Tomichan Matheikal's blog

Fiction Vultures descended on the kingdom.   People had started dying of hunger and thirst.   There was no water anywhere.   Aridity stared at us from what were rivers and lakes until a few months back.   The nudity of the rivers and lakes encroached upon our consciousness like bloodsucking vampires.   It sucked life out of us. “Anga needs a saviour,” King Romapada lamented.   My mother listened to him sympathetically.   “We need a beautiful young maiden to go the forest and…,” he paused a while as if to clear his throat, “… and seduce Rishisringa.” Rishisringa was a young ascetic living in the forest with his father Vibhandak Rishi.   He was himself an offspring of seduction.   None other than god Indra had sent Urvasi, the enchanting celestial dancer, to tempt Vibhandak away from his ascetic vow of chastity. The gods were jealous of the spiritual powers Vibhandak was accruing from his chastity and austerity.   The gods are strange creatures.   They have everyt

Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is rapped by clamour Of self-appointed guardians of morality and culture; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, Blackened with clotted blood Of insidious intent. These streets used to be crowded With people and cattle and dogs And longings in hearts. Now slogans have displaced longings And also some of the people. We have created enemies For the sustenance of our arid hearts. The cooing of pigeons hangs heavily in the loaded air, We are in a country where the cattle are deity, That thirst for human blood: History’s way of avenging itself. Don’t worry, history is a ghost that will haunt Wherever you may choose to hide yourself. No escape, no redemption, no hope. But I’ll be with you till the end. What began with a bang will end in a whimper. I’ll be there with you, with the whimper. That’s my love. My helpless love.

Chasing the headlight you drive the car With single-minded determination to the destination. You are in a hurry. Hurry! There’s a whole world to be conquered. The highway is as alluring as the holy grail. Highway is a mark of development. Development is the key to happiness. In the undeveloped underbrush In the darkness on either side Lie mysteries sighing mantras of bliss Fairies and dryads beckon Unheeded Rivers and mountains sing songs of beatitude Beside the highway Highways are full of light. Dazzling light. The world stands bathed in brilliance. I embrace the magic of darkness Away, away from the highway Far away from the brilliance of your lights. PS. Inspired by Indiblogger Edition 164

Here’s why you shouldn’t walk on escalators is one of the headlines in today’s Times of India .  The report, written by Christopher Mele and originally published in New York Times two days back , is an excellent example of how statistics and mathematics can create imaginary worlds which appear real.  Take an example.  Suppose a man wants to calculate the average income of people living on Altamount Road in Mumbai.  He will arrive at a figure which will astound almost all the people living there until they realise that Mukesh Ambani’s house, Antilia, is also situated on their road.  From the New York Times The researcher in Mele’s report did just that.  Let me simplify the findings.  Imagine yourself in a metro railway station which has escalators. Don’t imagine Connaught Place in Delhi whose escalators are so overcrowded at any time that nobody can even dream of walking up or down any of those escalators.  Imagine a sparsely populated metro station. There are ten pa

I wish I could remember the first book I read all by myself as a child.  When was it?  How did I feel about it?  What did I learn from it?  The answers would have thrown much light into my childhood.  But there are no answers.  Like quite many adults, I too am an obsolete child still searching for a lot of things.  What did I search for as a child?  I wonder. I remember that I read quite many books as a child especially since my father was a voracious reader who had a fairly large collection of books which he was very possessive about.  It wasn’t easy for us children to access his library.  He selected the books for us.  He probably knew that literature is a textually transmitted disease which can contaminate childhood if not distort it.  Hence he would rather have us read children’s magazines like Balarama which has survived to this day.  Interestingly I still find Balarama worth a read; it contains fabulous treasures though compared to my childhood days the magazine has und