Tomichan Matheikal's blog

I wouldn’t have aspired to become a writer had I learnt the essential lesson from Franz Kafka at the right time. Kafka [from Wikipedia] Kafka didn’t want his works to be published because he wrote for his personal satisfaction, out of some sort of compulsion, and he didn’t think his writings were good enough for others to read. But the world is lucky that he didn’t dump them. He entrusted them with Max Brod, his friend and writer, with the request to burn them after his death. The world is again lucky that Brod didn’t honour that wish. Otherwise, we would have been deprived of some of the finest novels like The Trial and The Castle . Brod went out of his way to get some other works of Kafka published after the Nazis captured Prague in 1939 because of which he had to flee. But he did carry with him Kafka’s unpublished works to Palestine and got them published. If Kafka didn’t think of himself as worthy of publication, what should I have thought of my own writings? I am not even as g

  Life is like a game of chess except that there are more colours than just black and white. Whatever the colour, however, the only ultimate purpose is to safeguard the King whose moves are severely limited by the very nature of the game. The Queen is the most dynamic killer. In Indian chess it's not called Queen, it's Mantri or Prime Minister. India respects women too much to allow her more mobility than men. Then there are the devious Knights and missile-like Rooks. Bishops who work aslant. The pawns are designed to be sacrificed. They are the fist victims. Inevitably. By design. Even if the game had more colours, the pawns would be the first to go. They are the silly, mediocre, plain citizens, good for nothing more than pay taxes and die for the King. Die for the King. Not even live for the King. The entire game is designed to keep the apparently impotent King triumphant. Like King Putin sitting smugly like a cretin in Kremlin while his Rooks decimate pawns in Ukraine? Is t

Chakkippara as seen from in front of my school A better perspective of the landscape Chakkippara is a cliff that is just a couple of kilometres from the school where I teach. Whenever I am on invigilation duty in the auditorium [3 rd floor] of my school I enjoy the sight of that huge rock which juts out of the landscape rather coquettishly. Many of my students have visited the place which has become a sort of tourist place though it is not easily accessible. The approach road is quite narrow and it stops a good kilometre away from the cliff. You have to walk up the steep concrete path for a while and then do some trekking over the rugged mountain path made by visitors. When Tony, a former student of mine, suggested a visit yesterday evening I thought that would be a memorable way to end the year 2022. He picked me up from home by his car. Our original plan was to reach Chakkippara in time to see the sunset. But some family matter kept Tony busy and the sun was already setting when

  You and I may be saints in a country that garlands rapists and killers . One of the delightful short stories of Gabriel Garcia Marquez is ‘The Saint’. A man named Margarito Duarte, who has not studied beyond the primary school, becomes a saint in the view of the narrator by doing nothing but carrying the dead body of his seven-year-old daughter for 22 years hoping to get her canonised by the Catholic Church. Margarito, like many others of his village, is forced to disinter the body of his daughter because a dam that is going to be constructed requires the acquisition of the parish cemetery. Everyone in the parish disinters the bones of their dear departed so that they can be buried elsewhere. When Margarito opens the tomb of his daughter who had died at the age of 7 due to illness, he is startled. His daughter looked as alive as she was before her burial eleven years ago. He, as well as the others in the parish, is convinced that his daughter is a saint and that is why her body h

With my grandniece - the antique and the latest When the year ends the old calendar goes to the dump and the new one takes its place. The old has to go and make way for the new. This is the law of nature. The new may not always be better than the old, though. I have witnessed the death of many old entities in my lifetime. The transistor radio, landline phone, VCR, film camera, Bajaj Chetak scooter (ah, my beloved for 16 years) – that list is endless. My list ended with the Chetak because the nostalgia it brings veils out everything else of the old dispensation. That scooter carried Maggie and me for all those years. It was in excellent condition when my government decided that it should die. The law has its own way, as one of the chief ministers of Kerala used to repeat ad nauseam whenever he faced problems. His solution for all political problems was to sweep them under the legal carpet. There the problems will lie for an infinite period. And the calendar will be dumped inevitably

The following is a guest post written by Anupama Joshy , one of my former students. I asked her to write on this topic because of one of her casual remarks in a chat message. Asked to introduce herself , following is what Anupama sent me. Completed my lower primary education from The Bethlehem International. Middle school and high school from Carmel CMI Public School. Both in Vazhakulam where I have been residing. A second-year student of BA English Literature. Hobbies are reading, writing, watching movies and web shows.   Love spending time with friends and family. Trying to be a better person every day. Words have evolved a lot through the generations. The archaic word 'thou' that meant 'you' can now be read 'though' in the gen-Z text slang. Means of communication have become online with emojis and GIFs serving as the medium of communication. People are hesitant to talk face to face and rather prefer 'chatting' online. 'Can't talk, What

Christmas was the most joyful season of my childhood. The study table would become the base of the crib that father made every year more or less in the same style. Palm leaves for the sides and roof. The bed was made up of a kind of grass which was known as Unneesopullu (Infant Jesus grass) since it was abundant in the Christmas season. [Now I find it pretty tedious to cut off that grass which invades my garden like heartless marauders in December.] The Christmas carol group from the parish church and the midnight Mass were all part of my childhood delights of the season. The petromax lamp carried by the carol team was one of my chief attractions. There would be some fireworks too to add to the delight. The most memorable Christmas of my life was in 1978. I was in Kotagiri as a student of religion. One of my teachers took me along with a few others to a nearby church in the evening to listen to carols. It was the first time I heard such spellbinding rendition of carols. Silent Mi