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Reading List, March 2022

  • 3 min read

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Our monthly stories are productions looking to connect people to the magic of stories.

We create supplementary reading lists as a way to give you an insight into the inspirations and thinking behind our monthly stories. These reading lists take you behind the story, revealing the process of its making.

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Rasa → Adbhutam (अद्भुतं): Wonder, amazement. Colour: yellow, Śāntam: Peace or tranquillity. Colour: perpetual white.

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Archetype → Humorist

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We carefully chose the word ‘the humorist’ to describe the personality archetype used to construct Johnny’s character. This is to avoid the biases and connotations associated with the other names of this archetype—like ‘the trickster’, ‘fool’ or ‘clown’. For centuries, even millennia, and in the widest variety of cultural and religious belief systems, humans have told and retold tales of humorists—archetypal figures who are comical, yet serve to break down social constructs. In its shadow, the humorist is irreverent and deceptive; In its wisdom, this archetype crosses boundaries and exposes the folly of human superiority, bringing us to understand the fragility of the status quo. We found this archetype helping a man find redemption in the 1991 film The Fisher King starring Robin Williams and Jeff Bridges; we reencounter the same archetype in its destructive shadow through the iconic pop-villain Joker and in the childish mischief of Don Quixote, Krishna and Bugs Bunny.


One of the most interesting thought-seeds connecting to the wisdom of the humorist archetype comes through the works of Albert Camus and his philosophy of absurdity. In ‘The Myth of Sisyphus’, where he compares our human existence to the story of the Greek king condemned to roll a boulder uphill for eternity as punishment for his attempts to defy death, Camus suggests that life is, in fact, meaningless. He also suggests that finding joy in life’s meaningless struggle is the only way to overcome the absurdity of the situation. As Camus puts it: “One must imagine Sisyphus happy.”


Maybe, we are Sisyphus. And maybe, we are shouldering a pointless boulder up a mountain. But what if, meaning is the thing found when going up the mountain laughing?


This reading list contains some of the literature and ideas that helped us answer these questions on life and meaning, as well as links to social and environmental issues hinted at in Johnny’s story.


Monthly Story, March 2022

  • 3 min read

Updated: Apr 30, 2023


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Image → Alain Parizeau

Archetype → Humorist

Rasa → Adbhutam (अद्भुतं): Wonder, amazement. Presiding deity: Brahma. Colour: yellow. Śāntam: Peace or tranquillity. Deity: Vishnu. Colour: perpetual white


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Johnny spotted his body hanging in the open cosmos—a fleck of matter suspended in a sea of consciousness. He had left its boundaries, blissfully afloat. He shone gloriously with all the blades of broken glass scattered on the beach,

which merged with the glittering silicone of the crystal sandy white,

which merged with the shimmer of quartz dotting the granite,

which merged with the mad dance of the Colombo sun on the water,

which merged him with everything, almighty. Stretching his hand out to the sea, he blessed it.


The gush of heroin ran through Johnny like April lightning across the equatorial sky—soundless but loud enough to mute everything in an acute numbness. He stood there staring at the newly constructed Marine Drive: the coastal road rolled out into the distance, charging into the next town. About fifteen feet from where Johnny stood was where his tiny house used to stand getting stolen by the ocean advancing steadily. When Johnny’s father was alive, he fished in the sea. His mother sold that fish, and Johnny grew up just watching them.

Two years ago, when the police gave official notice of relocating Johnny’s family to a new housing scheme and demolishing their makeshift house as part of the new urban developments, Johnny's mother wept. Johnny had never seen her like that—not even when the Navy divers brought back his father’s body from the sea. It was as if she had really lost everything.

“They’re moving us six kilometres away from the sea, you fool,” she had shouted at him.


But back then, Johnny had thought moving was great; They were getting a real house in a flat; Not a makeshift hut on no man’s land between the rail and the sea. He saw that old Johnny blowing in the salty wind—like a ravaged kite, cut loose to free-float along Marine Drive and get lost in the dust. Johnny gulped an oddly cubic feeling down his throat; It poked all the way down to his gut.

Maybe you can only truly have one home.


The sun was starting to set on the city. As if the strangeness of the proportions between time and the rate of change wasn’t enough, everything also started throbbing in a sharp, orange absurdity. Suddenly, the six pm train rushed by to the nearby station. Johnny watched the metal monster. Its tailwind enveloped him in a makeshift capsule immortal from time and space. For a second, he lost sight of how or why anything was the way it was. Everything floated free from reason, in an absurd choreography. Johnny held back the urge to laugh.


As the sunset matured into a deep red, commuters emerged from the station in ones and twos. The silhouettes of their large bags and bent bodies warped to ridiculous proportions by the setting sun dangling dangerously low to the sea. They walked, half dazed, half frantic, like waterhen birds striding along the beach looking to catch something to eat—all in an oblique dance to survive.


Another train trumpeted stupidly, about to leave the station. Johnny could no longer hold back the laughter.


He knelt down and

started laughing his heart out.

He pointed his hands out at the bewildered commuters on the slow-rolling train

and laughed, tears rolling down his face.

Some commuters laughed, pointing Johnny out to their friends. Some tried to hold back the twitching of their lips and failed. A few started filming with their phones. “You’re all so ridiculous!” he shouted through the fits of laughter to the people on the train. One young man seemed to hear what Johnny said and flashed a smile that momentarily reconnected Johnny to that place where he was one with everything. He stretched out a palm to the young man in blessing.


Monthly Story, February 2022

  • 3 min read

Updated: Apr 30, 2023


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Image → @r1g

Archetype → Utopian

Rasa → Śāntam (शान्त): Peace, tranquility. Presiding deity: Vishnu. Colour: perpetual white

Adbhutam (अद्भुतं): Wonder, amazement. Presiding deity: Brahma. Colour: yellow

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A car and a house to himself. It was all he wanted ten years ago, at nineteen. Ananda couldn’t help but smile at how, now that he had them, it meant nothing. Life was a strange river to swim in, he thought.

Ananda walked past his grandmother’s Mercedes-Benz and into her old house. The monthly cleaner had kept it relatively clean but, the house had that dense blanket of quiet found only in places unlived. Ananda stopped for a second to marvel at the golden tubes of sunlight streaming in through the tall, narrow windows that his grandmother had installed facing east. Although the house had been closed after her death, Ananda still felt her aura of gentle warmth. She had left the entire estate to him knowing how far a property like that would go for a young man like Ananda. He was always her favourite, Ananda remembered fondly. He was certain of her presence when he spent nights alone in the house, that year when the wound of her loss was fresh. It is then that Ananda started working on his manifesto to heal this broken world. But eventually, after each of his ideas shattered against the brutality of life, he stopped visiting the old house to dream alone. Ananda’s father had sporadically called him from his travels with advice to sell the property or lease it out to one of his many friends in hospitality. But, Ananda could never look at something function-first like his father did. Ananda saw feelings first. He watched all the opportunities that the immense property presented free-floating many and meaningless—like the dust caught in the beams of light streaming through the windows.

Ananda caught his reflection on a mirror—warped a fraction through the thin mist of dust on the surface, made oddly unfamiliar. How different of a man he was just a few years ago when joining his father’s political campaign, Ananda mused. He was convinced that they could build utopia. But, the years that followed showed Ananda that paradise was a very personal thing; Each to their own version; The older he got, the more alone Ananda felt in his version.

Ananda followed the trail of dampness on the wall. His father’s warnings about not attending to the old house had grown increasingly dire over the months—gathering gravity like a grey cloud in Ananda’s mind-sky. But, it felt small compared to the large monsoon cloud looming over his entire existence—that one question. Where is paradise? If paradise is just another figment in the mind of the perceptor, what was he doing here like a madman trying to keep sand from the sea? Ananda had no answer.

At the turn of the damp wall, Ananda spotted a young banyan plant. It had sprouted from a root creeping in from the door crack. He stared at the deep green leaves and the uppermost new leaf tinged red like a crowning flame. Found sanctuary, the plant stood perfectly at peace within that crisp morning inside the house. Banyans devour buildings with their persisting roots, Ananda knew. But, the sacredness of a quietly lived life spread through the air, taking hold like soundless music. In that contentment resting between life and consciousness, Ananda finally had the answer. He stepped outside the door leaving the house to the banyan.


Ananda turned the key in the lock and decided to hand it over to his father personally. Instead of driving back the old Mercedes-Benz like he’s been asked, Anada left it behind to take the train. He thought it’d be nice to sit by the window and watch the ocean, instead of sitting by the wheel and watching the road. Ananda knew that his father would eventually understand his decision to become an ascetic. Maybe not today, but someday. Trees that grow from the same root can belong to different gardens.

As he started walking towards the gate, Ananda heard a voice calling “sir, sir”. A middle-aged man with a familiar air hurried up to him. This must be Jagath—the village contractor that his father had asked Ananda to meet regarding renovations. Jagath’s initial confusion on hearing that his services are no longer required melted away instantly when Ananda handed him a one-thousand note; He left, beaming over making a thousand for just turning up.

Ananda took one last look at the old house. The window of the room that he used to sleep in as a little boy looked back at him. It was a beautiful morning. Ananda suddenly realised that he now had all the mornings of paradise. He couldn’t help smiling as he set off walking down the quiet shady street lined with the tall māra trees.


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