top of page

Across cultures, some rituals are often formed as structured social expressions for deep emotions—grief, joy, disgust, and anger. Their formalization reflects a society’s attempts to channel powerful feelings into comprehensible acts. Among the Vanniyela Aetto, known more commonly as Veddas—the first people and the jungle folk of Sri Lanka—there is a striking example of this. This extraordinary practice is recorded by anthropologists C.G. and Brenda Seligmann.


Their 1911 study, ‘The Veddas’ reveals how the Vanniyela Aetto once used a piece of dried human liver, obtained through personal acts of violence, to summon courage and resolve in moments of profound insult or challenge. This was no casual outlet for aggression but a response to situations that struck at the very foundations of an individual’s dignity—instances such as the theft of a spouse, betrayal, or the violation of land or belongings.

“Every group of Veddas except the most sophisticated village Veddas believe that it was formerly the custom for a man to carry in his betel pouch a small piece of dry human liver. It was essential that the liver should be taken from a man killed by the individual who proposed to carry a portion of the dried liver in his pouch.”


The ritual was reserved for wrath, for extreme situations, far removed from the mundane outbursts of frustration. Their approach to such intense anger was measured, deeply symbolic, and tied to the core of their identity as hunters and defenders.


The act of chewing this dried liver was not just symbolic but a visceral reminder of personal power, a ritual of transformation that turned indignation into action. As the Seligmanns describe, the practice seems to have vanished several generations ago, but its echoes remain in oral traditions. The liver served as a talisman of strength, a bridge between the act of past vengeance and the courage required for future justice. This practice—ritualized, extreme, yet deeply tied to the Vanniyela Aetto’s social codes—embodied their understanding of controlled fury, situating anger as a tool wielded only in moments of utmost necessity.



“The purpose of the dried liver was to make a person strong and confident to avenge insults. As far as we could understand a Vedda might thus work himself up into a condition of berserker fury, but this was only done after very serious insult, as when a man’s wife had been carried off or been unfaithful, or when his bow and arrows had been stolen or an attempt made to take his land or caves.” - C.G. and Brenda Seligmann


This story offers a glimpse into how the Vanniyela Aetto transformed raw human emotions into structured responses, embedding their struggles within acts laden with cultural meaning. It provokes broader reflection: How do rituals shape our responses to emotional situations? The Vanniyela Aetto ritual was practiced by men; what about other genders’ use of rituals to express emotions? How do societies, ancient and modern, formalize emotions into symbols, forging connections between personal identity and collective values? Protests, riots and vigils, are current examples of forms expressing collective anger. What are their personal counterparts? What are ‘accepted’ forms for an adult to express their personal anger right now? Vanniyela Aetto’s practices make us question our response toward anger, our ways of demanding justice, and whether we still need systemized ways to communicate our deepest emotions through ritual. Perhaps, having a socially-accepted method to channel a deeply unsettling emotion is convenient, as our systemised responses to other emotions, like love and gratitude, show.





Emotions are essential to human communication. Expressing emotions in a calculated, measured manner has been part of Eastern creative practices since the 4th century BC. We bring this into practice as part of our commercial story design methodology. Read more.

Right. So, my son asked me why he couldn't read the Tintin book on the top shelf of our library. You see, I have a large bookshelf in the story studio, and the books are more or less arranged according to how high my son can reach. We told him that he could only read the books he could reach. As he experienced more of the world, he would grow wise enough to understand the meaning of the stories.


Information is meant to be shared, fundamentally, but certain ideas and stories might not be suitable for everyone. Also, some knowledge is better earned; as in learnt, and not accessed. Some of these ideas can be harmful and used as a weapon. The books on the top shelf are known as “the books with dangerous ideas", which, of course, sounds very appealing to a young person.


Have you heard the story about the Sorcerer’s Apprentice? There’s a version of this story in Walt Disney’s 1940s animated musical Fantasia. When, the Apprentice, played by Mickey Mouse, is left alone to complete his chores, decides to use his master's magic hat to enchant a broom to carry buckets of water for him. But his lack of magical experience leads to chaos; the enchanted broom multiplies and floods the workshop. Mickey Mouse breaks the rule to understand. I want to share that sense of wonder and ambition, but I also want to clarify the consequences of using power without understanding it. I think there’s value in knowing one's limits.


In Letters to a Young Poet, Rilke advised a writer to be patient with all that is unresolved in his heart and to try to love the questions themselves.


  1. Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books that are now written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given to you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.


The right to knowledge is important, but how it’s attained is a different story. I think part of growing up is learning through experiences. The forbidden Tintin story, up there, along with the other forbidden fruits, are the many experiences of different people from around the world; in all its complexities. Waiting for their audience to reach the readiness needed to embrace its lessons. It’s a question all storytellers ask themselves; are they ready for this yet?




“My mother had four siblings. They met once a year for an all-encompassing family potluck lunch at one of the siblings’ houses. Although the lunch itself and the location changed every year, one thing never changed—this was the arrangement for four types of dessert.


My oldest aunt was a woman with a spirit larger than life and a joyous primary colour personality. A sworn ally of us children in all matters against adults, she always brought jelly to the family potluck for dessert. She brought two, sometimes three, brightly coloured jellies cooled in faceted glass bowls. Flipping them was an occasion anticipated by all the cousins who would stand around the table while she carefully unmolded the jellies mirroring the bowl patterns in trembling delight to rounds of applause.

LH Journal, 1984
LH Journal, 1984

My mother’s trophy dessert was chocolate biscuit pudding cradling layers of Marie biscuit soaked in full cream milk and melted chocolate; it was a family treasure. One year, she experimented with an orange zest top layer and the entire family protested. “It was so perfect!” “Oh, but the classic CBP is the best.” “I wait for it all year…” “But, why?” My mother was in a strange mix of pride and annoyance that day, but we never endured the orange zest again. The chocolate biscuit pudding remained perfect for as long as we got it.

LH Journal, 1984
LH Journal, 1984

My uncle—a gentle botanist and a living encyclopedia of leaves, flowers, fruits, and everything trees—made a delicious peach dessert with fruits grown in his small hill estate. Peach slices in coconut sugar syrup blanched with a dash of cloves was a rare treat that made us children forget our general aversion to fruits. While we ate them, Uncle would tell us about how he took great care to grow peaches in the tropics that were so alien to the species and the difference in taste between the regular peach and the dwarf variety, getting us to guess which one he had used that year.

LH Journal, 1984
LH Journal, 1984

My youngest auntie hated cooking of any kind. But, her mother-in-law—a formidable matriarch, fantastic cook and baker who considered it blasphemy to attend a family lunch with no special dish—made a devastatingly good lemon meringue coconut pie for the family potluck. Each year, there would be requests around the table to repeat the recipe, although everyone already knew we would never dare to attempt it. It was the dessert that subdued the noisy household into a helpless afternoon coma in front of the TV, nodding on chairs and collapsing across every divan and sofa until some coffee arrived.

LH Journal, 1984
LH Journal, 1984

That was the 1980s. As the cousins dispersed one by one for higher education, jobs, new businesses, marriages and life’s other pulls, the family potluck also slowly came to an end without anyone quite noticing it. But, it remains a core memory holding place for precious conversations, expired jokes, and the close circle we grew up in. The four desserts—the bright jellies glistening merrily, subtly spiced cold peaches bringing upcountry cool to sweltering Colombo, the perfect chocolate biscuit pudding, and the crowning lemon meringue coconut pie—are the cardinals of this evergreen place I hold in my memory. Still, even the most mediocre lemon meringue pie or soulless peach in syrup can trigger longing in me. Still, seeing the giddily shaking surface of coloured jello puts a skip in my heart, momentarily returning me to the edge of the table, waiting for the jellies to be unmolded. Still, when I return home and my mother makes the ‘classic CBP’, we sit together and enjoy a bowlful together, remembering the family in those days—preserved in a technicolour filter, monumentalized at their very best, and still here to visit through taste, smell, and texture.”


bottom of page