Stories

It was on my aunt’s lap that I fell in love with the drum–beating gadhanevaalas — nomadic storytellers who would frequent her village, singing praises of swordsmen from the Himalayas and fortresses in the skies. As I finished my aunt’s sentences, my voice would lilt towards an instinctual rhythm, an attempt to emulate the storytellers before me. I imagined myself as a gadhanevaala, whose drum and voice conveyed a generational immortality.

The nightly folklore changed with me, as I became acquainted with a realm of stories both within and beyond my South Asian heritage. I discovered a ream of Indian mythological comic books, which I added to my collection of X-Men Unlimited and the Fantastic Four. Hours were spent dissecting the Devas’ Avengers-style battle for the nectar of youth, when I could almost feel the rush of immortality in my veins.

I was in love. These books helped me combine the worlds that shaped me through crossover stories. Could Ganesha overtake Magneto in a fight for the last mango? Perhaps, I thought. Magneto could manipulate the electromagnetic field of his jewelry, but Ganesha’s fleshy trunk could stifle his force-field projection. In the resulting scuffle, would the mango survive? A little bizarre, perhaps a little blasphemous, but these were the first stories I could call my own. Storytelling became my doorway into deciphering the world and leaving my small imprint in its legacy.

While exploring the color and pomp of my mythical universe, I did not realize that the first storyteller of my life had hidden a painful story of her own.

Mentioning my aunt’s first husband had always been forbidden. She was a domestic abuse survivor, my mother explained, and her green card was authorized under the Violence Against Women Act. Pain, anger, confusion. I struggled to understand my aunt’s story, and the silence that followed it. I picked up the gadhanavela’s drum again, this time as a journalist exploring domestic violence in immigrant communities.

Unlike the romanticized gadhanevaalas of my fantasies, I had no lantern-lit villages to entertain. Rather, my storytelling thrust me into the lives of frontline workers, where I recorded the bleak realities of stolen immigration papers, detached law enforcement, and dismissive households.

The most uncomfortable step, however, was my first interview with a domestic violence survivor.

When did you seek guidance?

Were the police called?

I swallowed. Did he hit you?

I faltered with the clinical questions. The woman on the phone shakily answered, her responses laced with self-loathing. Although subjected to horrifying violence, she was the bad wife, the bad daughter, the bad mother for being separated from her children.

“Woh to aap ki galti nahin thi.” That was not your fault, I said.

As we uncovered her story together, I found myself reflecting on my aunt’s experience, wondering if she’d faced the same guilt as my interviewee. I realized that some stories needed to tell themselves, and I had to cultivate an environment where she could feel comfortable sharing hers with me.

Once this story was published, I joined a nonprofit named Maitri, contributing to a project where I engaged men about toxic masculinity. The project forced me to address misinformation and prejudice on the frontlines, as well as document these men’s burgeoning understanding of healthy relationships. By trading viewpoints, these conversations brought us a step closer towards dismantling the patriarchy that permits domestic violence in the first place.

I live through stories, a connection that first brought me closer to the people I love. Being a gadhanevaala, I realized, is more than simply weaving romanticized fantasies. Rather, a storyteller also carries the responsibility of addressing uncomfortable truths and bringing audiences closer to healing. Every drumbeat is entrusted with voicing someone’s pain. Every story alters those that follow it. In the transition to adulthood, I’ve partly recognized the duty of a storyteller, as well as my deepening resolve to take that burden on.