Tomichan Matheikal's blog

Glimpses of my garden “The earth laughs in flowers,” as Emerson said, and I’m in love with those laughs. I love the colours and fragrances of flowers. I spend some time every day to add more of those beauties to the little space outside my home.    These are days of monsoon in Kerala, however. The monsoon rains are not friends of flowers. In fact, nothing but grass grows in the season. My garden is covered with lush green grass now. Even the potted plants don’t bloom in the rains. By the time my weeding reaches the end of the garden, it’s time to begin all over again because the weeds thrive in the rains. Like Mr Lamb in Susan Hill’s story, I call it my weed garden now. When the rains subside colours will descend in my garden once again.    I love rains too. They have their own romance. I imagine the rain as the mating of the heaven with the earth. Yesterday I rode my scooter for about ten kilometres in a heavy downpour without wearing my raincoat. The helmet shielded

Book Review Tina Sequeira’s debut collection of short stories is, as the Dedication proclaims, “an ode to the spirit of womanhood”.   Being a woman particularly in India is no easy job. The Indian culture idealises and idolises womanhood as pativrata , the devoted wife. India boasts about its goddesses who are mighty to the extent of being the invincible Durga. The country’s ancient, classical texts like the Kamasutra celebrate sexuality giving equality to the female half of the process. Even lesbian relationships find their dignified place in some of our temple sculptures.    The reality has always been a far cry, however. Who were the target readers of the Kamasutra , for instance? Who were privileged enough to enter temple complexes like the Khajuraho? Were the majority of women in India ruled by more inhuman rubrics and rituals like the Sati system and female infanticide? The Yajur Veda clearly viewed the girl child as a burden and recommended rejection of the girl c

Abhimanyu: a futile death Pic courtesy Indian Express The murder of 20 year-old Abhimanyu due to campus politics in Maharaja’s College, Ernakulam, Kerala should make the student community as well as politicians think seriously about the relevance of campus politics. It is quite absurd to expect politicians to think of it, I know. Everything from gods to grass is grist to the political mill. Politicians in Kerala, irrespective of parties, have always made use of students to reap various political dividends.    I remember my college days in Ernakulam. I was a student of St Albert’s college which is situated a little over a kilometre from Maharaja’s. During the five years I studied there, I witnessed a helluva lot of political activity on the campus. That was in the late 70s and early 80s. Kerala Student’s Union (KSU) of the Congress and Students Federation of India (SFI) of the CPI(M) vied with each other to boycott classes and shout inane slogans for causes that most stude

Don’t watch the news anymore, my son, It’s better to live in the darkness of ignorance. Why should you pollute your mind with all those rapes and frauds, assaults and lynching, lies and deceit? Remember when you were a little boy you insisted on joining me for the morning walk and I warned you of the dangers that lurked behind the morning’s grey light? You insisted on joining me and you were shocked by the sight of the bare body of an assaulted girl that lay on the roadside. I quoted Akkitham* to you: “Light is sorrow, son, Darkness is solace.” We are a nation of killers and rapists, son, Our leaders are vampires who suck our blood In the name of gods and totems, Our priests are fake, my son, The godmen are devil’s men, Our bishops are windbags, We are a nation of frauds. Our gods died long ago Laughing at the tragicomedy We enact in their name. Light is sorrow, my son. * Akkitham is a Malayalam poet and the l

Like it or not, we can’t live a normal life without society. We depend on a lot of people for a lot of things. My food comes from other people, my dress does, most of the things that I cannot do without come from other people. Yes, other people are ineluctable.    “Hell is other people!” One of Jean-Paul Sartre’s characters exclaimed when he realised that the hell he had arrived in had no torture chambers or fire and brimstone as he had been taught in catechism classes. “There’s no need for red-hot pokers,” he says because we are the hells.    Each one of us is a consciousness that has to accommodate itself with other minds. Shame is the original feeling in that accommodation, Sartre says. I begin to see myself as others would see me. I become an object of their gazes. I am an object of their perception and assessment.    I experienced that shame for years when I was young. There was a period in my life when I was like the clown in a circus. My own follies and

Each truth, each lie, Die in unjudging love. [Dylan Thomas, ‘This Side of the Truth’ ] What matters is not truth, nor falsehood, but your heart, my beloved. The galloping horse has a truth whose rhythm resonates with the beats of your heart unlike the infinite truths in the dictionary. Definitions are too definite, teetering on the edges of graves that hold your sighs and mine. Let us bury definitions and resurrect our sighs, our truths. Immortal truths. PS. Written for In(di)spire Edition 227: #Poem I was delighted to get the following review of my e-book, Life's Magic . ´Life´s Magic´ by Tomichan Matheikel has an international flair to it. Tomichan aces the game like a veteran. His insights range from literature, philosophy, religion, spirituality, science, art and politics. ´Life´s Magic´ is a book that I personally believe should get published in print. I hope the author writes more such inspiring gems. It would be interesting to

For a considerably long period of my youth I was important enough to draw the attention of too many unwanted people who didn’t like whatever I said or did. One of the too many things they didn’t like was my love for old Malayalam film songs. The well-wishers thought that my love for old songs was a sign of my regressive tendencies or equally unhealthy romanticism. It is true that I was not happy with the ‘present’ that was available to me then. It is also true that there was a pining romantic in me. My well-wishers tried their best to cure me of the perceived disease as they did with everything about me.    I’m not blaming them, of course. The truth is that even I didn’t like me; how could I expect others to like me? They were not successful, however, in curing me of anything. But I must acknowledge their relentless endeavours that lasted about five years to wean me off a whole continuum of evils that befriended me like original sins .      When their good wishes and bette