Tomichan Matheikal's blog

No less a psychologist than Freud said that the “time spent with cats is never wasted.” I find time to spend with cats precisely for that reason. They are not easy to love, particularly if they are the country variety which are not quite tameable, and mine are those. What makes my love affair with my cats special is precisely their unwillingness to befriend me. They’d rather be in their own company. “In ancient time, cats were worshipped as gods; they have not forgotten this,” Terry Pratchett says. My cats haven’t, I’m sure. Pratchett knew what he was speaking about because he loved cats which appear frequently in his works. Pratchett’s cats love independence, very unlike dogs. Dogs come when you call them; cats take a message and get back to you as and when they please. I don’t have dogs. But my brother’s dogs visit us – Maggie and me – every evening. We give them something to eat and they love that. They spend time with us after eating. My cats just go away without even a look af

The last snap I took of Brownie That Brownie went away without giving me a hint is what makes her absence so painful. It’s nearly a month and I know now for certain that she won’t return. Worse, I know that she didn’t want to leave me. She couldn’t have. Brownie is the only creature who could make me do what she wanted. She had the liberty to walk into my bedroom at any time of the night and wake me up for a bite of her favourite food. She would sit below the bed and meow. If I didn’t get up and follow her, she would climb on the bed and meow to my face. She knew I would get up and follow her to the cupboard where bags of cat food were stored.  My Mistress in my study Brownie was not my only cat; there were three others. But none of the other three ever made the kind of demands that Brownie made. If any of them came to eat the food I served Brownie at odd hours of the night, Brownie would flatly refuse to eat with them in spite of the fact that it was she who had brought me out of

Kingini Kingini has a story to tell though she is only a kitten still, less than 4 months old. She was born in a hole on the wall of a land terrace far away from all human presence. Her mother (whom Maggie named Kiki because whenever she was hungry she came outside our kitchen and produced a feeble noise, ‘ki-ki’) had had a lot of traumatic experiences earlier. She lost all her kittens in the previous two parturitions. Dogs and humans did that to her, I learnt later. It is from a person who worked in the farms that I came to know about Kiki’s last kittening. “There are two kittens,” the person told me. This person felt pity for them and made the hole as secure from nature’s furies as she could with the help of leaves and twigs. Kiki was a nobody’s cat. She came from somewhere, slept in one house, birthed in another, and ate from our house. Having lost all her kittens two times successively, she chose to give birth this time far away from all hostile elements of the manmade world.

Bob, before his adventure Bob’s body is punctuated with wounds and scars. Most of them are inflicted by Modiji. A couple of them are knife wounds which only humans could have inflicted. Bob is my beloved cat. Modiji is possibly Bob’s father because he is the only male cat that comes from somewhere and imposes his Mann ki Baat on my females, Dessie and Brownie. Bob resembles Modiji physically. Beyond the physical similarities, however, they have nothing in common. Modiji was harmless until Bob grew up to adulthood and started courting Dessie and Brownie. Now Modiji and Bob are rivals. And Bob is the invariable loser in their countless encounters. I named the marauder Modiji only because of his unexpected onslaughts on my beloved Bob. Modiji emerges from nowhere at totally unexpected hours – even in the middle of the night – and pounces on Bob. The assaults remind me of: ·       the farm laws which led to a yearlong agitation ·       demonetization which was nothing more than