Tomichan Matheikal's blog

Miracle is a change of attitude. This is something that I tell my students frequently especially when we deal with the theme in two lessons. One of the lessons is a short story by Selma Lagerlof titled ‘The Rattrap.’ A beggarly rattrap peddler who resorts to stealing occasionally in order to make both ends meet is transformed by the kindness and generosity extended to him by a woman who is adding a deeper meaning to her Christmas celebration in the process. Her goodness, which is something new for the peddler, strikes a chord with him and changes his attitude to the world radically. From being a beggar and an occasional thief he raises himself to the standards of a regimental captain. Such a transformation of character is a miracle. A whole continuum of attitudes turns upside down. A rogue becomes a captain. Miracle. A similar miracle happens in the second story that I teach in the same class, the story of a 14-year-old boy named Derry who hates himself and the entire world. The re

The old building of the hospital - Supercool M ost people are metaphorically blind. The world would have been a far better place if people could really see. See. See the folly of hatred and that too in the name of gods. See the little child dying in the hut because of starvation while the country is spending enormous wealth on advertising its GDP. See the bloodstains on the walls of temples being built by a dictator. See the monstrous ego of that dictator who hoodwinks you with a tea stall story. A tall story and a distorted history. When everybody around you turns blind, you begin to suspect your own sight. That’s how I visited an eye hospital and discovered that I was afflicted with cataract. “Nothing but a surgery can restore normal sight to your right eye,” I was told. I nodded assent to the prescription instantly because I wanted a proper vision in a country of apparently blind people. I longed to see. See clearly. The surgery was done and my right eye got back its pristine 6/

My first dictionary was a gift from an uncle who was a teacher. He gave it to me when I passed the first Board examination of my life at the age of 15 with a total score that was comparatively good. Good in the family, that is. It was a Concise Oxford Dictionary which served me well for many years. In due course of time, an Advanced Oxford took its place. I was in love with both these dictionaries, so to say. I loved words. I loved them so much that I didn’t love anything else apparently. Words are drugs. You can get addicted to them. I was intoxicated by them. That’s one of the reasons why I leaped at the opportunity when a Reader’s Digest Universal Dictionary was offered to me at a discounted price in 1991. When I look back at that opportunity, it appears more like fiction. I was giving a party after I passed the master’s in English language and literature while working as a schoolteacher in Shillong. The party was arranged at a friend’s house since my own rented house was a ba

The cover of a project paper by Athena, my student Charles Darwin [1809-82] was a mediocre student at school. His father was a successful and wealthy country doctor who had high hopes for his son. But Charles seemed determined to shatter his father’s dreams. Books and theories did not charm him. He loved the outdoors. He was fascinated by rare beetles, flowers and birds. He watched them for hours and made notes. His father was not at all amused by all that. “You care for nothing but shooting, dogs and rat-catching,” the father scolded the young boy and predicted in no uncertain terms, “You will be a disgrace to yourself and your family.” The father was not going to let the son become such a disgrace, however. He packed him off to a medical school in Edinburgh to study medicine. But Charles soon dropped out. Then the father sent him to study for a degree in Cambridge so that the young man could become a parson. A parson is a respectable member of the society and could easily earn a

Who should decide what you will wear? India has a Prime Minister whose sartorial elegance is world-famous now. No other Prime Minister of India including the stylish Indira Gandhi – and arguably no other leader of any country in the world – has displayed an ardour for dressing up as Modi has. He has appeared in hundreds of various styles of dresses including something that looked like a sari. But, ironically, in Modi’s India certain people are denied the freedom to choose their dress. The present controversy about hijab in Karnataka’s colleges is just one example. Why should any political party decide what a community of people will wear especially when that party’s topmost leader keeps changing dresses and colours according to situations? I am not a supporter of the hijab and the burka. I am of the firm opinion that women should be free to display their identity. Someone who is covered up from top to bottom looks more like a piece of baggage than a human being. Even the hijab, w

    Bront ë  Museum, Haworth Leading the list of the umpteen places that I would love to visit is Haworth of the Bront ë s. Haworth is a village in England where the three illustrious Bront ë sisters lived until their premature deaths. Two of the sisters and their only brother died when they were only 29, 30 and 31 respectively. The other one managed to live to the age of 39. Their unfortunate father, Rev Patrick Bronte, endured all that along with the death of his wife much earlier. It was a gloomy life for all of them. On a gloomy landscape. The landscape where Charlotte Bront ë’ s Jane Eyre, Anne’s Agnes Grey and Emily’s Catherine lived out their passions, dreams and frustrations. All the four Bront ë children were brilliant. The boy, Branwell, was considered to be a genius by his father and sisters. He was tutored at home rigorously by his religious father. His poetry earned much praise. He painted admirable portraits. A talented man he was. But he ended up as a drifter. Addi

A view of Sawan's library Libraries are archives of longings. Both the writers whose books are stored on the racks and the readers whose souls delve into those racks are dreamers of sorts. Books belong to people with infinite longings. The death of a library is very painful to those who love books. One of my beloved libraries was killed in 2015. Who would want to kill a library that was pulsating with life and that too young life? Such questions have become redundant in India, especially after 2014.    One religious cult called Radha Soami Satsang Beas [RSSB] killed the library I’m speaking about here. It was Sawan Public School’s library in Delhi. The entire school was killed by a godman and his followers just because they wanted to create parking spaces for devotees. I have narrated that story in detail in two of my books: Autumn Shadows and Black Hole . Writer Borges was of the opinion that Paradise would be a kind of library. What else can Paradise be for those whose h