How do old stories survive? Are they preserved in temples, in formal lessons, or behind glass?
I discovered one sunny afternoon how it happens… in the questions a child asks because he genuinely wants to know and trusts that you will try to answer honestly.
How the old stories survive is here, between the chopping and the toffee wrappers and the toy cars, carried forward in ordinary voices, at ordinary tables, on ordinary afternoons exactly like this one.
The afternoon sun lay flat across the dining table. Ayansh was pushing his toy car along the wood grain, making small engine sounds under his breath, and I was in the kitchen, chopping, the smell of the tadka just beginning to rise.
“Mumma, why did Shiva cut Brahma’s head?”
I set down the ladle.
Can you come back again? I had no idea where he was coming from.
“My teacher told me Shiva cut Brahma’s head for lying. But Brahma was also a god.”
Oh. So he’s talking about the origin of Kaal Bhairav. But what do I tell him?
“Mumma, I asked you a question.”
“Yes, Ayu, I heard it. I’m thinking.”
I wiped my hands on the kitchen towel and came to sit with him at the table. He was still rolling the car, slowly now, watching me from the corner of his eye.
“Yes, this is one story we know—it’s mentioned in the Puranas. But it’s a story. We have to see the message the story is giving.” I paused. “What do you think this story tells?”
“Not to lie.”
“Very good.”
He considered this for a moment, then looked up. “But Shiva is the most powerful god?”
“I’m not sure he is the most powerful, actually. Shiv Purana will say he is. Vishnu Purana will say Vishnu is. Every book tells a different story. The gods we have are there to teach us something—they aren’t really in competition.”
“What does Shiva teach then, Mumma?”
“He teaches us to be brave. To fight and voice your opinion when someone is doing wrong.”
“But it’s bad to hit anyone, and he cut Brahma’s head.”
“Yes, it’s not right to hit or hurt. But this is a story—stories have good guys and bad. Whoever does bad gets punishment, or consequences. That happens in real life too, right? What do you think?”
“Yes, we do.”
“Same way in this story also. They’re just trying to show that.”
He nodded slowly, and then his eyes lit up with the particular brightness that meant another question was already waiting. “Mumma, what did Rama teach?”
“He taught us how to live life as a human being. How to be truthful in every situation.” I leaned forward a little. “Like, suppose you had two toffees and you’re allowed two in a day. If your friend offers you a third—being truthful is telling him, I’ve had my share for today, even though it means missing out on chocolate.”
Ayu’s face went thoughtful. Then a slow smile. “Can I have one toffee now, please, Mumma? I’m saying please.”
I laughed. “Okay.”
He slid off his chair, collected his toffee from the shelf, climbed back up, and, with the toffee tucked in his cheek, asked: “Mumma, what does Ganesh ji teach?”
“Hmm. He teaches us how to commit to something and keep focus. Like—once, his mom was taking a bath and she told him not to let anyone inside the house. He stood guard the whole time and didn’t let anyone enter. He didn’t wander off when his friends called. He stayed with what he was supposed to do.”
Ayu listened, unwrapping the toffee foil with great care. Then he looked up at me with new authority. “Now you tell, Mumma. I asked so many. Now you tell some gods.”
I thought for a moment. “Okay. Do you know what Krishna teaches us?”
“No, tell me.”
“He taught us how to have fun while living. That it’s okay to be naughty and do fun things—but the only thing to keep in mind is that we are not hurting anyone.”
“Like I do nautanki?”
“Yes, you are a nautanki.”
He grinned and I felt my chest go warm with it. “Durga Devi,” I continued. “Do you know what she taught us?”
“One who sits on a lion.”
“Yes. She taught us that it’s okay to fight when someone is not listening and hurting us again and again. Like Raktabeej—she asked him to stop, many times. He would not listen, kept harming others. And after all that, she fought him and defeated him. She taught us how to stand up for ourselves, right?”
He nodded.
“Saraswati. She teaches us that knowledge is power. Not just bookish knowledge—any knowledge is power.” I glanced at his face, which had gone carefully blank. “You’re learning swimming. What power does it give you?”
“To not sink.”
“Exactly. If you know swimming, you have the power not to drown. Anything you learn—good things—gives you that kind of power.”
“Who else?”
“Lakshmi. Known as the goddess of wealth.”
“She gives money?”
“No—she teaches us that we do need money for our needs, but we should not be greedy. We should not hoard. We need money, but through the right ways. Not by hurting others.”
He sat with that for a moment, the toffee finished, his hands folded on the table like a small scholar. He was quiet a long beat, looking at nothing in particular, the way he does when something is assembling itself inside him. Then he looked up.
“Is Ganga more powerful than Ram?”
I smiled. That question. That was a real question.
“It’s not about who is more powerful, Ayu. It’s like a symbiotic relationship.”
“What does symbiotic mean?”
“It means they need each other. Like you and your friends—you help each other, right?” He nodded. “Ganga represents Prakriti—nature, the feminine energy that flows and nourishes. Ram and the other gods represent Purush—the masculine energy that protects and upholds dharma. Neither is more powerful. They complete each other. The way we need both sun and rain to grow plants. The way you need both food and sleep to be healthy.”
He nodded slowly, working through it.
“So Prakriti is not more powerful than Purush,” he said. “They are equal. They are partners.” He looked at me. “Like Mumma and Papa.”
“Like Mumma and Papa,” I said.
He held that for one more second—something settling behind his eyes—and then he picked up his toy car and went back to running it along the table’s edge, the engine sounds starting up again, small and content.
I watched him for a moment. The afternoon light had shifted while we talked, moving off the table and onto the floor now, that particular slow gold of midday tipping toward afternoon. I got up, tucked the kitchen towel over my shoulder, and went back to the tadka.
This is how it happens, I thought.
