Tomichan Matheikal's blog

Fiction  She looked so emaciated that I would have mistaken her for a beggar. But she had said, “Hi Tom.” There was no way a beggar would know my name since I was not a politician or any such public figure that appears in the media. Moreover, her dress, a simple but elegant churidar suit, bore the fading shades of some bygone aristocracy. I stared into her eyes, deep and stagnant pools of grief, which reflected a different me, a young me.   “Mercy!” I cried. “Yes,” she said. And she smiled like a moonbeam trying to pierce the winter fog of a terribly polluted city-sky. We were both sitting in a park in the horizon of which the sun was sinking rapidly into the Arabian Ocean beyond the trees in the park. An old man with grey hairs all over his head and face: that’s me. And an old woman with grey hairs that seemed to be lingering on out of some sympathy. That was Mercy. Mercy and I were classmates at college. She was a brilliant student who could solve all the problems of real a

Fiction D riving is what I do when I want to get away from. From what? From whom? Well, you see, I’m sort of an escapist. I would get away from anything. From my job that I am incredibly passionate about. From my home which is the only paradise I can ever afford. From my wife, whom I love a lot and who loves me even more. Well, you know, I’m that sort of a disgruntled old man who is unable to shed his narcissism in spite of all the bangs and bashes it has received for decades from well-meaning self-righteous religious people. I suppose you must have understood by now what kind of a man I am. I am old. I am disgruntled according to those around me especially the religious sort of people. And, if you ask me, I don’t really care for other people which means I should be an ascetic. I get overwhelmed, rarely though, by a desire to know what lies beneath the banality and morbidity of human life. That is what asceticism is about, I guess. My wife thinks I’m a bit cranky and hence sh

Fiction The hill looked absolutely desolate in spite of the massive and aging rubber trees. The flourishing undergrowth bore a solemn testament to neglect. The air grew heavy as I ascended the hill in the evening of a cool and dry day in the monsoon season in Kerala. My destination was the mansion on top of the hill. It had belonged to my uncle who is now no more. His lawyer informed me a few months back that Uncle Jo had bequeathed the mansion to me merely because I loved books just as he did. As a child I used to climb up this same rugged path quite frequently just to visit Uncle Jo who lived all alone in his palatial mansion with the company of Franz Kafka, Albert Camus, Dostoevsky and so on. I inherited my admiration for these writers from Uncle Jo. Uncle was married once upon a time, people say. But I knew Uncle as a man who lived a reclusive life on top of that hill. His income came from the rubber trees which were tapped by a few labourers who all left the place when the tre

Fiction When Lila sent a voice message on WhatsApp asking Anna to join her on a pilgrimage, Anna was naturally surprised. They belonged to two different religions. And nowadays no two religions are supposed to love each other. Hindus and other religious believers are supposed to hate each other in India, for example. The raison d’etre of the Jews of Israel seems to be killing the Muslims in their neighbourhood. Similarly, the God of the Muslims is too eager to exterminate all non-Muslims from the face of the earth. Why does Lila, a Hindu, want Anna, a Christian, to accompany her on a pilgrimage? It’s a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma, thought Anna, though she couldn’t recollect who had coined that extended metaphor and in what situation.   Lila and Anna were classmates in high school. They belonged to nearby villages and studied in the only English medium convent school of the nearest little town. The nuns who ran the school ensured that no two girls ever touched eac

It was the eeriness of the song that woke up Kavita. She looked at the time on her mobile phone. 1.23 am. Ah, there’s something musical about that number too. The song came from the hill behind her house. Kavita and her husband Vijay had shifted their residence to this village just a few days back. They worked in the city but didn’t like to live in the city. They would agree with Shelley that hell must be a city. The city is a roaring rage, Kavita said to Vijay many a time. I want the sound of cicadas in the night coming from green all around me. Vijay found her a lush green habitat. Kavita was the music of his life. Her desire was a command for him. No wish of hers would go unfulfilled as long as Vijay had the ability to fulfil it. You want the saugandhika and I will go to Gandharvamadana to get it. That was Vijay. Kavita’s own Vijay. When he took this lovely house on rent, Vijay was warned that the hill that towered behind the house was haunted. A haunted hill? No, not the wh

Book Review Title: Conversations with Aurangzeb Author: Charu Nivedita Translated from Tamil by Nandini Krishnan Publisher: HarperCollins India, 2023 Pages: 335 History claims to give us truths and fiction really gives us glimpses into truths. Tamil novelist Charu Nivedita’s Conversations with Aurangzeb is in fact history masquerading as a novel. It is fiction inasmuch as Aurangzeb makes an apparition through a medium to the narrator who is a writer doing some research for his next novel. But it is not a novel because there is nothing that can be called a plot. It’s all conversation between the narrator and the spirit of the Mughal emperor. Occasionally a few other characters make their appearances, but they don’t add anything to the plot. How much can we trust history? This is the question that the writer explores in this novel. It is a cliché that history is written by the winners. It gets rewritten when new winners emerge. For example, India’s history is being rewritt

Fiction Yashvardhan was sitting on a bench in the park when the student appeared before him as if from nowhere.   The sun was inching toward the western horizon beyond the Arabian Ocean.   “Can I talk to you, sir?” the student asked. “Why not, Sid?   Sit down,” Yashvardhan motioned towards the empty space on the bench.   The boy’s name was Siddharth and everyone called him Sid. “I wasn’t joking when I told you the other day that you’re damaging the students’ faith in gods and religion,” said Sid. “Is your faith damaged because of me?” asked Yashvardhan. “No,” he said, “not mine.” “Then whose?” “The other guys.   Some of them.   They’ve started discussing things like whether Rama and Krishna were merely mythical creations of man and not gods.” “It’s good to question, isn’t it?” “But, sir,” Sid hesitated. “Hmm, go ahead,” Yashvardhan encouraged him in his usual style. “Why don’t you believe in religion and gods?” Sid asked. “I w