The wheel of our world, the myth of the protector and how our climate narrative must evolve

Insights for narrative shift, drawn after a tropical climate catastrophe

After Cyclone Ditwah raged through Sri Lanka, causing floods, landslides, displacement, and immense losses in life and infrastructure, an old belief resurfaced. This is that, if the country’s leader is immoral, the natural balance will be disturbed, causing havoc. This is a belief that has resurfaced in Sri Lanka in the aftermath of every natural disaster, mostly through habit and occasionally with a political agenda. As ridiculous as the idea sounds, it stems from Sri Lanka’s agro-utopianism and a wider pan-South Asian concept of ultimate balance. Here, the role of a society’s leader was to maintain the delicate symbiosis between the environment and community, enabling natural cycles to flow in sync with human needs. This is an exploration of that narrative, the collective desire it stems from, and how it should shift to facilitate climate justice today.

Origins: Chakravarti, the wheel-turner

This belief that the leader is responsible for the environmental balance stems from the pan-South Asian concept of the ‘Chakravarti’.

The Indian Emperor Asoka is perhaps the most widely associated historic figure with the title ‘Chakravarti’.

From a mythic-symbolic lens, Chakravarti suggests a ruler whose legitimacy comes not merely from lineage and military power, but from social-environmental stewardship. As defined in ancient South Asian political-religious tradition, Chakravarti means  ‘wheel-turner’. The ‘wheel’ inherent to the meaning of the title is simultaneously a symbol of empire and of Dharma; the moral-cosmic order that includes land, people, seasons, and ecology. In that framework, a Chakravarti’s duty would extend to ensuring the balance of natural systems, including rains, fertility, harvest cycles, and justice, because sovereignty meant harmony between human society and the land.

These mythic stories that invest a single ruler with stewardship over nature reflect the ancient human longing for a ‘just patron’ of land: one whose power is tempered by responsibility, whose rule upholds not only people but the ecosystem, ensuring the survival and sustainability of all. That symbolism stayed embedded in the cultural imagination long after that political structure dissolved.

In Sri Lankan epigraphic tradition, rulers of the Polonnaruwa period and later used the title ‘Chakravarti’ (or its Sinhalised equivalent ‘sakvithi’) in inscriptions, reflecting a claim to the island's sovereignty and implying the management of the natural and human systems that enabled the success of its deeply agrarian society. 

The Chakravarti dynasty of Northern Sri Lanka’s Jaffna Kingdom is another example of local monarchs who adopted this idea to signify their roles.

But, the reality today is that the cause of the imbalance we face is not home-grown, and the responsibility of turning the wheel is not centred in a singular unit. Now we know that the idea of an intergovernmental monolith, single government, head of state or industrial power maintaining the balance we all seek is a fallacy. The cause is global and widespread; the responsibility lies with the collective. And it often starts with the narrative we’ve come to accept.

Aftermath: mobilizing for climate justice 

Sri Lanka contributes less than 0.03% of global greenhouse gas emissions, while the world’s top emitters, just a handful of nations, account for nearly 60%. Yet Sri Lanka ranks among the world’s most climate-vulnerable countries, disproportionately affected by the effects of global warming, such as floods, droughts, cyclones carrying extreme moisture, rising seas, and unpredictable monsoons.

This is especially true because Ditwah’s severity was not accidental. The cyclone itself, classified as weak in strength, was not the main cause of destruction, but the resulting rainfall and floods. The reason why even the weak cyclone was able to pick up such an extreme amount of moisture that was released on Sri Lanka as the winds made landfall was due to ocean waters warmed by emissions. The warmed ocean acted as a reservoir of energy and moisture that intensified the storm’s rainfall and flooding far beyond what would have occurred in balanced climatic conditions. Heavy rainfall events are significantly amplified by human-driven warming, with atmospheric moisture increasing as the air holds more water vapour as temperatures rise. This direct link between rising ocean heat and extreme storms points to rising risk for some countries, especially islands. In 2015, the Internal Displacement Monitoring Centre (IDMC) identified Sri Lanka as the South Asian country with the highest relative risk of disaster-related displacement. Industries whose emissions have driven most of the world’s warming bear greater responsibility for the conditions that make disasters like Ditwah more frequent and more severe for vulnerable nations.

Our collective longing behind the ideal of a protector who maintains harmonious cycles should be redirected. Not toward expectation, and certainly not toward blame, but toward an urgent and collective call for climate justice to take responsibility in shaping safer futures. 

Forward: from favour to fairness

It’s in this light that relief support, reparations, climate financing, and infrastructure development are not acts of charity; they are fair and owed exchanges to restore the balance disrupted by a few to the despair of so many. Especially for the industries whose emissions have played the greatest role in shaping the volatile climate we all inhabit today, it’s part of a shared responsibility that can no longer be ignored.

When we see post-disaster assistance as mere generosity, we unintentionally lower the expectations of what a fair global system should provide. The support Sri Lanka receives now should be a doorway to initiate conversations on long-term financing, funding and sharing technology for rainwater management, climate-resilient infrastructure, and disaster-response systems that match the scale of the losses countries like ours face. And crucially, responsibility is not only about emergency aid and reparations; it’s also about using the loss and devastation caused by erratic climates to push global reforms. These are essential elements of the justice owed and a recognition of our interconnected fate. This is not a favour, but fairness.

For everyday citizens, seeking climate justice begins with a shift in narrative. Disasters like Ditwah are not acts of divine displeasure or signs of domestic failure; they are symptoms of a global imbalance that can only be corrected when there is a collective call for justice and a responsibility is shared more equitably. Justice means ensuring that recovery invests in the most affected communities, that development does not sacrifice ecosystems, and that nations and industries respond proportionately to the damage their emissions have helped create.

The balance we once believed rested in the hands of gods and monarchs, today belongs to all of us. When we see support after climate disasters as fairness rather than charity, and we push governments and industries towards climate accountability, we reclaim that older wisdom, and widen the circle of responsibility so that balance becomes possible again. It all begins with shifting the narrative to be more truthful; that climate justice is fairness, not favour.

Monsoon ghost stories

Some ghost tales stem from moods and changes triggered by the monsoons. Shaped from the peculiarities of the rainy season, these horror stories take the form of urban legends and myths shared through verbal storytelling between friends, drinking circles, family and strangers who want to share a rush of adrenaline with warning. Here are two such monsoon ghost stories still in circulation as urban myths in Sri Lanka.

One life every monsoon: the story of Samudradevi’s spirit haunting Diyawanna 

The Diyawanna, where the parliament sits on serene waters, is a lake surrounded by a protected wetland and some little-known ruins of the Kotte kingdom. An urban legend tells the story of a haunting that takes place around Diyawanna every year when the monsoons flood the waterways, raising the water levels. The story says the ghost of Samudradevi, a Kotte-era princess who drowned in the Diyawanna, haunts its boundaries during the rainy season.

Samudradevi was the Kotte king’s daughter. She was married to the nobleman and hotheaded royal commander Veediyabandara. It was a troubling time for the Kotte kingdom, with the Portuguese invaders inching ever closer to the kingdom’s centre of power, making the seasoned warrior Veediyabandara one of the most important assets to the king. So much so that when Veediyabandara heard about a rumoured affair between his wife, Samudradevi and the Portuguese court officer Deigo de Silva, he didn’t hesitate to murder her. Historical lore says that enraged Veediyabandara took Samudradevi to the edge of Diyawanna Lake and pushed her in where the currents were known to be unforgiving. Veediyabandara evaded punishment and was eventually forgiven by the king for his services to the kingdom.

This is where historical details get woven into an urban myth. With no justice for her murder, Samudradevi’s spirit is said to wait along the borders of Diyawanna. When the monsoons flood the surrounding wetlands, expanding the borders of Diyawanna, her spirit can roam further with the waters, searching for a sacrificial soul. In Sri Lankan ghost lore, there is a shared concept of a recurring 'claim' of a living soul demanded by a restless spirit to appease itself for a time; a grim negotiation between the living and the dead when a haunting becomes cyclical, revisiting the same place year after year. Each 'claim' buys a temporary peace, holding the haunting at bay until the debt comes due again. The story goes that the claim sought by Samudradevi’s spirit was due every monsoon, and anywhere along the borders of Diyawanna was game. The urban myth claims that her favoured hunting spots are near the current Waters Edge lake border and the wetland west of the Diyawanna bridge, where Samudradevi is said to have drowned. It appears to be a story that was fed by the works of Diyawanna’s deceptive currents and whirlpools that strengthen during the monsoons, as well as crocodiles that hunt along the lake border and the surrounding wetlands. Before the area was tamed with public parks and markets, there would be a drowning or a disappearance now and then, resurfacing the story of Samudradevi’s haunting of the Diyawanna.

Monsoon Mohini: a warning to not let the monsoon in

There’s an urban legend connected to the spirit ‘Mohini’, the succubus ghost of desire and deception. Mohini legends drift through much of South Asia, taking different forms. The most common Mohini stories involve a beautiful woman appearing at three-way junctions late at night, to strike up conversations with lonely travellers and lure them to doom. Another version involves a beautiful woman in a white saree, carrying an infant; she would ask men travelling alone to hold her baby so she could fasten her loosening saree. If a man agrees to take the baby, Mohini would start walking away, forcing the startled man to attempt to return the child and follow her into the shadows. The monsoon Mohini story is another version; its warning is less apparent and is more entertaining than cautionary.

This urban legend warns men to never leave their doors open during monsoon thunderstorms. Mohini would visit, a beauty with her silhouette half-veiled, half-revealed in rain-drenched clothes, leaving just enough to tantalize the male imagination. She would ask for temporary shelter, till the rain lasts, not too long. According to the story, once let in, she’ll leave your senses undone and you’ll fade slowly in the fever of your own desire, consumed by a longing that drains both body and will. Like in most Mohini stories, the only escape here is also cunning; those who meet Mohini with calm intelligence, turning her tricks upon herself, might see another sunrise. But she is a creature of paradox and cunning, and to play her game is to wager your soul. So, the warning remains; don’t let the monsoon in.

These monsoon ghost stories often unfold around ponds, wells, and lonely stretches of road, or unguarded households where actual dangers could lurk or unfold from negligence. These stories served as cautionary tales that used fear as a useful, entertaining and effective way to warn of dangers.

Revering rain

Monsoon was once sacred; it was invited with ritual, and sent off with tribute. That was when our society was predominantly agrarian, and the role of rain was unmistakable; its place in the cycle of life was directly witnessed and understood. Now, past the schoolbook diagrams of the water cycle, it’s harder to see how the rains feed the food we order on Uber Eats. Our old reverence toward rain is fading. This is an attempt to re-remember it through the lore, myths and stories connected to rain.

Monsoon arrives, dissolving hierarchies with the same insistence that it dissolves thirst. When the monsoon hits, there is no difference between farmer and priest, believer and skeptic. Monsoons evoked a common longing for dry shelter, some warmth and any mercy. It also evoked hope for growth and a better harvest. These collective emotions of awe, hope, and longing for safety, and the direct results of the monsoons observed in nature, were what shaped most rain lore.

In Sri Lanka, the full moon of Poson, now celebrated by Buddhists marking Buddhism’s arrival in Sri Lanka, was once the great water festival celebrating fertility and abundance. In the lunar month between June and July, known as Jetthamüla in ancient Lanka, water sports were performed to awaken the sleeping cloud god Parjanya. Parjanya—Pajjunna to the Pali texts, Podona or Poson to the Sinhala tongue—was closely associated with the water festival, and the name remained as Buddhist philosophy was integrated into the island culture.  

Rain was closely associated with fertility, too. Naturally, the human body itself was used as a conduit to pray for fruitfulness and return. According to historian Charles Godakumbura, "they desired to appease the Rain-God so that he may return to them with the cycle of seasons. The gods of fertility are always pleased at the sight of behaviour which leads to their purpose, namely the increase of the human race together with the abundance of crops and increase of cattle and other livestock, and they would hardly approve too much moral restraint, particularly in matters of sex.”

In our early imaginings, rain was not a mere resource but divinity. The Naga, a symbol of water, was common in ancient ponds built to collect rainwater in clean conditions. The Naga embodies the mysterious balance between danger and nourishment of the rains. To honour the Naga was to acknowledge both fear and faith, that the same water that sustains and quenches can also drown and spread disease, unless managed. 

1872, Naga pond in Ceylon Ruins of Anuradhapura by Joseph Lawton

Bairava, the guardian god of wealth in Hindu faith, is worshipped in a ceremony which takes place in the middle of the dry tanks of Sri Lanka’s North-Central Province. Devotees stand in the dry beds of tanks, calling on Bairava to break the drought and bring on the rains to sustain crop wealth; it’s a ritual that reveals the subconscious connection between rain and abundance.

Even faiths that came later folded themselves into this ancient grammar of water. The story of St. Joseph Vaz, the Goan saint, remains one of the island’s most beloved tales, connecting divine power with rain. When King Vimaladharmasuriya invited the renowned miracle maker to pray for rain in drought-stricken Kandy, Vaz requested a public altar. The story accounts that as he prayed, raindrops started to fall, everywhere but upon the altar where he stood, initiating the late monsoon. This local legacy probably got interwoven with the lore of St. Joseph, who is prayed to receive rain; because even today, it is customary to keep a statue of St. Joseph under an umbrella during outdoor weddings and ceremonies, as a plea to shelter from rain.

St. Joseph statue placed under an umbrella with a prayer to hold back major rains during a wedding.

In villages across the island, echoes of more rain lore persist. Gammadu, Panmadu and Kohomba Kankariya are all linked to monsoons and seeking protection from floods and diseases that follow major rains. Even the performance of ritualistic village games such as Porapol gasima and Ankeliya, and some elements of folk play known as Sokari, are also connected to rain. Farmers in Kataragama cook through the night on the threshing floor to honour the role of rain gods in a good harvest; villagers in Kotmale offer prayers to Meghavarana, the lord of clouds. From the bathing of the sacred Bo trees, the Esala Perahera, the exposition of the Tooth Relic, to aspects of Pongal celebration, stories around rain often took the form of a covenant between human life and natural order. Across religions, the monsoon is a great equalizer, undoing separations, reminding us of the smallness that binds all life.

Perhaps this is why rain rituals have survived every empire and every reform. They spring from the same elemental recognition: our link with rain and survival is shared. History reminds us that we once saw rain not merely as weather but as an essential of life to life. And perhaps we still can, if we pause to notice the quiet miracles it performs, even in our cities. The rains have always been our equalizer, our reminder that everything alive depends on water, for better or for worse.