I’ve loved reading and hearing stories ever since I was young. I devoured Harry Potter, and Percy Jackson, and the Lord of the Rings. But I also listened to stories from my Vaishnava faith. The Mahabharata traces the lives of five legendary warriors, the Pandava brothers, and includes dozens of lengthy subplots in its 1.8 million words. I would spend hours listening to stories from this epic on cassettes and reading abridged versions of the text, because the original is in Sanskrit and is the longest epic in the world. I read about human-like monkeys, and 10-headed demons, and how Krishna killed his evil uncle. Following my faith was as effortless as dreaming about these worlds. The stories were exciting, complex, and deeply appealing. At that age, the stories, more than philosophy or spiritual practices, gave me an appreciation for my religion.

The myths — tales — of Hinduism are woven into the fabric of my community. For example, the names. In my faith, names are more than just labels; they are ways of celebrating and remembering God and His devotees. I’m named after one the most important Vaishnava saints from Bengal, whom many consider to be an incarnation of Krishna. His childhood nickname was Nimai, after the neem tree. This tree is said to be sacred, repelling malevolent spirits. The idea was that this name, too, would act in that capacity. I’ve always been interested in the life of this saint partly because of our shared name. Almost all the other members of my temple congregation have names that can also be traced to stories. By calling each other by these sacred names, we make the stories of the scriptures, old and distant, a part of us.