Tomichan Matheikal's blog

Fiction Love Kumar had no clear idea of what he was going to do with his life as he stepped out of the jail having completed the term for the rape he had committed seven years ago.   He had met all sorts of people in the jail, like politicians and godmen.   Until he met them in jail serving terms for crimes ranging from rape to murder, Love Kumar had thought that crime was the prerogative of the undeserving poor like himself. He had not wanted to co mmit the crime.   Life made him do it.   That’s how he saw it at least.   Life makes the undeserving poor do all sorts of things in order to get on in the world ruled by the deserving affluent.   Politicians, for example.   People give them the right to swindle.   His own MLA had a huge body of thugs and goons who would do anything for their leader.   That is in addition to the official security provided to the politician by the State.   And the people voted him again and again to power. Love Kumar used to stand in awe when

The President of India has approved the central government’s plan to make Hindi compulsory in CBSE and Central schools (Kendriya vidyalayas).   This is the latest of many surreptitious attempts made by the central government to impose Hindi on the entire country.   Some of the recent such attempts are asking the MPs to use Hindi in the parliament, changing all highway signs in the country into Hindi, making Hindi as the official communication language for central government offices and use of Hindi by government officers even in social media such as Facebook and Twitter. Union minister Venkaiah Naidu does not even know that Hindi is not the national language of the country.   Probably quite many Indians do not know that Hindi is not the national language.   In fact, more than half of the country’s population have mother tongues which have little do with Hindi.   There are millions of people in the country who cannot communicate in Hindi.   How can Hindi be the common lang

A story from history “You will kill yourself,” Emperor Nero uttered majestically staring straight into the eyes of Seneca.   Seneca had been summoned to the Palace.   When he was ushered in, the Emperor was playing a violently cheerful tune on his fiddle.   He made Seneca stand and listen to his recital for a long time.   Every now and then he threw a mocking look at Seneca, his former advisor. “You have the liberty to choose the means of your death,” the Emperor said with ostensible magnanimity. “That’s very generous of you,” said Seneca. Nero glowered at him for a moment, ran the bow on his fiddle to produce a culminating crescendo and then handed over the fiddle to the maid who stood near him holding a chalice of wine. The Emperor took the wine from her hand just as he handed over the fiddle and took a sip. “Death,” said the Emperor, solemn and mocking at once.   “Death is the wish of some, the relief of many, and the end of all.   Which is it for you, Sene