Tomichan Matheikal's blog

Reviewing another person’s writing is not an easy job especially in a society that promotes the mutual back-scratching policy.  That’s perhaps the reason why the latest Indispire theme [#BlogReview] has not got any takers so far with a singular exception (until this post is being written). I wonder why the theme got the most votes if Indibloggers didn’t want to review blogs.  The answer may lie in the writer’s subconscious longing for adulation from others.  Every writer is a thoroughgoing egoist as George Orwell said.  I’m no exception. However, I have to write this since I’m the one who suggested the Indispire theme.  If I let down my own suggestion, I wouldn’t be egoistic enough to be a writer! Rajesh Prabhu’s blog carries the charm of India through delightful photographs .  What’s best about the blog is that it is diametrically opposed to mine: it is full of beauty and optimism, elegance and grace.  Rajesh helps me bounce back from the cynicism that overtakes me against my

When a fugitive said, “Let me go over,” the men of Gilead said to him, “Are you an Ephraimite?”  When he said, “No,” they said to him, “Say shibboleth.”  And he said, “Sibboleth,” for he could not pronounce it right.  Then they seized him and slew him at the fords of the Jordan. And there fell at that time 42,000 Ephraimites.  [The Bible, Judges 12: 5-6] When I read the above extract as the preface to an essay on the importance of right pronunciation, my first response was a laugh.  As a teacher of English language and literature, I was struck by the deep irony as well as dark humour in the Biblical episode.  Language became a tool for identifying the enemy.  And the word used for the identification test is “shibboleth” which means ‘a password, phrase, custom, or usage that reliably distinguishes the members of one group or class from another.’  The author of the Book of Judges revealed a profound sense of black humour by slitting 42,000 throats with the word ‘shibboleth.’  The

I went to bed and woke in the middle of the night thinking I heard someone cry. Thinking I myself was weeping, I felt my face and it was dry. Ray Bradbury’s words came to me as the rain battered my window last night.  I had taken the picture of the clouds in the evening while I waited at the bus stop for someone to arrive.  Rain is nothing new in Kerala where I have found my current shelter.  From the time I came here four months ago, it has been raining almost every day for some time at least.  There was a time when the rain was romantic for me.  The rain has a music that enters your very being and pervades it like an exquisite flavour.  While in Delhi, I used to long for the rain. To drench the desert of Delhi with heavenly flavours.  To quench the thirst that runs through Delhi’s veins like a paranoid monster.  To soften the fossilised souls of the deities that grab Delhi square foot by square foot.  To wash clean the insensate idols that encroach upon the rights of