Why does the saga have such a mysterious title, Ash in Our Bones?

The title itself is part of the story. By the end of the journey, you'll understand not only what it means, but also why no other title could have told the story as well.

Why did you write Ash in Our Bones under the pen name of "ONE WHO CAME BEFORE"? And whose photo is on the website? It does not look like you.

ONE WHO CAME BEFORE is not me. He is an unnamed ancestor who speaks on behalf of all who came before us. By the end of the journey, you'll see his name in a new light. He is the voice that carries the saga—and the grandpa in the children’s book.  The author photo is also an imagined likeness of him.

Q. Why doesn't the book carry your name?

This isn't the story of the person who wrote it. It's the story of the people who lived it—and the family that inherited it. It belongs to all of us, not just me.

Why do you call our story a saga instead of a history?

It's more than a history. A history records events. A saga also preserves memory, meaning, and identity.

Why do you call the saga a Telling?

It's patterned after ancient Tellings—immersive performances that blended prose, poetry, music, and drama. I use that storytelling form because a Telling doesn't just help us understand our past—it helps us feel how we got here and who we are. To learn more, visit What Is a Telling?

Is the based on history or myths and legends?

It’s truth, as best we understand it today, "carried on the wings of poetry." The saga is grounded in archaeology, genetics, ancient texts, and both written and oral histories. Many Tellings identify their sources, and the accompanying Library lets you explore many of them for yourself.

After spending decades researching and writing this saga, why are you giving it away? 

Stories like this aren't meant to be owned. They belong to our family. My job was simply to uncover our story, write it down, and return it to the family. 

What motivated you to write this saga?

For many years, one question has stayed with me: What does it mean to inherit a family? This saga is my attempt to explore that question through the story of one family—our own.

Are you implying that inheritance is deeper than biological or cultural?

I'll let the saga answer that.

Does the book's gold-on-dark slipcase symbolize Hiranyagarbha?

Ah! Old-world craftsmanship—heat and pressure—binds gold to leather; the dark leather, primordial void; the case, golden womb radiating the sacred spark that is you. A beautiful metaphor, but I see Hiranyagarbha (हिरण्यगर्भ) differently. Ask me at the end of the saga.

Why don’t you put your name on the book?

If I had put my name on the book, that would have been a first for an Akhyana (आख्यान, pronounced aa-kh-yaa-nuh)—literally, The Telling. They are the ancient music-dramas that have brought to us our earliest memories as Aroras.

The saga recreates the Akhyana in modern literary form. Its division into Gathas and Tellings, and its interplay of prose, poetry, song, refrains, and ceremony, also grow out of the Akhyana tradition.

If you grew up in India, some of your childhood stories began as Akhyanas. In the modern era, Pakistan’s Qissa and India’s Swang (स्वांग) carry forward similar traditions. Swangs celebrating a legendary couple from our own early history are still performed in Pakistan and India. We will meet this couple soon enough.

An up-front explanation of the saga’s Akhyana architecture would have interrupted the very form it was explaining. You can find the fuller explanation online at http://thetelling.live 

Did you intend the Telling to function as a modern rite of remembrance?

If remembering transforms the one who remembers, then yes, it’s also a rite.

Who are the father and son in the image that opens the saga? And why do they wear their hair in a bun on the head?

Who they are—and why they matter—is for you to discover as the saga unfolds. As for the buns—topknots—they reflect the times. The images throughout the saga are reconstructions based on the available historical evidence.

Who is Angara, named in the Invocation? And why do a shield, a sword, and a fire accompany that Invocation?

Once again, we're not telling. In time, everything will fall into place. Trust the journey.

What does the "Call of the Conch" signify?

Long ago, people were summoned to a Telling by the groan of a conch. As with those ancient Tellings, the conch has sounded. The fire, around which our Telling unfolds, is waiting. Come—leave the ordinary world behind and step into the saga.

The poem "The Call of the Conch," ends on a mystery. How do you make fire and river one?

Remember, the saga is a Telling. Music is part of a Telling. In The Call of the Conch, you are hearing the opening notes of a melody before you know the full tune. In time, you will discover that melody by yourself. If, after finishing the saga, the melody still eludes you, you may want to read the poem "Angara and Aruddha: The Space in Between."

Why do you ask us to read with our hearts instead of just our minds?

Because facts alone cannot explain what it felt like to become who we are.

You say the saga moves back and forth between the centuries. Won't that be confusing?

Like the old Tellings, our saga begins with mystery and gradually reveals its meaning. Don't worry if some names, images, or events seem puzzling at first. Keep reading. Each Telling sheds new light on the others, and by the end, the pieces coalesce into the story of you.

Why is so much of the saga in poetry?

Again, it’s patterned after ancient Tellings—immersive performances that blended poetry with prose. Poetry preserves emotion, rhythm, and memory in ways that prose alone cannot. Those Tellings also wove together music and drama. Our saga echoes that tradition through its five-note melodies and visual storytelling.

To learn more, visit “What Is a Telling?” at http://thetelling.live

May I combine parts of the book into a qissa*, combining story and music?

Absolutely. You're welcome to adapt excerpts for that purpose, provided the book and author are credited and the copyright remains with the author.

If you plan to publish, record, or commercially distribute the adaptation, please obtain permission first.

*Qissa is an Indo-Persian storytelling form—popular in Pakistan—that serves a purpose similar to the Akhyana, The Telling. 

“Unto Angara do we bow; ourselves do we honor.” Isn’t that a contradiction in terms?

It does seem that way, doesn’t it?

Why does the Gathin of Enter the Saga, page 27, look so different from the Gathin of Telling I, page 34? And why is the first Gathin singing from a manuscript?

Great eye for detail!

Each Gathin belongs to a different time and place. The Gathin on page 27 belongs to Aror, Sindh, third century CE. Fragments of our ancient story—some preserved in our Akhyanas—were beginning to find their way into the Puranic tradition then taking shape.

The settings are historical reconstructions as well. For instance, the page 27 image evokes the greener riverine landscape that then bordered the Sindu near Aror. That landscape was dramatically altered when the river shifted its course in the tenth century CE.

Together, the two images mark out story’s transition from an oral tradition to a written one.

The caption of Fig. 89 names Gandhara and AruddhaKotta, but who is the hero?

You have already received several clues. If you're still wondering, reread the previous Telling and this one. Sometimes the answer is hidden in plain sight. You may find that, in the end, the hero is more familiar than you imagined.

This is the second time I’ve seen the sword-and-fire symbol. When are you going to explain it to us?

Only twice? Keep reading.

The saga mixes Sanskrit with English. Why?

The saga uses Sanskrit—and its older forms, called Old Aryan—for ceremonial openings and closings, echoing the cadence of ancient Tellings. It’s also used when addressing ancient figures—so that we speak to them in their own tongue.

Together, these uses help bridge past and present, giving the saga both its ancient resonance and its modern voice.

In the previous edition, the verses addressed to ancient figures were in anuṣṭubh (अनुष्टुभ्) meter. Why did you decide against chandaḥ (छन्दः), the classical meter? 

If the saga were an ancient Akhyana (आख्यान), anuṣṭubh would have been natural. But it is a modern Telling. While we speak to ancient figures in their language, we do so in the poetic style that reflects our times.

Telling I says there is "a secret in these tellings." Are you going to tell us what it is?

Sure. Just not yet. Some secrets are far more satisfying when you discover them yourself.

Why is Telling I called "A Hero's Fire Song: A Song of You"? What makes me a hero?

We may think of heroes as people in history books. This saga suggests otherwise. By the journey’s end, you may see the word hero—and perhaps yourself—in a new light.

This Telling says some pages may leave me in tears, some proud, and some breathless. Isn't that a bit ambitious?

Perhaps! But that's what the ancient Tellings tried to do. They weren't meant simply to inform; they were meant to move. I'll let you decide whether this one succeeds.

What's with the title "Music and Mangoes"?

Because that's how I'd like you to read the saga. Enjoy the fruit—the music. Don't worry too much about how the tree was planted until you've finished eating the mangoes.

“Music and Mangoes” has this intriguing reference: “five tones, five surs, spun together—an audava raga—and another—and the river that cradles them.” Can you tell us more about those melodies?

I will—after we've met the people who created those melodies.

Why did you use AI-generated artwork instead of commissioning human artists?

I began with human artists. They were talented, but turning a historically accurate image from my head onto their canvas took a great deal of back-and-forth.

AI let me explore ideas at computer speed. Every image was still researched, designed, revised, and finalized by me. The brush changed; the painter didn't.

Throughout the saga, the same face appears again and again—solemn, ecstatic, dreamlike, or wreathed in flame or ash. What does that face represent?

It is the face of a presence that permeates the saga. And there is a deeper truth to that face—one that reveals itself only at the end. Read on.

I noticed that the typography on some pages is subtly different. Was that to make a page end or begin on a particular line?
Yes. The pages are sculpted for emotional resonance. A line may need to end a page, begin the next, or stand briefly alone.

Just as an ancient gathin (गाथिन्) would have used pauses to shape the effect of his Telling, the printed page uses space and the turning of the page.

Some pages in my copy of the book are blank. Am I missing content?
No. The blank pages are part of the saga’s ceremonial structure—pauses that mark transitions in the journey.

They ensure that each gatha and story begins with a two-page (image–text) spread, and that all major sections begin on a right-hand (odd-numbered) page, in keeping with traditional book design.

Why mention the old marriage hierarchy if it no longer exists?

Because it helps us understand how our ancestors organized their society. Like many historical traditions, those customs are part of our past, not our present. Today, Aroras marry across clans, communities, cultures, and nationalities.

Is it true that Bajaj, my clan, is also among the five top Arora clans?
Yes. A Go Deeper video that accompanies this Telling names all five high-ranked clans.

Is the saga saying that some Arora clans are superior to others?

Not at all. The saga describes ancient marriage customs, just as it describes ancient forms of government. Those customs belong to history. The saga belongs to the whole family.

Can you tell us more about the saga’s musical underpinnings?

The saga is a Telling, and I wanted music to be part of it, as it was of ancient Tellings. As a child, I attended all-night, open-air concerts with my father that featured legends of Indian classical music. Then a few bars of Beethoven’s Eroica, drifting over shortwave, pulled me toward Western classical music, which became a lifelong interest. But I found the shimmering sonic cloud of the tanpura hypnotic, and it stayed with me. (More in this backstory.)

So the saga follows the Western logic of motivic development, but within a 13-TET framework. I designed it around two pentatonic clusters, adding a tonic drone to each—and yet another tonic drone to anchor and complete the octave. The poem Angara and Aruddha takes the idea a little further and names the thirteen notes of that microtonal octave.

Why do you compare ancient events to LinkedIn, Barnes & Noble, and dating apps?

Because every generation understands the past through the language of its own time. The comparisons are there to illuminate, not to trivialize.

How much of this Telling is history, and how much is reconstruction?

The saga is based largely on sources I could study firsthand. A small amount came through trusted Pakistani Aroras, who have access to traditions and materials beyond my reach. Wherever interpretation was necessary, I remained faithful to the evidence.

Did the Aroras really have an empire?

The existence of a Ror kingdom or empire is deeply rooted in the historical traditions of the Ror, the Arora, and Sindh.

While evidence from this period in Sindh remains sparse, discoveries elsewhere in India are broadly consistent with those traditions.

The saga presents this enduring memory while acknowledging that many details remain under study.

The Telling says that the Ror have the highest proportion of Steppe ancestry in South Asia. Who exactly were these Steppe people?

They were among our earliest ancestors, who lived on the Eurasian Steppe about 5,000 years ago. Their descendants spread from India to Ireland, leaving a lasting genetic legacy.

They play a major role in our family story. You'll get to know them well as the saga unfolds.

Where does the opening poetry about Sorath and Dhaj come from?

For centuries, poets have celebrated Sorath's beauty and Dhaj's generosity in poems, songs, and retellings. The verses in the saga are my own, an homage to that tradition.

Why did you begin the Telling with your own poetry instead of quoting Shah Bhittai?

I wanted readers to meet Dhaj and Sorath through fresh eyes before introducing them to the centuries of poetry they inspired.

Did Dhaj (Rai Diyach) and Sorath really exist?

Yes. The saga presents them as historical figures whose lives inspired one of Sindh's greatest traditions of poetry, music, drama, and folklore.

Like many ancient figures, history and the legends that grew around them are not the same. The saga embraces both: the history tells us who they were; the legends reveal how we remember them.

Are Dhaj and Sorath our direct ancestors?

They belong to our ancestral royal house. Whether any particular Arora descends directly from them is impossible to know today.

According to traditions, all Aroras ultimately descend from the same ancient family. The saga explores that family history in later Tellings.

Why begin with a legendary love story instead of history?

For over two thousand years, countless people—including me—have first met Dhaj and Sorath through song rather than through history.

I wanted readers to meet them the same way: in poetry, music, and story—before turning to the history behind those traditions.

Why do you suddenly say, "Turn off lore, turn on history"?

Because that is the point where the saga intentionally shifts from the world of legend to the world of historical inquiry.

The two enrich one another, but they are not the same, and I wanted readers to know exactly when that transition occurs.

Why would a Muslim Sufi saint celebrate Hindu rulers?

Shah Abdul Latif Bhittai was using an already beloved local legend to express the central themes of Sufi mysticism: love, longing, sacrifice, and the soul's yearning for union with God.

For him, Dhaj and Sorath were not simply historical figures. They became symbols through which he explored universal spiritual truths.

Why did Shah Bhittai move the story from Aror to Girnar?

No one knows for certain. One tradition holds that Bhittai first encountered the story in its Girnar tradition, where it had long flourished alongside its Sindhi counterparts. Since the legend belongs to the shared folklore of Sindh and Gujarat, he chose that setting.

How certain is the connection between the Ror kingdom and the Aroras?

The connection rests on a convergence of historical and literary tradition, together with archaeological evidence found outside Sindh, rather than on a single decisive discovery. The saga presents the evidence openly and lets readers judge its strength for themselves.

Why don't you tell us how the legend ends?

Because I would rather let you discover it yourself. The story has survived for centuries precisely because of its emotional power, and I didn't want to spoil that experience before you've had a chance to encounter it.

Why did you compare the ending of Shah Jo Risalo with that of Götterdämmerung?

To help Western readers picture the emotional scale of the Risalo.

Wagner's opera is one of the best-known music dramas in the West. Like the Risalo, it culminates in a funeral pyre where love, sacrifice, and death become inseparable.

In both the Risalo and the opera, two of the central figures willingly enter the flames, and the fire marks not just the end of lives, but of an entire world.

Both leave the audience with an overwhelming sense of tragic grandeur.

You appear to be a fan of Wagner. Were your pentatonic melodies—the Audavas—inspired by his leitmotifs?

Of the composer, yes—not the man.

Wagner’s leitmotifs grew from the Western tradition. The saga’s recurring natural elements were inspired by India’s epics, where such themes appear on a far grander, often cosmic, scale.

In his later years, Wagner himself turned to India with his unfinished opera Die Sieger, inspired by the life of the Buddha.

Are the illustrations of Dhaj, Sorath, and Beejal historical reconstructions?

For Dhaj and Sorath, I drew on what we know about their time, place, and ancestry. Even so, they remain artistic interpretations rather than historical reconstructions.

Beejal's appearance, however, is entirely an artist's conception.

The first gatha ends with the word iti. I looked it up—it seems to mean simply “thus.” It’s strange that a gatha should end with “thus”. Why?

Iti is a traditional, ceremonial close—a shorthand for the phrase “thus ends…” By echoing that classical cadence, the saga signals completion while inviting the reader to pause—a moment to reflect—before what comes next.