Search online for the term mythology writer, and you’ll find countless books, blogs and videos dedicated to retelling ancient stories. Gods battle demons. Kingdoms rise and fall. Sages perform impossible feats. Curses alter destinies. Miracles unfold. These retellings have introduced millions of readers to India’s vast literary and spiritual traditions.
But is that all a mythology writer does?
The answer, I believe, is no.
Retelling a story is important. It keeps ancient narratives alive and makes them accessible to contemporary audiences. Yet accessibility alone is not enough.
Many of India’s sacred narratives emerged from a civilizational worldview that is vastly different from our own. When these stories are presented without that worldview, they often leave modern readers puzzled.
How can a deity have ten arms?
How can a child have the head of an elephant?
How can an ocean be churned using a mountain?
How can Kali stand upon Shiva?
Without context, these stories seem impossible. The modern mind is then left with only two choices: either accept them literally without question, or dismiss them as fantasy.
Both responses miss the point.
The task of interpreting ancient narratives is not merely to make old stories easier to read. It is to make an ancient way of seeing the world easier to understand.
Consider the story of Samudra Manthana, the churning of the ocean.
A simple retelling tells us that the devas and asuras used Mount Mandara as a churning rod and the serpent Vasuki as a rope in search of amrita, the nectar of immortality. Before the nectar emerged, however, came a deadly poison, which Shiva consumed to save creation.
As a story, it is compelling.
But without context, it also raises obvious questions. Why would devas cooperate with asuras? Why does poison emerge before nectar? Why is conflict not eliminated even after immortality is attained?
These are not accidental details. They are the heart of the story. They invite us to think about why transformation is difficult, why opposing forces sometimes have to work together, and why great rewards often come only after confronting great challenges.
The story has not changed.
Our understanding of it has.
The same is true of the image of Kali standing upon Shiva.
Read only as an event, it appears strange, even unsettling. An enraged goddess steps on her husband and suddenly regains awareness.
But when viewed through the philosophical language of the Indic traditions, the image begins to reveal another dimension. Shiva represents pure consciousness—the silent, unchanging witness. Kali represents dynamic energy, the force through which creation, preservation and dissolution unfold. Without consciousness, energy has no direction. Without energy, consciousness remains unmanifest. What first appeared to be an extraordinary incident becomes a profound philosophical statement rendered through symbolism.
Again, the story remains the same.
Only the framework through which we understand it changes.
This is where the responsibility of a mythology writer extends beyond narration.
Ancient Indian narratives were rarely composed merely to entertain. They explored questions of consciousness, ethics, society, governance, psychology, cosmology, ecology and the human condition. They often communicated through symbolism, metaphor, layered meanings and philosophical dialogue rather than direct instruction.
A writer who works with these traditions therefore has two responsibilities. The first is to present the narrative faithfully. The second is to help readers recover the worldview from which that narrative emerged.
This does not mean imposing modern interpretations on every ancient text, nor does it mean insisting that every story conceals a hidden code. Some narratives are symbolic. Some are philosophical. Some preserve cultural memory. Some operate on several levels simultaneously. The responsibility lies not in manufacturing meaning, but in understanding the text, respecting its context, and allowing its many layers to emerge honestly.
Perhaps that is why retelling alone is not enough.
A good retelling answers the question, “What happened?”
A thoughtful interpretation goes one step further and asks, “Why did a civilization preserve this story for centuries?”
The answer to that question is often where the real journey begins.
Perhaps that is what a mythology writer truly does.
Not merely preserve ancient stories, but help modern readers recover the world from which those stories were born.
Frequently Asked Questions
Because they emerged from a very different philosophical and cultural worldview. When that context is lost, modern readers may either interpret them literally or dismiss them as fantasy, missing the ideas they were intended to communicate.
Not advertising or forcing a single interpretation, some preserve history, some express philosophical ideas, some use symbolism, and many operate on more than one level simultaneously. The responsibility of a writer is to understand the text in its own context rather than force a single interpretation.
Context helps us understand why a story was told, what questions it was addressing, and how it was understood within the tradition. Without that context, even profound ideas can appear confusing or implausible.
Yes. Many Indic traditions have long recognized multiple layers of meaning within the same narrative. A story may be read historically, philosophically, ritually, psychologically, or symbolically without those readings necessarily excluding one another.
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About the Author
Priyanka Sharma Kaintura
A mythology activist, author, and speaker exploring how ancient texts and modern archaeology inform each other. Her books include Mahadevi: The Unseen Truth Behind Existence and My Jiffies: Narration of Moments, Unadulterated and Unpackaged.
