For Terri Windling

Vessels

1 sparkling purple kadai, seasoned with all your hopes and dreams

1 stainless steel spoon from your mother’s or grandmother’s kitchen

1 gleaming funnel

1 pen of choice ready to capture your finished essence

As far back as I can remember, I have reached for stories. In painful times, when I was struggling at home or being bullied at school. In joyful times, when I was picking blackberries and hunting for mushrooms or poring over stylized picture-book illustrations in brilliant colors. Wherever I was, I longed to be swept away. But when that didn’t happen, I turned instead to the imaginings of others and unearthed my inner visions.

I am made of stories. I grew up on them alongside the delicious home-cooked Gujarati meals my mother miraculously managed to put on the table despite working as a full-time physician. Both are, at a fundamental level, part of me. They defined my tastes and afforded me structure, a bridge through which I could approach the often confusing and alien world in which I found myself. For years, until I shamed myself out of it, fearing mockery, my thoughts took the form of third-person narration. Even today, I sometimes list my impending actions aloud as if I were a character in a video game. I could give up producing and consuming any kind of media for the rest of my life, and story would still be inextricably woven through the fabric of my being.

And while I adore all kinds of narratives, fantastical tales, those with myths and folklore at their hearts, are easily my favorites. Myths make order of the inexplicable and seemingly random while opening the door to the impossible. They expand both our capacity for wonder and the scale of our imagination. Myths supply us with a foundation for addressing the uncertainty of the world and the universe of which we are a part, a bedrock upon which we construct our understanding—and the stories—of our lives.

© Shveta Thakrar

So it fascinates me that the term myth, which originally meant “sacred story,” has acquired a second connotation, that of “lie.” The “myth of male superiority.” “Contrary to popular myth.” What was once the truth, a sacred story, has become a contronym, a word whose two meanings stand in direct conflict to each other.

Yet the original meaning continues to resonate for me. A myth is no mere set of data that can be broken down to its component parts and quantified. Rather, its veracity relies on the heart and the spirit, intuition and emotion, and a willingness to allow for the existence of those things we can never pin down with our limited five senses.

In that vein, I want magic. I want to know that I am connected to something bigger. I want to gaze upon a vine of jasmine and imagine an apsara adorning her long black braid with its blossoms, to feel the heartbeat of Bhoomi Devi beneath my bare feet, to witness Lord Indra’s temper manifest through thunderstorms, and to be nourished by the warming touch of Lord Surya’s yellow rays on my face. There’s no reason stars cannot be, as Ramandu schooled Eustace in Narnia, both flaming balls of gas and something more. (I wrote a novel about that, in fact!)

Simple wishes, those, yet profound, too, for they spring from the center of my heart, of my spirit: a hunger to be seen, to be accepted, to visualize myself—ourselves—beyond the prison of shortsightedness that runs in the background of our world like hidden programming.

Ingredients

1 tablespoon ghee for tempering

½ teaspoon cumin seeds

½ teaspoon mustard seeds

5 or 6 curry leaves

1 small onion, diced

3 cloves garlic, minced

1 inch ginger root, grated

1 volume Indian folktales (beloved are preferred, but unfamiliar will work, too)

2 volumes Hindu myths (doubly researched as an adult for depth of flavor)

3 volumes British and Celtic fairylore (with lush illustrations, if possible)

5 or 6 Western fantasy novels (a range of era and age category yields the best results)

2 tablespoons tears, aged in darkness (both swallowed and cried for richness)

2 ounces concentrated imagination (best when honed over time)

1½ cup heart’s yearning, undiluted

1 tablespoon wonder, ground to a fine powder

1 smidgen pure spite* See chef’s note below.

3 dollops resilience

“You’re ugly.” “Ew, your food looks like puke.” “Do you go to the tanning bed to get that dark?” “Did you know you have a dot on your head?” “Your name is too hard, so I’m going to call you ‘Sue.’” “Go back to China to go grow rice.”

And: “You should just self-publish. No one would pay to read stories about people like you.”

A child of two cultures and a misfit to boot, I fail to recall a time I didn’t ache for a place to belong. To find my land, my people. I could talk about how myths—and by extension, mythic fiction—provide that, but the unfortunate reality is, imperialism has led to our society favoring a certain faction of stories. Of myths. That subconscious preference shapes what we consider to be standard and what we view as peripheral or Other. And that ultimately shapes how we see one another.

I grew up immersed in all kinds of Western fantasies and mythology: Greek mythology in school; the Chronicles of Narnia and Dorrie the Little Witch from the library. I dreamed of “Cinderella,” “Little Red Riding Hood,” and “Snow White.” At the same time, I devoured Amar Chitra Katha comics and other compact books intended to teach Indian and diaspora children the stories of their heritage. I read about Vedic and Hindu deities, about sages, about bhutas and rakshasas and other creatures of folklore. About the Mahabharata—the longest epic poem in the world, comprising a wealth of incredible smaller stories. The Ramayana. The Panchatantra—that ancient collection of fables. The folk adventures of Emperor Akbar and his wise minister, Birbal. My favorite fairy tale, “Savitri and Satyavan,” actually comes from the Mahabharata.

Yet I never saw the latter in the books or movies I read and watched, unless it was done in a stereotypical and disrespectful manner, and until I was in my early twenties, it didn’t occur to me to question the absence.

In fact, I wrote on and off my whole life—how could I not? I’m made of stories, after all—but when I started out, my characters were white by default. I drew on Celtic and British fairy lore. I set everything in America and Western-style fantasy realms. I dutifully mirrored back what had been modeled to me as worthwhile, and the rest got relegated to the shadows.

I love those books and movies from my childhood. I love, and have always loved, Celtic and British fairy lore. You could not convince me that I didn’t secretly have iridescent, powdery wings eager to burst free from my back and permit me to soar through the skies. But when I was twenty-two, I stood before the burgeoning young adult fantasy section of a local public library, a faerie novel in my hand, and at last asked myself where the stories about my stories were. About the people like me.

I searched and searched, suddenly ravenous for those volumes. My heart broke when I realized they didn’t exist, not in the North American market where I had been born and raised, and I decided then and there to do something about it.

© Shveta Thakrar

I have never been content with sitting on the sidelines when I could star in the show. When a well-meaning person told me that no one would spend money to read about characters who looked like me, I channeled my fury into the desire to keep going. Not only would I write the mythic fiction I’d pined for, I swore, but I would see it published.

Although it took many years, eventually I did.

We have modern tales aplenty of brownies and trolls and elves—a delightful embarrassment of riches, to be sure. Yet where are the gandharvas, the nagas and garudas, the dakinis and kinnaras and yakshas? I’m only one person, and I can only write so much, but doing so has crystallized into my life’s mission.

It stings to hear that your stories don’t matter, that people like you are niche, a passing fad at best. It feels like the seven arrows Prince Eklavya shot into a dog’s mouth to silence its barking without harming it, except I am hurt—by the dismissal of my voice.

Still, I draft and revise and polish.

These days, you could not convince me that, along with the wings on my back, I don’t also possess a powerful, shimmering snake’s tail from my midriff down.

Colonialism has taught us—had taught me—these stories have no mainstream value, that I cannot ask readers to care about “Ganga and Shantanu” or Durga the same way that they would care about “Snow White” or Athena.

I, dear reader, vehemently disagree.

Directions

1. Gather your ingredients and prepare as necessary.
2. Heat the kadai over medium flame. Once at the proper temperature, add the ghee.
3. Add the cumin seeds, mustard seeds, and curry leaves. The seeds will soon sputter and become fragrant.
4. Add the onion. Let soften three to five minutes. Once translucent, add the garlic and ginger, but take care not to let them burn.
5. Now combine the remaining ingredients from the volume of folktales through the cup and a half of heart’s yearning.
6. Stir once with the stainless steel spoon, cover the kadai, and let the mixture cook for thirty minutes. Halfway through, stir a second time, ensuring no ingredients stick to the bottom of the kadai. Wistful tears quickly become bitter, and nothing spoils a recipe faster than charred imagination and the ashes of folktales.
7. At the thirty-minute mark, sprinkle in your wonder and inhale fully. If your heart aches with longing and swells with recognition, you’ve blended everything in the right amount and cooked it properly.
8. Turn off the heat. Then fold in the smidgen of spite and the dollops of resilience, and give everything a third and final stir. It should smell like fairy tales and taste like enchantment.
9. Funnel the concoction into your pen of choice and begin to write. Sip a glass of chandini (silver wine distilled from moonlight) while you work; staying inspired is vital as you journey through the tangled briars. *The spite will help you remember why this story matters when the world and even your own doubts would tell you otherwise.
10. When the story declares itself complete, write the words “The End.” Enjoy your new fusion mythic tale, the magical one only you could compose.

A reader gave me a compliment that I treasure to this day: My debut novel evoked in her the feeling of classical fantasy and old magic, deep magic. I felt both humbled and heartened; that was precisely what I’d hoped to achieve, and whenever I’m in the middle of a new project and stumble into the lightless pit of despair, I remind myself of that reader’s words. At least one person felt I had succeeded in merging the amazing epics and mythology and folklore of my desi upbringing with my own sense of the numinous.

Surely that numinous didn’t pertain only to sylvan faerie courts and selkies in pursuit of their lost skins. Surely it also applied to the grand tales of the Mahabharata, and to the regional folk stories of the subcontinent, and to the shuddersome, corpse-possessing vetala and the equally disturbing churel with her backward-facing hands and feet? How could it not?

I wrote that first book—and my greater body of work—because I wish so fervently those tales had been available in contemporary form when I was younger. Or, in all honesty, even now. In more desolate moments, when my sensitive heart feels bruised and overwhelmed by a world not designed for it, when I feel like a changeling desperate to discover her true nature, I seek refuge in story and spirituality. What are myths, if not a mingling of the two?

But as an author, I have to pause and contemplate how best to render these stories accessible to a North American readership that likely hasn’t heard of them. Much as I might want to, I can’t fall back on the relatability of familiar fairy tales and folkloric tropes; I simply don’t have that privilege. If I mention “Little Red Riding Hood,” we all know who that is. If I refer to “the Pandavas and the Kauravas,” the pool of people who nod in acknowledgment shrinks enormously.

© Shveta Thakrar

So, melding that which we both recognize with that which perhaps only I do, I strive to craft something fresh and magical, a piece of prose or poetry that dwells in the same liminal spaces. I hope it will transport you and, with luck, engender a curiosity to explore more about the gods, the folklore, the mythology you hadn’t before encountered. I hope it leads you to broaden your conception of the order of things. And like me, if you’re already acquainted with the source material, I hope you smile in mutual appreciation. I hope you feel seen and welcomed.

In her gorgeously written and illustrated children’s book Tell Me a Dragon, Jackie Morris says, “Curled around my ear, my dragon sings sweet songs and tells me strange stories from far away and long ago.”

By teasing out the threads of that mythology and folklore and weaving them into new fictional tapestries, a storyteller creates a portal of sorts, doesn’t she? I can be that tiny dragon—or its Indian kin, a naga—snuggled about your ear, telling you strange and spectacular stories, inviting you into other realms and cultures and ways of thought. I can show you how we are at once similar and not. I can guide you through an adventure that, you in different circumstances, might never have embarked upon.

And though the trappings vary from what you’re used to, you will also notice a subtle resonance, because all our ancestors sought answers. Whether in India or Ireland or Brazil, our forebears marveled as they stared up at the heavens and into the trees and down at the water. Their resulting explanations varied; for example, did you know the moon is not universally female and the sun not universally male? But they embraced those explanations and passed them down to us as myths.

I have been told over and over that no one would be interested in what I have to say, that I am the “wrong kind” of minority to count. That my ancestors’ tales of enchantment and wonder—and so, mine—are irrelevant. Yet I know better, and I refuse to listen to anyone except the little girl inside me, the one who needed to see herself and share her magic, to know she belonged and that her brown skin was as beautiful as her Sanskrit name. Who believes that myths and mythic fiction are meant for, and reflect, all of us.

I write to celebrate her stories, and for those people like me and those unlike me.

I always will.

Photo Credit: Lindsey Márton O’Brien of Lumina Noctis

Non Fiction Editor: Joyce Chng.

Copy Editor: Kit Pyne-Jaeger.

Accessibility Editor: The Accessibility Department.