Tomichan Matheikal's blog

It was Mr Viswas’s belief that a man without a religion was like a bird without wings, though he relied on Kingfisher Airlines whenever he really wanted to fly.   Business took him to many places.   But he knew too well that the ultimate place would remain beyond his reach without religion.   Where was the time, however, for praying?   Independence Day, Republic Day and Gandhi Jayanti were the only holidays he had during a whole year.   All the other days kept him engaged from the early morning alarm to the midnight chime of his bedside clock.   Thus it was that the idea flashed in his brilliant mind: ‘why not have robot do all the praying for me?’ A praying robot was instantly arranged.   Viswas called the robot Monk.   Monk knew all kinds of prayers.   Viswas programmed Monk to recite appropriate prayers to appropriate gods at appropriate hours of the day.   Monk also knew a lot of theology and a bit of philosophy and other things.   One Independence Day Viswas, feelin

“Sleep tight, you morons,” muttered Arjun as he stepped out of his dorm with a bag slung over his back.   The security guard had rung two bells a few minutes back indicating that it was two o’clock in the night.   The guard must have gone to sleep after performing his duty perfunctorily.   This was the best time to run away. The annual exams were round the corner and Arjun was fully confident that he would fail in spite of all the efforts made by both his teachers and the Board of Education to make him pass by giving him free marks in the name of co-curricular and extra-curricular activities.   He wouldn’t score even ten percent in the written exams. Sreesanth, his hero, was in jail.   Who does not make use of a chance to earn a few lakh rupees more, wondered Arjun.   His father was making lakhs every day.   Arjun’s father, Nakul Kulapati, was a an MLA of the ruling party.   People came to him offering big packets or briefcases full of money.   Nakul Kulapati gratified

In a relatively old Malayalam movie, Kizhakkan Pathrose , the protagonist is a criminal.  One day he goes to a Catholic priest who is involved in many charitable works and says, “I have committed a lot of crimes and caused much pain to many people.  I want to atone for it all by making a donation for noble causes.”  The priest accepts the cheque without saying a word. “This is not atonement,” I blurted out while watching the movie a few minutes back on a TV channel. “Why not?” asked Maggie, my wife, the only other person present in the room. Courtesy: Internet “Real atonement is only when the person gives up his criminal ways.  The rest is commerce.  This fellow is trying to buy atonement with money and the priest is his accomplice.” Maggie was about to say something but suppressed it.  I did not succeed in making her speak.  I think she wanted to say that I was a silly idealist. “Put God to work for you and maximise your potential in our divinely ordered ca

I’m not fond of long vacations.   Work keeps me engaged and happy.   This is the first time I took a long holiday (one full month) in Kerala.   I needed it. One of the first persons I met after returning to Delhi (whose afternoon sun reeked of malice and vengeance in stark contrast with the monsoon that drummed a relentless yet enchanting rhythm on the roof of my brother’s car as he drove us to the Cochin airport) was the boss of a commercial conglomerate in the national capital.   I met him this morning, two days after I reached Delhi.   Why didn’t I meet anyone in these two days?   People seem to be hiding themselves somewhere on the campus.   Did I smell fear on the campus?   Not even the children played in the courtyard of the staff quarters as they used to do till late into the night in summer.   Why weren’t my colleagues coming out of their homes on their usual evening walks, I wondered. Even those who dared to come out did not seem to dare to start any communicati

Cheruthoni is a small town in the hill district of Idukki in Kerala.  I passed through the town the other day.  Sitting on the first floor of a small restaurant facing the bus stand, I clicked this photo.   It's a small bus stand. The rain hummed a soothing music. No crowds, no hustle and bustle. Quite a different kind of bus stand, I thought. Dominated by a gulmohar whose flowers had not vanished yet in the heavy monsoon rains of Kerala. This is my last post from Kerala.  I will be in Delhi in the evening where a different kind of music is on...

"Hey, you're eating a croton!"

Somerset Maugham narrates an anecdote in the Foreword to his majestic novel, Of Human Bondage .   Celebrated French novelist, Marcel Proust, wanted a periodical to publish an article on one of his great novels.   The novelist wrote the article himself thinking that none would be a better critic of his than himself. Then he asked a young friend of his, a man of letters, to put his name to it and take it to the editor.   The editor called the young writer after a few days.   “I must refuse your article,” said the editor.   “Marcel Proust would never forgive me if I printed a criticism of his work that was so perfunctory and so unsympathetic.” Authors are touchy about their productions, says Maugham, and inclined to resent unfavourable criticism.   But they are seldom self-satisfied.   “Their aim is perfection and they are wretchedly aware that they have not attained it.”   Not only authors, but any person or institution should be ready to accept criticism from others as well a