The Repeated Violations of Ahlaya and the Perpetuation of Hegemonic Revisionism
By Lavjay Butani
Some stories are never told. Others are told countless times, across generations, across languages, and across traditions, and in the retelling, they change. Sometimes imperceptibly, sometimes dramatically. Sometimes in ways that silence and sometimes, though not often enough, in ways that challenge the very systems that silence.
In these retellings, heroes can become villains, victims can become sinners, and voices that were once heard can disappear altogether. I invite you to think about when we ourselves, intentionally or inadvertently, may have silenced others through the stories we have told. Today, I want to explore this question through a single story, that of Ahalya, and through her story, encourage us to reflect on the intersections of interpretation, power, and responsibility. I will do that in three steps. First, by defining two key terms: hermeneutics and revisionism; second, by examining Ahalya’s stories; and lastly, by reflecting on why Ahalya matters even today.
So, first, a distinction. Hermeneutics is the process of interpreting a text within its historical and cultural context in order to understand its meaning. Revisionism, on the other hand, is the reshaping of a narrative, sometimes in light of new perspectives, but more often in ways that reinforce particular ideologies. Beware, the line between the two can be thin, and in that thin line operate power and responsibility.
Ahalya’s story appears in the Ramayana, an ancient Indian epic. Her name literally means “undefiled.” Ahalya is described as a woman of extraordinary beauty, created by the gods, and married to the older ascetic Gautama. One day, the god Indra desires her and, disguising himself as her husband, approaches her. What happens next depends on the version of the story you choose to believe in. In some versions, Ahalya is deceived: she believes Indra is her husband. In others, she recognizes the deception, but that happens too late. In yet others, she knows and chooses to be a part of the encounter, driven by longing, neglect by her husband, and sexual desire. When Gautama discovers what has happened, he curses them both. Indra is punished, but Ahalya’s punishment is more severe. In some versions of the story, she becomes invisible, and in others, she is turned into stone. And in all versions, she is condemned to silence, stillness, and isolation. A voice that remains silenced until she is “redeemed” by the touch of Rama, the hero of the epic.
What is most striking is this: the question that storytellers retold or manipulated focused on awareness and choice. Earlier tellings leave room for ambiguity. Was she deceived? Was she complicit? Was she violated? But later retellings increasingly place the burden on Ahalya herself. And she becomes a warning, a moral lesson, and a symbol of “fallen womanhood.” Her body becomes a playground where social control is exercised, especially around female sexuality. This is what we might call hegemonic revisionism; the reshaping of a story to reinforce dominant social and patriarchal structures, which in this case was the Hindu Brahminical culture of the times. Across many versions, we see the recurring dynamics of a woman defined by purity and shame, of a man’s desire reframed as divine action, of punishment that disciplines female agency, and of redemption that depends on male intervention. Even the image of Ahalya as stone becomes symbolic for the erasure of a voice, of a body, and of a soul.
Why does this matter today? It matters because this is not just about an ancient story. It matters because the same dynamics are at work today. It matters because those who control the narrative control meaning-making. It matters because even today, some voices are heard—and many more are silenced. We continue to see how narratives are reshaped to serve power in the rewriting of our shameful histories of enslavement, in the reformulation of our laws to marginalize and invalidate identities and in the distortion of contemporary knowledge and ancient wisdom, as we deny the damage we are doing to our children and to our environment through the manipulation of scientific evidence.
There is a deeper spiritual challenge here. We often see the world not as it is, but as we are. We interpret from where we stand. And in doing so, we risk mistaking our perspective for the sole truth. We fail to see the divine in the “other” because we are too busy projecting ourselves onto them.
But wait—the story does not end here. There is hope. Hope through counter-narratives that, unafraid, revel in retellings that resist domination and reclaim dignity. In contemporary interpretations, Ahalya is reimagined and lifted up as a victim of deception, not guilt. Her silence is seen as resistance, not shame. Her desire is acknowledged as human, not sinful, and her story becomes one of agency, not punishment. Some retellings even invert the narrative: the deceiver is punished, the woman is restored without shame, and the focus shifts from purity to personhood. These retellings do something powerful: they give Ahalya her voice back.
And in doing so, these stories remind us to always ask: whose voice has been missing all along? This matters deeply. Because humans are hermeneutic beings. We tell stories. We teach texts. We shape meaning. And therefore, we hold power. And we face a choice on how we will use this power.
In summary, if we learn anything from Ahalya’s story, it is this: that interpretation carries power. And so, as we encounter others, especially those whose voices have been marginalized, we are called to listen differently. To listen with humility, to listen with curiosity, and to listen with reverence. Not to defend our narratives. Not to correct or control, but to understand, always respecting alterity. Because every person carries a story, a truth that is real. And all too often, these truths have been rewritten, distorted, or silenced.
I leave you with this: let us remember that there are many ‘Ahalyas’ in our world. And as we go forth, let us commit to listen. Listen not to respond, but to understand, listen not for what confirms our worldview, but for what challenges it; and listen especially for the voices that have long been turned to stone. Because our task is not to speak for them, but to help create the conditions in which they can finally speak for themselves.
Lavjay Butani is a pediatric nephrologist and medical educator at the University of California Davis Health System. He serves as the Director of Medical Student Professionalism in the School of Medicine, a position that was created to lead the development of a longitudinal curriculum on professionalism, develop learner assessment strategies on professionalism and address lapses in student professional behaviors. He is currently pursuing a Master’s in Divinity, in the Chaplaincy Track, at the Pacific School of Religion in Berkeley, California.
This blog post was written as part of an assignment for the Rhetorical Use of Texts Course, directed by Professor Eunhye So. I am indebted to Professor So’s wisdom and support and would like to acknowledge the feedback I received from her as I edited this post for submission.