Tomichan Matheikal's blog

Illustration by Copilot Designer I renewed my medical insurance this morning. My government grabbed no less than INR 5,680 as GST [Goods and Services Tax]. Taxing a 65-year-old citizen for his medical insurance at the rate of 18% is nothing short of extortion. I have written about this earlier too. Nevertheless, especially since there is no chance of my growing younger, once again I wish to draw the attention of the $5-trillion-dollar economy of my country which has reportedly become a global superpower to my grouse.   How does India treat its elderly citizens? On paper there are a few Yojanas (schemes). In effect they are only a schemer’s ploys to produce certain comforting illusions. In spite of the half a dozen ‘schemes’ on paper, there is absolutely no universal health insurance or subsidy for the middle-class and self-paying elderly. 18% GST is charged on everyone regardless of age or income. Mine is a government that has allocated an annual budget of INR 1089 crore for ...

Govindachamy when Kerala High Court confirmed his death sentence The Bible suggests that it is better for one man to die if that death helps others to live better [ John 11: 50 ]. Forgive me for applying that to a criminal today, though Jesus made that statement in a benign theological context. A notorious and hardcore criminal has escaped prison in Kerala. Fourteen years ago he assaulted a young girl who was travelling all alone in a late evening train, going back home from her workplace. The girl jumped out of the running train to save herself from this beast. But he jumped after her and raped her. The postmortem report suggested that he raped her twice, the second being when she had already fallen unconscious. And then he killed her hitting her head with a stone. Do you think that creature is human? I wrote about this back then: A Drop of Tear For You, Soumya . The people of Kerala demanded capital punishment for this creature, the brute called Govindachamy. He is inhu...

Jean-Paul Sartre [1905-1980] A writer is the conscience of his time, Jean-Paul Sartre wrote in his foundational essay What is Literature? (1947). India today is a country that does not love writers who possess conscience, unless their conscience aligns with the ideology of the dispensation. Dissent is suppressed, critical voices are intimidated, and conformity is rewarded. What would Sartre do if he were living in India today? Silence is complicity , Sartre would assert. For him literature was an act of communication, not just about beauty or style. Not for him concepts like ‘art for art’s sake’. Writing is commitment, commitment to reflecting on and shaping of social and political realities. If we leave the construction of our social and cultural life to our politicians, we will soon be doomed. Intellectuals should do such things, not politicians. Politicians are mere administrators; writers are philosophers and visionaries. If writers choose to be silent or to conform, who will ...

The entrance to the temple Dharmasthala:  The Shadows Behind the Sanctum Ananya Bhatt, a young medical student from Manipal, visited the Dharmasthala Temple and she never returned to her hostel. She vanished without a trace. That was in 2003. Her mother, Sujata Bhatt, a stenographer working with the CBI, rushed to the temple town in search of her daughter. Some residents told her that they had seen Ananya walking with the temple officials. The local police refused to help in any way. Soon Sujata was abducted by three men, assaulted, and rendered unconscious. She woke up months later in a hospital in Bangalore (Bengaluru). Now more than two decades later, she is back in the temple premises to find her daughter’s remains and perform her last rites. Because a former sanitation worker of the temple came to the local court a few days back with a human skeleton and the confession that he had buried countless schoolgirls in uniform and other young women in the temple premises. This ma...

Illustration by Copilot Designer Fiction Father Joseph woke up hearing two sounds. One was his wall clock striking the midnight hour. The other was totally unfamiliar, esoteric. Like the faint sigh of someone too weary to knock at heaven’s door. Father Joseph thought it was the wind. Until the scent of jasmine, oddly out of season, began to haunt his bedroom in the presbytery which was just a few score metres from the parish cemetery. “Is someone there?” Father Joseph asked without getting up. He was more than a bit scared. He never liked this presbytery which was too close to the cemetery. But he had to endure it until his next transfer. “Yes, father,” an unearthly voice answered. From too close, not outside the room. “Pathrose.” “Pathrose who?” A family name was mentioned in answer. “But that family…” Father Joseph’s voice quivered, “no one of that family is alive as far as I know.” “You’re right,” Pathrose said. “We perished because we were too poor to survive what our...