Tomichan Matheikal's blog

Fiction Professor woke up hearing the sound of something falling in the backyard of his two-storey house.  He switched on the lights.  It was three o’clock, still a couple of hours to his wake-up alarm.   A groan rose from the yard.  He went downstairs and opened the backdoor. “Who are you?  What are you doing here?” He asked the man who was struggling to get up. Professor helped the man to get up and led him into his drawing room.  He gave him water to drink and offered to prepare tea. “You have a fracture in the foot, I think,” said Professor having examined the man’s leg.  He picked up his phone and called for an ambulance.   “Let me change my dress.  Relax here until the ambulance arrives.” “Why are you doing this to me?” The man asked Professor while they were in the ambulance.  He was lying down on the stretcher.  Professor was not a fool; he must have understood what had happened.  The intruder had fallen down while trying to get into his house through th

Fiction Salim slapped himself and said, “Allah, forgive me.” The very sight of Sonal Sharma sent a rush of blood to what his friends called “centre point.”  Sonal was beautiful.  At the age of 17, she had conquered the peak of feminine charm in every possible way.  Her physical figure was statuesque.  She was flighty and coquettish while dealing with the boys in the class but sincerely committed to her studies and topped the class usually.  A future doc.  Salim imagined her in the doctor’s white coat with the stethoscope dangling on the perfect parabola of her bosom.  They were classmates, Salim and Sonal. In many ways she was like his mother, reflected Salim.  Maria, his mother, was a Catholic of Keralite origin though born and brought up in Delhi.  She and Sulaiman met each other on a flight from Delhi to Washington DC.  She was a journalist with a prominent national newspaper and was deputed to report the 1996 Atlanta Olympics.  He was a professor at a Delhi University

Baba Ramdev is the 21 st century sage.  In the ancient system, the sage went away from the world of men to places like the Himalayas and afflicted themselves with the extremes of what their normal counterparts in the normal world endured.  Ramdev has redefined religion for the 21 st century.  Religion need not be a pain in the posterior; it can be a luxury – that’s the new Veda. Source The other day the Baba came up with Patanjali atta noodles to counter Nestle’s Maggi.  The yogi has now come up with yogawear which is expected to give Nike and Adidas a run for their money.   “The spiritual guru will soon launch health drinks such as Powervita to take on Horlicks and Bournvita, babycare and beauty products...,” reports the Times of India .  Patanjali has become a brand name, thanks to the inspiring entrepreneurial skills of the yogi.  It may even buy up the entire country in a few years’ time and rename it Ramdevstan.  We will have everything from cooking salt to smartpho

Source One of the poems that has never ceased to fascinate me is Keats’ La Belle Dame sans Merci .  Recently the poem featured in my blog post, Secrets of the Knight .  The haggard Knight also features momentarily in the novel I’m writing.  At the age of 16, the protagonist of the novel writes an English assignment titled The Quest of Keats’ Knight , which his English teacher, Father Joseph Kunnel, finds scandalous.  While the priest was doing everything within his capacity to bring up the boy as a God-fearing Catholic, the boy seemed bent upon following in the disastrous footsteps of the romantic poet’s Knight.  Let me quote the relevant lines from the novel. The real mercilessness of la Belle Dame lies in her “titillating tantalisation,” argued the essayist. “Titillating tantalisation!”  Father Joseph was stuck on that phrase for quite a long while.  Interesting, he thought.  All human quest for the meaning of life is sure to end in futility, Ishan’s essay went on. 

Fiction If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have no love in my heart, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. Reverend Felix Markose was preparing his sermon for the next Holy Assembly.  His flock of sheep would arrive in the morning on the day of the Lord to listen to the word of the Lord.  He, their pastor and mentor, would read the scriptures and deliver the sermon in his inimitable style that is highly appreciated by his flock of faithful sheep.  He would count the sins of the people on his fingertips.  Adultery and fornication, drunkenness and drug addiction, gluttony and sloth, greed and envy, it’s an endless list of human errors.  Sinful creatures.  Lord, have mercy on them! If I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith so as to move the mountains, but have no love in my heart, I am nothing. He wondered whether he ever loved anyone.  Except his own voice.  Stentorian voice that resounded

“Let France and those who walk in its path know that they will remain on the top of the list of targets of the Islamic State, and that the smell of death will never leave their noses as long as they lead the convoy of the Crusader campaign, and dare to curse our Prophet. . . . ”  Thus goes the message of the IS delivered soon after the massacre it let loose on Paris. Mourners near the Carillon café and the Petit Cambodge restaurant, two sites of terror attack in Paris.   PHOTOGRAPH BY JEROME DELAY / AP The smell of death seems to be what the IS has fallen in love with.  Andre Glucksmann, French philosopher who died on the 10 th of this month, argued in his book Dostoevsky in Manhattan that modern terrorism including Islamic terrorism is nihilist rather than religious or political.  It is a wild vengeance which is founded on an irresistible urge to annihilate the other.  It is not motivated by any noble goals.  There are no human values which guide it.  It is an impulse,

Fiction “Aren’t you going to see the crucifixion?”  Tobit heard his neighbour, Jeremi, ask.  A man called Jesus was going to be crucified along with two thieves.  Every crucifixion is an entertainment for these people who are burdened with the agony of existence.  Caesar and his men impose all sorts of taxes whenever they need money.  The priests in the temple keep giving rules just to make sure that no one ever rises above their control.  Taxes and rules.  What else was the lot of the common man?  The sweat of his brow.  That was God’s gift to them from the time He created Adam and Eve.  Taxes, rules and sweat.  A crucifixion was good entertainment whenever it came.  But Tobit was not happy.  He knew Jesus.  He knew him from the time he was a tiny baby brought to the temple for the ritual dedication.  Simeon, the holy man, was present in the temple that day.  Tobit was there because he wished to seek the blessings of Simeon.  Simeon took Jesus from Mary’s hands and s

Historical Fiction “What is truth?” Sitting in his dismal cell in the Tower of London, Francis Bacon started his inquiry into the metaphysics of truth.  He was found guilty on no less than 23 charges of corruption.  If Edward Coke, his lifelong enemy, was not the leader of the investigation team, he would have been found innocent.  The Tower Such is truth.  Bacon knew it very well.  Truth depends on which side of the power you are.  That is why even Jesus could not answer the question. “What is truth?” asked Pilate to Jesus.  Bacon continued his inquiry.  He was writing an essay.  Pilate did not wait for the answer.  Nor did Jesus answer.  The answer would have served no purpose for either.  Truth is what serves your purpose. “Truth is like pearl looking best in daylight,” wrote Bacon.  “But it will not rise to the price of a diamond that looks best in varied lights.  A mixture of lie always adds pleasure.  The lie converts the pearl into diamond.  Prose into po