Tomichan Matheikal's blog

Short Story The King was acutely aware of the smallness of his stature.   In fact he was the smallest man among all his adult citizens.   Even the queen stood half a foot taller.   He sought to solve the problem by making his crown as tall as possible so that the crest of the golden crown would stand above the heads of his citizens if at all he would ever come into contact with them.    A king cannot live without ever coming into some contact with some people.   Every such contact made the King feel small.   He tried to masquerade the smallness with self-flattery.   “I am very popular among the citizens, aren’t I?” he would ask his ministers.   Or, “How was the cultural show I arranged last evening?”   “Isn’t my new robe designed by Christian Lacroix a marvel?”   Ministers are people who have mastered the art of diplomacy and self-flattery invariably loves to call a spade a clade.   Nevertheless there is an awareness that lies deep beneath the surfaces of flattery and diplomacy

It’s no go the Yogi-Man, it’s no go Blavatsky, 1 All I want is a pack of cigars, and a pint of whiskey When the evening is spread out against the sky 2 Like a penitent bereft of his heavenly pie. Sorry, Descartes, I think, but I do not exist; Sorry, Bergson, I exist, but I do not change. Standing at the crossroads of life’s mid-way I look like a scarecrow scared of crows, Baffled by the tumbling turns of the tide, The flaming sword of Eden’s cherub onward To the battles and wars men fought with men: His own God’s own men, in the widening gyre. 3 It’s no go the bodhisattva, it’s no go the Mahatma, All they want is a bank balance, and a bit of sadhana On weekends to appease the thirst of the spirit That’s superannuated on a computer’s digit. Do not go gentle into that good night, my son, 4 Coat your lollipop with iron and your heart with chocolate, Fold your arms to the white of the priest’s habit, Shake your hand with the blah-blah of yo

Short Story Manmohan returned home from the market with a bottle –  among the usual things –  that was totally unfamiliar to Meera, his wife.  “The tide is turning,” explained Manmohan, “and I’m going to celebrate it.” Manmohan was a teacher in a residential school which was taken over by a new management a couple of months back.  The new management was of the opinion that the old faculty was responsible for the “downfall” of the school.  “A school is its faculty,” asserted the new chairman.  So most of the faculty was asked to leave.  Manmohan was among the few who did not merit the axe yet. Yet! That’s not what he was celebrating, however.  “I won’t be able to meet you the whole day from tomorrow,” said Manmohan to his wife.  “See, I work in a residential school where I’m not just a teacher.  I am a parent to the students in the hostel, a guide to the students when they are in study, a tutor to the weak students, and a mentor to those in need...” “What about