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Updated: Apr 30, 2023


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Histories connecting to slavery are among the worst stories from human history. But, we continue to tell them because they hide important lessons that we can’t afford to forget.


In the Cocos Keeling Islands—a circle of islands with many coconut palms, far off Australia's northwest coast—a very discreet form of slavery took shape and survived until recently as 1984. The man who first inhabited the islands, John Clunies-Ross, started populating them through the mid1900s with labourers of Javanese and Malay origins. They became the workforce for a thriving coconut plantation that Clunies-Ross owned. The Clunies-Ross family maintained control of the islands for five generations with sons succeeding the fathers. The Clunies-Ross family had a favourable relationship with the British empire to which Cocos Islands belonged; The administration of Cocos Islands was first handled by Ceylon and later Australia. But, the Clunies-Ross family controlled the education, healthcare, food and most importantly, the currency—the Cocos Rupee. The Clunies-Ross family positioned themselves as the royalty of Cocos Island and used the name ‘Tuan’ which translates to ‘Sir’ in Malay spoken by nearly 70%. Following a method used by many rulers to build trust with a local majority, Clunies-Ross sons imported brides from the Malay aristocracy; they styled themselves Ross I, Ross II, up to Ross V with Malay names like Tuan Pandai, Tuan Tinggi, Tuan John etc.


The currency introduced for Cocos' citizens by the Clunies-Ross family was ‘Cocos Rupee’; it was actually a token that could only be used at the Clunies-Ross family store which controlled the food in the islands. The Cocos Rupee tokens were first made of paper and later from ivorine—a form of plastic that mimics ivory. Only 5000-odd Cocos Rupee tokens were made according to records. These tokens were what ultimately pegged the people of Cocos in a discreet, nevertheless ugly, form of slavery.


Even as the anachronistic notion of monarchy faded with the failure of empires around the world, Cocos Keeling Islands remained under the control of the Clunies-Ross family. In 1974, a UN mission visiting the islands criticised the Australian government for allowing the John Clunies-Ross to continue controlling the currency, education, and health care. For the next date, the Australian government tried to coerce the Clunies-Ross family to hand over the controls, but they resisted. Eventually, in 1978, John Clunies-Ross sold his land to the Commonwealth under threat of compulsory acquisition.


The story of Cocos Islands was not a case of inhuman atrocities that we usually hear in stories relating to slavery; nor of physical or verbal abuse. But, there was a vicious undercurrent of selfishness and control. Power was being distributed through the virtue of birth. Opportunities were controlled. Access was regulated through one family. It was a case of one family imposing the most fundamental conditions of other citizens’ life—a role reserved only for parents and guardians. It was a breach of freedom.


These stories are still relevant today because we see modern forms of slavery in the world continuing this ugly pattern with politically powerful families and self-interested leaders trying to exert unfair control for narrow, egotistic reasons.

Controlling access to basic rights and resources, pushing people into states of dependency, and limiting access to education and self-sustenance are still ways that modern, more subtle forms of slavery continue in the world under the mask of governance.


We discovered a wooden box mounted with a rare Cocos Island Rupee token through an antique dealer in Sri Lanka. It reads ‘Keeling Cocos Islands 1910’. Knowing that Cocos Islands' administrative functions of the British empire were once centred in Ceylon, we can speculate that this rare token ended up here that way.



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These tokens are valued by coin collectors for their rarity. But of course, what we find the most intriguing about it, is the story connecting to the question of freedom; the story of how a system of governance should always be in the interest of the public, not one family. We find this token a fascinating piece linking to themes like power, freedom and justice.




Updated: Apr 30, 2023


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Image → A.Savin

Archetype → Creator

Rasa → Raudram (रौद्रं): Fury. Presiding deity: Shiva. Colour: red, Adbhutam (अद्भुतं): Wonder, amazement. Presiding deity: Brahma. Colour: yellow

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Nicole watched the homeless man by the Colombo rail from under her long bangs and lowered eyelids. This man’s hair seemed to have somehow been dried, blown and sprayed to perfection from nothing but the Colombo heat, salinity of June air and the monsoon winds. Thinking about how she failed to create the same beach waves at her hairstyling course exam that morning, Nicole felt something searing painfully in her gut; It shaped a toxic orange feeling.


When the world hands out what you’ve bled for, to someone who doesn’t even care, what the hell does that even mean?


A familiar voice inside Nicole’s head started a monologue of everyday injustices, stinging against her threshold. It was a chili-red coloured voice that always triggered the memory of sour mangoes in her taste nerves.


Seeing the homeless man’s beach waves had also scratched Nicole’s faith in the world. Things like the heatwave that passed through the city this morning (altering the very dynamics between keratin and water particles) and the model’s hair appearing surely vitamin-deficient no longer seemed like coincidences, but pitfalls set up by a conniving world. A few hours later, by the time it was her stop, something in Nicole was screeching in unison with the train coming to a halt.


Nicole hated coming back to her parents’ village where everyone knew her as ‘Nimali’—the given-name that she no longer identified with. Head lowered, but eyes scrutinizing from behind her long fringe, Nicole found offence in how the villagers on the street had the same hair—oiled and tied back or combed to a side.


Can a homogenous bubble be called life? Isn’t sameness a state of death than of being alive?


Nicole's chili-red voice muttered all the way home, prickling the sides of her tongue with a pleasurable sting. Her mother was standing by the gate, waiting. She showered Nicole with questions about lunch, breakfast, the house keys, laundry, reducing the length of the fringe, the exact temperature in Colombo... Nicole answered everything and nothing with ohs, hms, nuhs, and mh-huhs.


Is it still home if your instinct is to escape it?


Nicole walked in with her mother following two steps behind questioning what she’d like to eat. Sitting on a kitchen chair with hands quietly clasped on the table, zoning out from her mother’s string of questions, Nicole seemed almost composed. But, she had a scream welling up inside. Nicole knew this scream; It always came in a voice of deep burgundy and brought on a metallic taste on her tongue.


When her mother started asking about the hairstyling course exams, Nicole could no longer take it. She covered her mouth and ran into the bathroom. The trail of her surprised mother’s voice shouting in the background—about getting a bladder infection from holding it in for so long—came to an abrupt end when Nicole locked the door behind herself.


Between aspirations and expectations was a hellish place.


Hands clasped tightly over the mouth, Nicole watched her reflection in the bathroom mirror as the silent scream unraveled inside. It felt as if the burgundy-coloured loathing was being spewed all over her interiors. From the burgundy-bathed inside, came another voice—a new one Nicole had never heard before. It was an ugly shade between purple and wine red and induced a tinge of bitterness at the back of her tongue. The new voice spoke heavy and monotonous. It dropped words like a shaman’s drum beats inducing an altered state of consciousness; Words that Nicole couldn’t bear to hear; Mediocre. Dull. Forgettable...


In a moment of noxious revulsion, Nicole grabbed the little trimming scissor inside the jar with tweezers, combs and clippers. With shaking hands and short scissor blades inadequate for the task, she cut off her long, thick fringe in careless, irregular strokes. Nicole felt the weight of the entire year that she spent devotedly growing and shaping her fringe dissipate into air as the cut hairs fell at her feet.


Maybe it’s best to get nothing free from the world, and owe nothing free in return.


Nicole swallowed the last of the bitterness as the wine-purple receded, and a jagged hairline hung like a torn curtain above her face.





The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.



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