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- 2 min read

Monthly Stories; The Shadow series

Updated: Nov 1

Our monthly stories are where we like to play, blurring the lines between commercial and artistic storytelling. This set of stories—the Shadow Series—was created using Carl Jung’s theories that we use frequently to typify and model personalities and voices of brands. But, with the Shadow Series, we took the stories where we don’t usually go in commercial storytelling; this is the vile and beastly side of the archetypes described in Carl Jung’s teachings.

The shadow series is a thirteen-part story sequence where each episode was constructed around a main character embodying the shadow Jungian archetypes. Just as shadows create depth and add dimension to things, we found that the shadow self of characters renders them very real and interesting.

Wherever possible, we tried to connect these archetypal shadows to issues and ideas surrounding us as storytellers, and those influencing the lives of our subscribers—from politics, religion, and mythology to elements of culture and popular social aspirations.

Read the full series and see if you catch the connections between the characters.

September 2021: Gunasara Preview coming soon
October 2021: Jayantha Archetype: Explorer Rasa: Veeram (heroism)
November 2021: Priyani Preview coming soon
December 2021: Anura Instead of an extravagant haired girl, there stood two monks. Rasa: Hāsya (comedy)
January 2022: Jagath “Did you know he was killed by some very hungry ladies?” Jagath asked, lowering his voice. Archetype: Rasa: Adbūta (wonder), with Hāsya (comedy)
February 2022: Ananda If paradise was just another figment in the mind of the perceptor, what was he doing here? Archetype: Innocent Rasa: Shānta (tranquillity), with Adbūtha (wonder)
March 2022: Johnny Everything floated free from reason. Johnny held back the urge to laugh. Archetype: Humorist Rasa: Adbūta (wonder), with shānta (tranquillity)
April 2022: R.M. R. M. reread his full name undersigning the no-confidence motion to impeach the President. Archetype: Sage Rasa: Adbūta (wonder), with Bhayanaka (terror)
May 2022: Siri Why is the President always a clown, a thief, or a psychopath dressed in human skin? Archetype: Caregiver Rasa: Karuna (empathy), with Adbūtha (wonder) and Bhībhatsa (disgust)
June 2022: Nicole Nicole seemed almost composed. But, she had a scream welling up inside. Archetype: Creator Rasa: Raudra (fury), with Adbūtha (wonder)
July 2022: Kusum “What are we accountants good for?,” Kusum asked. Archetype: Magician Rasa: Karunā (empathy) and adbūtha (wonder)
August 2022: Leela You don’t see how they make it about your people vs. my people, to keep us at each other's throats? Archetype: Rebel Rasa: Hāsya (comedy) and adbūtha (wonder)
September 2022: Mettananda Mettānanda’s calm and collected outer self tried to quiet his tingling secret-self. Archetype: Ruler Rasa: Bhayānakam (terror) and adbūtha (wonder)

- 4 min read

Monthly Story, September 2022

Image → Ron Lach

Rasa → Bhayānakam (भयानकं): Horror, terror. Presiding deity: Yama. Colour: black, Adbhutam (अद्भुतं): Wonder, amazement. Presiding deity: Brahma. Colour: yellow

Archetype → Ruler

Mettānanda heard the eerie sound of the devil bird ringing from the forest as he walked down the monastery veranda bordering the lagoon; Villagers thought the cry of this particular owl—similar to the screams of a person getting strangled—as a sure omen of death. Mettānanda assumed charge of the monastery two days ago when the head monk Gunasāra went missing. He made his way to Gunasāra’s chamber to find the police superintendent's number from the old monk’s phone book.

A secret self inside Mettānanda tingled when entering Gunasāra’s chamber; It was a large space, split into an office, a sleeping area and a bathroom in the back. It was easily three times the size of other monastery chambers. Of course, Mettānanda had been there many times before. But, today it felt different; The air in the room itself felt light and vacant. Mettānanda’s calm and collected outer mind tried to quiet the tingling secret-self; But, as he circled the head monk's messy desk, the secret-self only seemed to draw a strange new charge.

He looked through the desk, eyes and hands peering through the scattered mess of newspapers, cheques, countless hospital bills, blood sugar reports and some foreign currency—probably from someone staying at one of the rentable meditation rooms at the monastery. Mettānanda felt his nerves throb as he started to comprehend the level of disorganization he’d have to untangle when he became the head monk. He cut that thought process short, in respect of the probably-departed.

Mettānanda found the battered phone book and started thumbing it for the Police superintendent’s number. He sat down on the deep black armchair and dialled the number; This was the same chair that Gunasāra got made in secret using the wood of the only ebony tree in the neighboring forest. Mettānanda marvelled at how comfortable it was. As he turned the electric fan on, Mettānanda’s side glance registered a new arrack bottle tucked away in one of the inner shelves of the desk. He didn’t have to hold back the smirk; It was no secret that Gunasāra drank.

Mettānanda drew a long breath to compose himself just in time as the Superintendent answered the phone. Mettānanda explained how the head monk had been missing. It took a lot of effort to maintain his usual calm and assuring voice. “Yes, yes. I’m the acting head monk of the monastery. Anyway, even when head monk Gunasāra was here, he was so busy with things that I took care of most things, no? So, we are okay but thank you Superintendent sir… Okay, see you in a short while. May the Triple Gem bless you,” Mettānanda finished the call.

Even after the superintendent had hung up, Mettānanda remained seated on the ebony chair. He drew another long breath; Another charge of energy crawled up his spine. It felt good to not have Gunasāra’s authority hanging over his head.

Mettānanda tried to arrange the mess on the desk, but inside, his secret self was vibrating with an intensity nearing levity. Realizing that his hands were shaking slightly, Mettānanda shrank at the thought of seeming listless when the superintendent arrived. He pointlessly squeezed his hands into fists. In a rush of desperation, Mettānanda reached for the arrack, cracked it open and drank a few sips. The arrack gave him a sharp and brief composure. Trying to take hold of himself, Mettānanda drank some more. The liquid burnt down his throat and simmered the secret-self awake a little bit more. As Mettānanda organized the head monk's desk to his liking—while sneaking in a few more sips in between—his secret self grew more and more comfortable in his skin.

By the time one of the novice monks had escorted the police superintendent to the office, Mettānanda had managed to finish half the bottle, arrange the desk neatly, and stuff Gunasāra’s hospital bills and reports into a plastic bag.

After a brief, friendly conversation with Mettānanda, the superintendent took the bag of documents and left without making any records, promising to return later with more police officers. He didn’t seem to care for the arrack smell floating in the air currents. But, the novice monk seemed visibly disturbed. He was one of the young ones who liked to follow Mettānanda around.

“What’s that smell?”, the novice asked.

“Don’t act like you don’t know Gunasāra’s drinking habit,” Mettānanda barked.

“But, he hasn't been here for almost two days,” retorted the young one.

Mettānanda considered the novice for a steely second. “Why don’t you come back here first thing tomorrow morning and mop up the floor then?”, he ordered rather than requesting.

The novice looked again at Mettānanda—it was the first time the young monk had glimpsed the thing lurking inside.

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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.

- 4 min read

Monthly Story, August 2022

Image → Ron Lach

Rasa → Hāsyam (हास्यं): Laughter, mirth, comedy. Presiding deity: Shiva. Colour: white, Adbhutam (अद्भुतं): Wonder, amazement. Presiding deity: Brahma. Colour: yellow

Archetype → Rebel

Leela stopped to catch her breath before shouting again between the bars of the police cell.

“You!”, she shouted, pointing at the back of the police deputy walking away. His shoulders hung from the relief of having just locked in Leela—the loudest woman he had ever encountered—pricked up again at the sound of her voice.

“You’re a dog! A hired dog paid to bark at us people,” she shouted at his back, trying in vain to rattle the heavy bars. But, the bars stood resolute and responseless.

The policeman sat down at his desk and sighed as Leela turned around throwing her fists into the air. ‘Who’s power? People’s power! You can’t shut us down!’ she chanted.

Her shouting echoed around the cell and fell dead. From the adjoining cell, two women sitting on the floor watched her. One woman chewed betel, wore a chītta wrap and a stained T-shirt. The other wore smudged makeup, a long skirt, and a red satin blouse that took on a ghostly glow under the fluorescent light. Watching Leela, both wore expressions of half-hearted contempt. Leela recognised this contempt so well. From her university days—spent mostly in student protests—Leela had seen how, for most people, it was easier to respond to rebellion with a sudden disdain for lawlessness than to join its exhausting current towards upheaval.

Leela considered the two smoldering faces for a second; “You know why governments always make fools out of people? Because people act like goats who only know how to get herded; you sit here chewing away till the jackals come...,”

“Goats?”, snarled the woman chewing betel; the word ‘goat’ seemed to have struck her somewhere particularly sore. An escaped smile twitched Leela’s mouth; she knew that poking where it hurts was the fastest way to get people up and angry.

“Why does ‘Madam’ here get her own cell? Some big insurgency fellow?” the woman in the red blouse asked the policeman, cocking her head at Leela.

“Please be quiet, I’m trying to record this arrest,” said the policeman, his voice strained between concentration, exhaustion, and annoyance.

Leela felt her mouth open automatically in reaction, despite her best efforts to savor the secret pride of being speculated a ‘big insurgency fellow’. “Trying to send me to the Counter Subversive Unit? Dog!” she screamed at the policeman. But he scribbled away, determinedly ignoring the three women.

“Counter Subversive Unit? Damn good!” the betel woman’s voice cut through. “You insurgency-types belong there”.

“I heard there’s a torture chamber in some coconut plantation where you people are being taken to…”, the red-bloused woman said, unable to hide the glee on her face.

Leela seethed at them; “Yes! Goats like you’d rather see me dead than put effort into rising from your slavery. But, you know what? You’ll never see our revolution dead! Victory to people’s liberation!” she shouted, throwing a fist into the air. But, somewhere at the back of Leela’s mind, her husband’s voice echoed; ‘But, do the people you’re trying to liberate really want to be liberated?’

“To hell with your revolution. We have enough problems as it is,” said the red-bloused woman. “Since you got here and started shouting, they’ve even forgotten our dinner. You insurgency people never make it easy for the rest of us you know,” she said.

The policeman picked up the telephone and reminded someone about dinner.

“You don’t see the enemy do you? You don’t see how they make it about your people vs. my people, and keep us at each other's throats while they empty the bank…?” Leela shouted.

A man in khaki shorts walked in whistling; He held a tray of wrapped food and a glass of water in one hand and three carelessly stacked metal plates in the other. The man smilingly placed the tray on the policeman’s desk; He slid the metal plates under the bars without looking at the women and strolled back out, whistling.

“Wonder what’s in the special meal for Sir...” the betel woman remarked pointedly, picking up a plate.

“Not goat feed for sure...” said Leela, wiping food from the bottom of her plate.

The betel woman’s angry retort was cut off the next second when, suddenly, the electricity blacked out. Everything paralyzed into a soundless night.

“Police station being attacked? They cut the power? Apooo! The insurgency people are coming to kill us!” The red-bloused woman started wailing. “Let the thirty-three thousand gods see this! Oh gods I haven’t sinned that much...”

“Quiet! No one is coming to kill us!” the policeman’s voice snapped.

Without the ceiling fan and fluorescent lights driving them away, mosquitoes took over like a hungry choir. Leela heard their humming circling her. Their stings punctured her skin; She swatted one and got food on her forehead. To her side, a curse erupted in the betel woman’s voice with the sound of a metal plate being dropped loudly onto the floor. The startled policeman—who sounded as if he had just knocked over the glass of water—clicked his tongue in annoyance.

“What the hell is this power cut?” asked the betel woman.

No one responded. Even Leela had nothing left to say.

Only a quiet idea floating in the dark seemed to present an answer too uncomfortable to swallow. It settled down amidst them, growing painfully apparent against the dark.

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