not religious fervour that made the

S elf-discovery, spirituality and meaning in life were the predominant themes of the great writer Herman Hesse who won the Nobel in 1947. He spent some time in India and was fascinated by the Upanishads and other Hindu scriptures. Siddhartha (1923) was one of the resultant novels. Conrad Rooks made an excellent movie out of this novel in 1972 starring Shashi Kapoor in the lead role. Siddhartha is a young Brahmin whose marriage is being arranged by his parents when he decides to pursue asceticism. First he joins the wandering ascetics (Samanas), then goes to the Buddha, for attaining enlightenment. It takes years to realise that enlightenment cannot be taught by others. One has to learn it by oneself though others may be able to show some lights. Siddhartha’s spiritual quest takes him to a most unlikely person too: Kamala, a courtesan whose fee is beyond Siddhartha’s imagination. He decides to earn the money required and does it sooner than we would expect. He becomes the most lo

Let me tell you a story. The names of the characters may sound odd because the story is from Norway, one of the happiest countries in the world. Thord Overass is the wealthiest and most influential member of the parish. He comes to the parish priest with a request to conduct a special baptism ceremony for his infant son. Special implies that it shouldn’t be a common ceremony with other infants of the parish. The parish priest agrees because Thord will pay for the ceremony. Money matters even in religion. Sixteen years later, Thord approaches the priest once more with a similar request for the confirmation ceremony of his son. The priest again nods his consent because there is money in it. Let me add that the priest was not a greedy person. It’s just that money matters even for a priest. Another eight years go and Thord approaches the priest once more, now for the wedding of his son. “Why, that is the richest girl in the parish,” the priest says when he hears the name of the bri