Tomichan Matheikal's blog

Fiction I am Rani Padmavati, the Queen of Chittor.  People call me the Queen of Beauty.  I have never understood why our men bother about beauty at all.  They are warriors and love fighting. Bravery, physical strength and honour are the values they really cherish and want all of us to possess.  We cherish beauty too.  But we’d prefer to keep beauty veiled behind the purdah.  If anyone other than the husband dares to raise the purdah, he will be killed.  Beauty is a private property among us.  We, the women, are our men’s private properties. Private.  So private that we, the women, can’t even go to the temple to worship our gods, let alone enjoy the public festivals.  We are like the precious stones and gold ornaments to be stored away in the darkness of secret chambers.  The King, my husband, Rawal Ratan Sing, braver and nobler than any Rajput, is also an admirer of beauty.  He loves me just as he loves music and the arts.  Music was the reason why this man Raghav Cheta

Interfering with other people’s affairs seems to be a very common feature of the Indian culture.  The Sharmas cannot survive without finding out what is cooking in the Varmas’ kitchen and vice versa.  Worse, the Sharmas will not rest contented with poking their noses into the Varma tastes and flavours but insist on altering some of them. Meddling with other people’s affairs, imposing our truths and notions on them, chipping away at others’ preferences and proclivities, moulding them according to our fancies is the most sickening aspect of existence in my country.  I have been a victim of this for most part of my life.  There was a dedicated group of people who wished to reshape my personality.  They took an inordinate interest in my affairs and started the chipping.  I must have looked like a gargoyle to them and they insisted on converting the gargoyle into a Galatea.  Nothing good came of it.  My life became a protracted agony which I endured – that’s all and nothing more.  I

This peacock was one of the few friends I had while I was in Delhi. It would make occasional visits to the staff quarters where I resided and perch atop the wall relieving itself from the burden of its brilliant plumage.  Our friendship went little beyond that: he found a place to relax in peace and I admired him from a distance.  We never disturbed each other.  In fact, my existence meant nothing to him in all probability.  He sought nothing from me.  He was not concerned with whatever I did so long as he was not disturbed.  Nothing of what I did scandalised him.  He had no morality to preach, no religion, no politics.  No sham. Just a few yards away from where he sat lay the sprawling grounds of a religious cult which used to attract thousands of devotees whenever the godman (Baba, they called him) condescended to make a public apparition. The peacock would never be seen on such days.  There was not even a distant screech.  Probably no one understood better than him t