Tomichan Matheikal's blog

Fiction My fingers mistake these days the letters on the keyboard.  I’m growing old and I’m lovin it.  I make mistakes and I forgive myself since the keyboard cannot forgive.  “But why the hell did you kiss the girl?” The keyboard asked. “Because she is going to suffer,” I said.  “Suffer a lot.  Too sensitive, too rebellious, too confused.” “You kissed her in public!” “On the forehead.” “In public?” “In front of a few other students.  Is that public?” “Isn’t it?” “Where two or three people are gathered, is it public?” “Isn’t it?” “Ok, for argument’s sake.  What’s your problem now?” “Isn’t your problem mine?  Your fingers slip and Windows has to keep autocorrecting your errors.  I hate it when Windows interferes.” I laughed.  “Why do you love me so much?” I asked. “Because I know all your secrets.” “Really?” “Hmm. Your touch carries all your secrets.” I stopped typing.  I went to the dining room and poured a whisky on

Benjamin Bloom’s model (known as Bloom’s Taxonomy) is an ideal approach to the educational process.  It classifies educational learning objectives into three domains: cognitive, affective and psychomotor.  While the cognitive domain is knowledge-based and deals with processes such as memorising, comprehending, applying, analysing, synthesising and evaluating, the affective domain deals with the child’s emotions and attitudes.  The psychomotor domain handles the practical side like making use of tools effectively. The education process largely focuses on the cognitive domain and fills the students with theoretical knowledge.  Certain subjects like physics, chemistry and biology have practical classes which take care of the psychomotor domain to some extent, though in a very limited way.  Acquisition of abstract knowledge for the sake of passing written examinations is almost the only purpose of education today.  Even that does not reach the higher levels proposed by Blo

Ladies and Gentlemen, Here we are at the close of 2017.  Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown, the Bard declared some four centuries ago.  But we now live in a different world where heroes are the happiest people.  That’s all the more reason to celebrate them.  Welcome to The Great Indian Hero Show . The Machiavelli Award of the year goes to Yup, you guessed it right to None other than Our Most Beloved, His Highness, the Gym Chested, the Bravado among the Bravest, the Star among Superstars, the Gulliver among Voyagers, the Chanakya of the 21 st Century, our very own Prayan Mantri, Mr Narendra Modi.  Niccolo Machiavelli, the author of the classical handbook for rulers – The Prince – said: “The lion cannot protect himself from traps, and the fox cannot defend himself from wolves. One must therefore be a fox to recognize traps, and a lion to frighten wolves.”  Mr Modi has successfully trapped foxes and frightened lions right from the year 2002 till date. 

Book Review Order your copy Here There are two types of religion: one which enables us to see the divine in others and the other which is about power, bullying, self-delusion, expediency and psychological consolations.  What we usually see around us is the latter type.  Such religion destroys the genuine religion.  M P Baby’s novel, The Snake Crucified , shows us both the types with a brilliant plot.  Chacko is a Pulaya (low caste) Roman Catholic living in Karuvankode, a primitive village in Kerala.  Though he is Catholic officially, Chacko practises the ancient religion of his caste.  He is a sorcerer and there is a snake which helps him in sorcery.  The snake reveals the truths to him.  The snake is a kind of god for him.  He does not hesitate to give the Holy Communion (the sacred bread and wine from the church) to his snake. It is Father Sebastian Maliyekkal who assists Chacko to give the Communion to the snake.  Father Sebastian is an “oversexed” priest who enjoy

My little library 2017 was a relatively bad year for me where books are concerned.  First of all, I couldn’t read as many as I wished.  Secondly, quite a few of the books I read don’t deserve a second read.  Arundhati Roy’s The Ministry of Utmost Happiness disappointed me.  “The socio-political activist in the author has superseded the literary artist,” as I wrote in my review.  I concede that we live a painfully fragmented world and writing fiction is a highly challenging job.  How does a writer fathom the depths where too much debris of fragmented things and people, fragmented gods and legends lie scattered in utter chaos? PaulaHawkins’ The Girl on the Train is thelast book I reviewed in 2017.  “The Number One Bestseller” is a good entertainer and not serious literature.  Evil reeks heavily in every page of the book.  I was left gasping for fresh air by the time I reached the last page of the book.  Once again I was left longing for good literature. Two of the be

Fiction Atami was sick of the blood on his sword.  He wanted to vomit.  That’s why he walked into Helga’s brothel. “Get me some water to wash first,” he ordered when Helga’s nose puckered involuntarily at the stench of blood.  Helga shuddered at the sight of the blood-drenched sword.  “Then send me your best girl,” Atami growled.  “With enough wine,” he added. “Not me, please,” Naomi said when Helga asked her to carry the water. “Why not?” Helga shot an angry glance. “He is Herod’s soldier.” “And he looks majestic,” added Helga.  “Maybe you can please him enough and he’ll marry you.  Think of your future girl.” “I hate Herod and his beasts.” Naomi had reasons to hate Herod and his soldiers.  She was a descendant of the Hasmonean family which was ruined by Herod.  On Cleopatra’s request, Mark Antony had decided to make Aristobulus Hasmonea the king of Judea.  Herod’s beasts killed Aristobulus and haunted Hasmoneans like a vampire.  Naomi escaped into He

The only religious festival that buoyed up my spirit when I was a boy was Christmas.  The Holy Week with Good Friday dominating it was the antithesis of Christmas.  Easter didn’t really mean anything much to me except interruption of good sleep to attend the predawn church service.  Christmas too fractured the sleep with its midnight church rituals.  But that was fun too with the crib, the stars, the Christmas tree and the Santa.  We would spend the entire Christmas Eve preparing the crib at home.  The festive mood that pervaded the entire atmosphere not only at home but also in the village was ebullient.  My Christmas Tree There was more to Christmas than all that ebullience, however.  There was romance in it: a feeling of mystery, excitement and otherworldliness.  The myth of Joseph travelling with pregnant Mary braving the winter’s chill through the wilderness of Bethlehem, their helpless search for a place to stay, Jesus’ birth in a cave in the company of cattle, th