Tomichan Matheikal's blog

Fiction Whenever the Parliament was in session, Rakesh Sharma MP became a different man. Ordinarily he was just a politician from a small town in Himachal Pradesh. He was so ordinary a politician that without Modiji’s magical touch he would have remained a mere boulder on a rustic hillside in Himachal Pradesh. Modiji weaves a magical web with words and a billion insects get trapped. Rakesh Sharma knew that he was a leader of trapped insects. Not that it mattered anyway. It gave him a chance to be in Delhi for a week or so every time the Parliament held a session. And Delhi was the city of delights. Sensual delights. Rakesh Sharma’s suite would be ready at Hotel Chanakya in Chanakyapuri prior to his arrival in Delhi. A beautiful young woman of foreign origin would be awaiting him with a sensuous smile and seductive attire. Rupeshu Lakshmi, Sayaneshu Veshya . The fact that Lakshmi had foreign blood in her veins boosted Rakesh Sharma’s consciousness of his power. He felt like a

Narendra Modi enjoys humungous popularity in social media. He is the second-most followed politician globally, second only to Barack Obama. But he has announced his intent to quit social media. No sooner had the announcement arrived than the social media started flooding with reactions. And rib-tickling, soul-cracking, hell-rousing reactions. Modi is indeed the most popular guy in the media, undoubtedly. Here are some examples. I have taken a tiny fraction of the comments that appeared under just two posts in Facebook alone. Consider what appeared elsewhere in Facebook and also in the other social media. Only then will you realise how “popular” Modi is in the social media.

In Plato’s Republic , Socrates compares the government to a shepherd. The government takes care of the citizens as a shepherd takes care of his sheep. Thrasymachus, another philosopher and a character in Plato’s book, rubbishes the analogy. The shepherd does take care of his sheep, says Thrasymachus. But for what? (1) To fleece them, and (2) to eat them. In the discourse that follows Thrasymachus argues that what passes for social justice is in fact a collection of laws and customs maintained by the ruling class for its own advantage . Cynical as I am, I would not have given much credence to Thrasymachus until Mr Modi and his team started governing India. Many governments in India prior to Modi’s were also marked by corruption of all sorts. There is little that is surprising in that. Corruption is an integral part of politics. Even governments which were supposedly guided by divine revelations – like the Christian ones in the West or the Islamic ones in the Middle East – were ma

If wishes were horses, beggars would ride. If turnips were watches, I'd wear one by my side. If "if's" and "and's" were pots and pans, There'd be no work for tinkers' hands. Wishes belong frightfully to nursery rhymes. The rhymist knows that wishes are granted only in fairy tales. Real life is about turnips and heartburns.  When I was young, I longed to be a writer. Not an ordinary one. A great writer. Another Shakespeare. Or a Bernard Shaw, at least. Life mocked at that and taught me great lessons and my wishes fell by the wayside and died with subdued whimpers. For some reason that's beyond my understanding, I never had simple wishes like good people. For example, the wish to become a doctor or an engineer never crossed the threshold of my ambition's horizon. The career which I pursued and has continued all my life descended on me rather accidentally, quite like a wayward meteor hitting an unsuspecting planet. I'm comp

Blood is the inevitable price you pay to earn your place in your country. The narrator's grandmother in Amitav Ghosh's novel, The Shadow Lines , says that. Maybe you don't pay it yourself, your parents or grandparents or their uncles did. People draw their national borders with blood. That bloodshed is a religion for people.  India seems to be getting ready for another national sacrifice. If the freedom fighters of yesteryears paid that price for all Indians, today's nationalists are doing it in order to snatch the country from certain religious communities. "India belongs to Indians" was the old slogan. The new one is, "India belongs to Hindus." It's about territory anyway. This territory belongs to me and people I consider mine. Like the beasts in the forests, we mark out our frontiers. This is my den, keep out or else you're doomed. Nationalist slogans bear the tang of the wild growls in primitive enclosures.  National borders are s

A mosque under siege in Delhi If you sow the wind, you will reap the whirlwind. This is what Delhi is doing now. This has happened elsewhere too. Gujarat 2002 is a glaring example. The people who masterminded the riots then are in power now in Delhi. We know what their intentions are. We can’t expect them to work out solutions. When the leaders of a country don’t want solutions, the situation is catastrophic. Catastrophe is what awaits the nation. If you watch the videos that appear on the social media now, you will undoubtedly notice one thing: the hatred in the eyes of the perpetrators of violence. Hatred is what has driven our prominent leaders ever since they entered politics. Hatred can never do good to anyone, let alone a nation. So what’s the solution? We, the people, are the only solution. If we decide not to be fooled by the jargon that our leaders and their mindless followers dish out, if we decide to be sane and rational, if we opt for peace and development, the

Fiction When Sumit put up one of his old snaps on his Facebook timeline, he was only relishing nostalgia for a moment. Or maybe, he wanted a few likes from his virtual friends. Political writing was ignored by people these days like the plague. Politics in the  country had become kind of plague.  He tagged David to the pic. In fact, David had clicked that photo and Sumit wanted to give him the credit. Or maybe, Sumit wanted at least one person, the tagged one, to take note of the pic.  David was too quick to distance himself from the   tag .  "Did I click that picture? I don't remember. I was never so close to you," he texted in Whatsapp.  "Don't you remember?" Sumit asked in disbelief. How can he forget it? It was the day when Sharmila Chakraborty, their classmate, had spent a whole day in David's rented room whose door remained closed all the while they were together.  Sumit and David lived in nearby rooms both of which were rented from one