Pacific Ties Spring 2023: Rebirth

Letter from the editor

Charlotte Chui

Book Review: “American Born Chinese” by Gene Luen Yang

Christine King

Reclaiming My Name

Manisha Wanniappa

A Cross-Cultural Rebirth of Western Fashion: Favorable or Flawed?

Amber Phung

New Year, New Me

Sophie Vansomphone

Lisa Ramos

A Letter to Myself

My Mercury Retrogrades are Out of Order

Jasmine Fung

Medea on the Pyre

Varsha Ravi

Young People

Anisha Menath

Staff Page 28

Emerging from the fames and ashy debris, the phoenix serves as a triumphant symbol of rebirth and renewal. But what must we undergo in the process of being reborn? Is rebirth always desirable or painless? How can we fnd strength and resistance in our renewed selves? In this Spring 2023 issue, our staff consider these questions.

In “New Year, New Me” on page 9, staff writer Sophie Vansomphone traces her attempts to “glow up” and revamp herself throughout her life. As she negotiates and pushes back against the pressure to conform to societal expectations, she fnds herself undergoing a full-circle process of rebirth, taking inspiration from her childhood self.

On page 5, staff writer and singersongwriter Manisha Wanniappa grapples with feeling caught between her Sri Lankan and American identities. By choosing her full name as her artist name, she undergoes a process of reclamation.

As you read this issue of “Rebirth,” we hope these pieces push you to refect upon where you are in your own process of rebirth.

Best, Charlotte Chui Editor-in-Chief

Pin the nation. Publishing at UCLA since 1977, we showcase the rich and diverse stories of the APIDA community on and off campus through news and commentary. The name Pacifc Ties was chosen as a representation of what the publication seeks to accomplish: “to encompass all Asian groups nondiscriminantly; to include each in their individual sense, to engulf all in a collective sense” (Pacifc Ties Volume 1, Issue 1).

Today, our mission is to create and contribute to the ongoing dialogue that offers insight into the dynamics of being APIDA, challenges the perceptions of APIDA identity and celebrates the achievements of the communties that we all have ties to. Currently, we publish quarterly print magazines and weekly online articles at pacifcties.org.

Pacifc Ties Newsmagazine is published and copyrighted by the ASUCLA Communications Board. All rights are reserved. Reprinting of any material in this publication without the written permission of the Communications Board is strictly prohibited. The ASUCLA Communications Board fully supports the University of California’s policy on non-discrimination. The student media reserve the right to reject or modify advertising whose content discriminates on the basis of ancestry, color, national origin, race, religion, disability, sex or sexual orientation. The ASUCLA Communications Board has a media grievance procedure for resolving complaints against any of its publications. For a copy of the complete procedure, contact the publications offce at 118 Kerckhoff Hall @ 310-825-9898.

“American Born Chinese” by Gene Luen Yang

Written by Christine King

implications of their cultural identities. Over the course of the novel, Yang invites the reader to consider the question: when you are part of the “out” group, what does it take to become part of the “in” group? And, more importantly, is it worth it?

Ifrst heard of “American Born Chinese,” the 2006 graphic novel by Gene Luen Yang, from talk of its television adaptation set for release on May 24, 2023. The upcoming Disney+ show intrigued me with its fantastical premise and star-studded cast, including Stephanie Hsu, Michelle Yeoh, Ke Huy Quan and Ben Wang. In anticipation of its upcoming release, I decided to read the original source material for the show to develop a better understanding of what to expect. Yang’s beautifully illustrated graphic novel is an action-packed and insightful look at the ways in which individuals navigate identity, the pressure to assimilate and the search for belonging as part of a minority facing the effects of racism.

The novel follows three distinct storylines which eventually intertwine, each focused on a central character struggling with the unique challenges of their environment as they contend with the

Early in the graphic novel, a character named Jin Wang recounts a story from his childhood in San Francisco’s Chinatown. An herbalist once asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up, to which he replied: a transformer. When he went on to express his doubt at the likelihood of this actually happening, she told him, “It’s easy to become anything you wish…so long as you’re willing to forfeit your soul” (Page 29).

This idea is deeply embedded in the interwoven storylines, a constant reminder that identity is malleable and can be changed to better conform to norms or achieve social desirability. However, the supposed social benefts of this transformation must be weighed out against the cost of losing the freedom to express and embody one’s own original sense of self. The possibility of this rebirth into a new identity drives all three characters, as they navigate who they want themselves to be and how they want to be perceived by their peers.

“It’s easy to become anything you wish...so long as you’re willing to forfeit your soul” (Page 29).

Designed by Christine King

Photo credit: Aaron Burden, Unsplash

The decision to attempt to transform and reidentify as part of the “in” group due to social pressures is frst introduced with the Monkey King, a central fgure in the classic Chinese novel, “Journey to the West.” A deity who fnds himself scorned by the other fgures of heaven for being a monkey, the Monkey King is excluded within the social circles he had hoped to join. This treatment leads him to attempt to cut ties with all his monkeylike characteristics as he tries to re-identify as “The Great Sage, Equal of Heaven” through training, appearance changes and modifcation of his title.

Jin Wang, a Chinese-American schoolboy whose story dominates one-third of the plot, mirrors the Monkey King’s internal dilemma as he struggles with the complex friendships and relationships in a school environment with very few Asian students. Plagued by the relentless comments of his classmates based on racist Asian stereotypes, Jin fnds himself isolated at school as he watches his white classmates become close friends with each other.

When a new student named Wei-Chen Sun arrives from Taiwan and receives similar treatment, Jin initially seeks to distance himself, claiming to

be friends with the classmates who have excluded him and even going so far as to label Wei-Chen as a FOB (“fresh off the boat”). His perception of what it means to be Asian and whether he should embrace it or push it away remains something he grapples with throughout the graphic novel.

The third storyline of the novel centers on Danny, an American student who is embarrassed by the annual visit of his cousin Chin-Kee. ChinKee is the embodiment of racist Asian stereotypes — a caricature of an Asian person complete with slanted eyes, an exaggerated accent and a propensity for ogling American women. With his depiction of this offensively cartoonish character, Yang portrays the consequences of the negative perception of Asians, leaving Danny struggling as people begin to identify him by his association with the harmful stereotypes so deeply embedded in the character of his cousin.

All three characters fnd themselves bound together through common themes as they seek to fnd a sense of belonging in the face of social ostracization, refecting each other’s stories through the ways each tried to escape their identities to “ft in” and what it cost them to do so. Nearing the end

Photo credit: MChe Lee, Unsplash

of the novel, the Monkey King says, “You know, Jin, I would have saved myself from fve hundred years’ imprisonment beneath a mountain of rock had I only realized how good it is to be a monkey” (Page 223). The Monkey King’s ultimate decision to return to his own true identity rather than preserving his superfcial transformation allows him the freedom to be himself, without the pressure to maintain the illusion of “ftting in.”

Though the herbalist starts the story by asserting the possibility of being reborn into a new identity, the Monkey King brings it to a close by sharing how embracing one’s true self is more rewarding than giving up one’s soul to assimilate into the majority.

When I fnished reading “American Born Chinese,” I found myself marveling at how human the characters were and how much I could identify with their struggles. Yang masterfully weaves together common themes throughout the three different stories and settings, demonstrating the desire to fnd belonging in unwelcoming environments and the challenges in accomplishing it.

It was easy to relate to the Monkey King’s insecurities and his hope to be accepted by those he considered his peers. Jin’s attempts to navigate his relationships with his classmates in the face of racial stereotyping and discrimination mirror the experiences of anyone trying to fnd belonging in places where the population does not represent them. Danny’s efforts to distance himself from the negative caricature embodied by Chin-Kee refect the pressure to escape racist stereotypes and redefne oneself outside the context of those prejudices.

Each character’s journey through their rebirths into a new, reconstructed identity and their return to their true selves depicts the strength it takes to be yourself when you are part of the minority. Told with bold colors, thrilling action and humor, this set of intertwining stories paints an engaging and empathetic picture of what it means to stay true to yourself in the face of immense pressure.

“Told with bold colors, thrilling action and humor, this set of intertwining stories paints an engaging and empathetic picture of what it means to stay true to yourself in the face of immense pressure.”

Photo credit: Andre Mouton, Unsplash

Reclaiming My Name

Reclaiming My Name

Written by Manisha Wanniappa Designed by Charlotte Chui

Iusedto hate my name. It was the bane of my existence during my childhood and preteen years. The way it looked, the way it sounded, the way it was butchered and mangled every time it came out of anyone else’s mouth. “Manisha” turned into “Manee-sha” or my personal favorite, “Mashina.”

But how could I blame them, really? I could barely pronounce it or spell it for that matter. I used to add an extra “n” or “p” to my last name by accident. I’ll admit I still do that sometimes.

This hatred of my birth name formed as a result of my environment. I have always felt caught between two identities: my identity as an American and my identity as a Sri Lankan. As a child, I attended a predominantly white private school where I often felt out of place because of my ethnicity.

My name was occasionally the punchline of jokes, and I resorted to going by nicknames like “Mini” or weirdly enough even “Minnie Mouse” for the entirety of fourth grade. I considered going by my middle name, Christen, to avoid feeling embarrassed but abandoned the effort after I failed to respond to it many times. I couldn’t see the beauty in my name until I reached 17.

In April 2019, I recorded music for the frst time. On a Wednesday evening in the recording studio of the California College of Music, I performed and sang four original songs that would eventually form my debut

EP “All My Sunsets.” I recorded all of the songs in one session that took a total of four hours, from 8 p.m. to midnight.

As I sang each song, I felt this light within me, a fame in my heart telling me that this was what I was made for. I felt completely in my element and the time few by. I will never forget that night.

When I was fnally ready to release my music to the world, the time came to decide on an artist name. I surprised myself when I realized that I wanted to go with “Manisha.” It sounded good to my ears and it made me feel like a star, like Madonna or Cher (please bear with my delusions). However, I soon discovered that there were 200+ singers named Manisha and suddenly the name felt less unique and personal to me.

I decided instead to take a leap of faith and go with my full name: Manisha Wanniappa. The decision made me toss and turn at night, but once my songs came out and my name was next to each of them, I knew I made the right choice.

Now you might be thinking, “What was the big deal in the frst place? Her name is not even that unusual.” And you would be right.

In hindsight, I don’t understand why it bothered me so much either. But lately I’ve been trying to reconnect with my younger self and understand her better. The past versions of ourselves still live on in all of us. And I like to think that younger me is proud that every song of mine is written by “Manisha Wanniappa.”

This hatred of my birth name formed as a result of my environment. I have always felt caught between two identities: my identity as an American and my identity as a Sri Lankan.

A Cross-Cultural Rebirth of Western Fashion: Favorable or Flawed?

are a refection of societal norms and current events, and they are extremely pervasive in our everyday lives – maybe more than we know.

For instance, the American fapper dress of the 1920s that we associate with “The Great Gatsby” epitomized the youth and rebellion dominating the prohibition era. This look was further popularized in Korea, where the Japanese colonial government promoted Western modernity, thus demonstrating the powerful salience of trends.

Another example is Chinese clothing in the year 265: it was a unique amalgamation of northern and southern traditional dress –– casual and fowy versus formal and stiff — due to migration initiated by frequent wars.

In the last century, the process of globalization has played a larger role in morphing fashion trends and consumerism. Globalization’s impacts on mass communication have consequently brought elite and mass cultures together, specifcally with regard to pop culture and fashion. This process has made consumers and designers more receptive to cultural infuences and inevitably broadened the physical range of the apparel marketplace.

Though exposure to different cultures is important, the question of cultural appropriation underlies the rebirth of American fashion. The popularity of Western fashion trends that refect globalizing ties with Asia can be seen in motifs on clothing.

For modern consumers in Western societies, globalization signifes an abundance of fashion at the click of a button, constantly restocked by giant retailers and ready to ship anywhere in the world. With this globally shared mass consumerism comes a homogenization of trends, specifcally in American fashion.

Moreover, women in the Philippines from the 16th to 18th century wore Hispanicized versions of traditional Filipino clothing due to the Spanish occupation of their country.4 Looking at what may seem as simple fashion trends through a more complex, nuanced lens provides insights into broader social structures and themes.

This tendency has proven to be both benefcial and detrimental to global communities. Though exposure to different cultures is important, the question of cultural appropriation underlies the rebirth of American fashion. The popularity of Western fashion trends that refect globalizing ties with Asia can be seen in motifs on clothing. For instance, symbols of wealth, power and respect from Chinese culture like koi fsh, dragons and tigers have become increasingly common in American fashion.

The intricate Chinese silk embroidery style named “xiuhua” or “zhahua” was once used to signify wealth and status. Xiuhua has now found its way into American trends on satin bomber jackets adorned with Chinese characters and embroidered tigers on the back.

The popularity of this embroidery produced dual consequences. The appearance of Chinese culture in an increasingly Westernized world promoted inclusivity, yet many of the brands profting from this trend were stealing from Asian American designers without crediting them.

See Forever 21 – a company notorious for unethical labor practices, fast fashion and nonexistent sustainability – and their mass production of these jackets for $45 (which is ironic because F21 clothing is notoriously known to be produced in sweatshops in Asia). In its attempts to diversify the industry, American fashion simultaneously reduces racial minorities to a mere source of appropriating trends and proft-making.

This cycle was also replicated with Korean fashion. Amidst the skyrocketing popularity of K-Pop in the 2010s came a surge in Korean fashion infuences on American style. K-Pop idols became both icons of music and fashion, as numerous stores (such as more fast fashion companies like Yesstyle and Shein) carrying their apparel appealed to K-Pop fans by creating a “K-Pop Outft” section.

The infuence of these globalizing patterns on consumer desires demonstrates the

power dynamics that shape the fashion industry.

Moreover, the widespread prevalence of Japanese kimonos during this time period further alludes to this habit. Celebrities like Kendall Jenner, Lady Gaga, Rihanna and Beyonce have been frequently spotted wearing silk kimono robes, demonstrating a celebration and appreciation of Japanese culture. However, it can be diffcult to draw the line between cultural appreciation versus appropriation.

Cultural appropriation takes elements of a culture without proper understanding, respect or permission, using them in a way

Photo Credit: CottonBro Studio, Pexels

This depicts the parallel side of globalizing fashion, as it often toes the line between inclusive and cultural appropriation. Ultimately, the key is to approach other cultures with humility, respect and a willingness to learn, rather than viewing them as exotic or trendy commodities to be consumed or appropriated.

Aside from the question of cultural appropriation versus cultural appreciation, the invisibility of Asian Americans in the fashion industry is another important issue we need to confront in the Western rebirth of globalized fashion.

Zoe Taylor, a graduate student at the Fashion Institute of Technology (FIT) in New York City, encapsulated the problem in an interview with Cold Tea Collective: “In the past, many Asian American designers have been incorrectly associated with only designing collections that showcase literal connections to their heritage.”1

The monolithic view of Asian Americans as only designing clothes that pertain to

their ethnic identity is damaging to many designers’ careers. For instance, Chinese fashion designer Philip Lim constantly gets questions like, “What does it feel like to be Asian? What is it like to be an Asian designer? Do you design Asian clothes? Is your favorite

The fashion industry often tokenizes the AAPI community by solely focusing on their cultural garments, while neglecting Asian American creatives that don’t only design cultural apparel. Though cross-cultural fashion can be a tool to expand our perspectives, apparel made by Asian Americans can also simply be that – clothing designed by an Asian

It’s important to challenge these assumptions and abolish the deeply entrenched stereotypes surrounding the AAPI community in fashion.

There is nothing problematic about being infuenced by other cultures and paying homage to diverse forms of fashion. Rather, the problem arises when companies steal designs and mass-produce cultural apparel in order to maximize proft, while lacking

Written by Sophie Vansomphone

Designed by Sophie Vansomphone

Illustrated by Sophie Vansomphone

5years old

New Year, New Me New Year, New Me

“Sophie, are you almost ready for school?” my mom shouts to me from the bottom of the stairs.

“Almost!” I yell over my shoulder, as I focus on the mirror in front of me in my bathroom.

The stool in front of the sink is just a little too short for me to fully see my re ection. So as any child would do, I push myself up to the tippy top of my toes and lean forward, my frilly ankle socks sliding on the plastic surface.

Today is the frst day of kindergarten, and my hair needs to be perfect!

How else am I going to make the most awesome best friend in the whole world?

Sticking out my tongue, I hold the left side of my hair up as high as I can. Blindly, I reach across the counter space, trying to look for my elastic hair tie as it hides in the sea of Build-A-Bear ribbons that I borrow from my favorite stu ed animals.

Aha! There it is! I think, as I feel the stretched-out rubber band. I quickly bring it to the ponytail I’m still grabbing in a death-grip and I wrap it one time. Two times. Three times! Four times!

Finally, it is tight enough and I grab the other side. I wrap it one time. Two times. Three times! And four times! I take a big breath as I let myself o my tip toes. Phew. That was exhausting, I think, but it's so pretty Now for the nishing touch!

Twisting my head to the counter, I scan the covered surface for which ribbon to choose. Why not pink like my ballet tutu? Or I could do yellow like daisies? Or how about purple, my favorite color? Oh, this is so hard.

“Mommmmm. Which ribbon should I pick?” I groan to her.

“Well, which one do you want?” she asks me.

“That’s the problem! I want all of them!”

She crouches down to me and puts her hand on her chin.

“So, if you want them all, why not put them all on?”

“Wait, I can do that?” I ask.

“Why not? If you like it, why not do it?”

“Oh, you’re right!” I excitedly say, as I race back to my bathroom. Quickly getting up on the stool, I shove all three colors into each ponytail. “Okay! I’m ready.” I turn to my mom just as she enters the bathroom.

“Are you sure about that? Your hair is a little lopsided,” she tells me. “Here, I’ll x it really quick.”

Right as she is about to straighten it up, I turn to the mirror and look at my hair again. As I see the burst of colors, I think of how happy I am with it, how pretty I think I look.

“Nope, that’s okay!” I shake my head to her, ponytails swishing back and forth. I hop o the stool and skip to my Disney princess backpack so we can go to school.

“I love it just the way it is!”

10years old

“Hey guys!” I smile brightly as I skip up to my friends. We are about to start the rst day of fth grade, and I can’t wait to show them the exciting thing I got over summer break. I’m going to be the coolest kid there.

“Hi Sophie! How was your summer?” my friend Mia asks.

“Well I have some news, I got-” I start saying but my friend Jenny cuts me o .

“I can’t believe it! Now we’re the big kids in elementary school! We are going to be so awesome, especially with the new shoes my mom got me!” She exclaims.

We crowd around her, all screaming excitedly. They are pretty great shoes, with a shiny red color and gold buckle.

“Yeah and look at my new headband that I got at Target!” our friend Sarah shouts. We all turn to her and yell enthusiastically. It’s such a pretty blue, almost like the sky!

“Look, it matches my new scrunchie!” Mia yells as she shows o the velvety band on her wrist. We all jump up happily.

“Yeah and check it out! I got braces!” I add to the conversation.

Still excited, I go on and pull my lip back to display the rows of metal. “There’s even colored rubber bands on them to match my ribbons!” I point excitedly.

Sure enough they are a bright sunny yellow. The same sunny yellow that I picked to match the ribbons in my hair.

“What?” I ask.

“Well, they're just not very nice. They don’t make you look pretty anymore?” Jenny tells me.

“Well I thought they were,” I say quietly.

“It doesn’t matter what you think. It matters what everyone else thinks, especially boys. They might think you look like a robot,” Sarah says.

How did I miss this? Why did no one ever tell me? I think my insecurity begins to show because Jenny quickly responds.

“Don’t worry, they come o anyway. My sister told me about this thing called a glow up. It’s when you make yourself pretty. Then all the boys will like you after that.”

Switching topics, she then says, “Now let’s go and nd our new desks!”

Slowly, I follow behind, dragging my feet along the pavement. No longer was I lled with a bubbly excitement that was about to burst.

However, I am still met with silence. I don’t hear any squeals of joy. I don’t see the excited faces I was hoping for. Instead, I am met with horror. Instead, I stay quiet, thinking about how I can’t wait to get these braces off and be pretty again.

15years old

I’m lying in bed as I search up ‘How to get a glow up fast’.

Hundreds, maybe even thousands of videos pop up, and I ick my nger to begin scrolling to get through the many YouTube videos. This is incredibly important. The rst day of high school is tomorrow, and I need to do something fast.

There are so many tutorials and vlogs, yet there’s not one 20 minute video I can get through. One girl shows how she glowed up by losing weight. Nope, can’t do that in time for tomorrow. Another girl cuts her own hair into a stylish lob with fringe. No, can’t do that either or Mom will kill me. Another girl raves about her clear skin being the key to perfect makeup, which is already an issue since I’ve had a bright red pimple on my forehead for the past week.

Maybe I can try changing my clothes. Clothes should be easy, I think, and I begin to skip ahead. However, I didn’t realize how much I hated the out ts they were displaying. Almost all the girls were wearing a combination of a white tank top with jeans and a neutral colored zip up. There’s nothing bad about it per se, but it's just boring. It’s not me.

I miss how colorful my clothes were. I miss how almost everything went with the bright yellow ribbon I used to wear when I was a kid. It really didn’t, but the ribbon was unique. It made me stand out. But in trying to achieve a glow up, I feel as if that uniqueness is lost. Now I’m just following the quick trends everyone is doing.

For the rst time, I am going to a new school and I need to make a good impression. How else am I going to get a new best friend? Well, at least any high school friend.

The only way to do that is a glow up. Finally settling with one girl’s video, I drag myself o the bed and to the bathroom. Pushing the old plastic stool to the side, I turn to the mirror and try to follow along with what she is saying in the tutorial.

However, I am never quite content with how I look.

20years old

“Sophie, are you almost ready for class?” my roommate shouts at me through the dorm bathroom door.

“Almost!” I yell over my shoulder, as I focus on the mirror in front of me.

Today is the rst day of college and everything needs to be perfect. How else am I going to make a good impression? How else am I going to show people who I am?

As I have gotten older, I realized that there was a time when I started to project other people’s opinions onto my own. I started to dislike the things that I thought were cool, unique and made me stand out.

I wanted nothing more to achieve the unattainable glow up everyone seemed to want. By doing so, I seemed to lose my individual personality.

However, it wasn’t until college, where I seem to let this mindset go. I don’t know if it is the sudden amount of freedom or the con dence of my peers, but I start to revamp myself into the old me. I begin once again to wear the frilly shirts I used to love rather than tight tank tops. I start to gravitate towards patterned skirts instead of constricting jeans. Instead of remaining neutral, I begin to add color once again to my life.

In the limited counter space of the dorm bathroom, I grab the simple hair tie I have laying on the side and tie my hair in a single ponytail.

“Bathroom’s all yours,” I say to my roommate as I open the door.

But before I leave, I do a quick turn around and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Something is missing. I hurry over to my desk and quickly go back to the mirror and add a sunny yellow ribbon.

“Is that it, or are you going to try to redo your hair again?” my roommate tells me.

“No. That’s okay.” I shake my head at her and walk over to my bunk to grab

“I love it just the way it is.”

ICARUS

Written by Lisa Ramos

Designed by Jasmine Fung

Illustrated by Amber Lee

What does it mean to fy too close to the sun?

It’s prevalent in our media to tell comingof-age stories of girls who leave behind their high school shackles to transform into these collegebranded, confdent women. It’s meant to be an admirable, empowering change that people strive to achieve.

Imprisoned in her tower up north, views bleary with clouds too hazy for a bright future, a girl longed to fnd a way out and make a name for herself. But she needed the skills, the background, the resume to sprout from a former nobody. And so she wrestled with abstract concepts and characteristics, taking advantage of her wanderlust mind to fnd different parts to create something that would lift herself up from this isolation, akin to patchwork.

She eventually forged a masterpiece — makeshift wings, unrecognizable from its source materials. By doing so, she built herself a new identity, strong enough to jump out and soar down a pathway south: where the sun never sets, where carefree angels roam its

land with relentless freedom. She shed old feathers, rose from fallen embers and was reborn.

Now in this new environment, she continued to fy almost aimlessly. She extended her wings wide in a grand array that surrounded her, dipping them in any piping hot opportunity she could fnd. Elated and ecstatic, she spun and fipped in circles, finging herself into multiple groups and bonds with this newfound extrovertism. Like a phoenix, she shone radiantly in the otherwise deep blue, sun-gleamed gold sky.

But the wider the wings expanded, the more she spread herself thin. There were unavoidable repercussions of putting oneself out there and aiming for high sights that no one even warned or whispered about.

The more people she met and focks she joined, the more expectations she placed upon herself to stay at their level, to stay within their favor. But she could only put her equal effort in so many commitments before her lacking presence became evident to others. This all perpetuated a cycle of worry about what others thought of her abandonment; soon enough, this fear began to affect the few focks she managed to cling on to. Now, she few solo, setting all responsibilities afame in fear of disappointment. The disappointments of her groups, of herself, of set ambitions she failed to maintain. She couldn’t imagine rejoining these friends in their journeys out of shame.

Then there was the ghosting of sparked relationships, speeding away with a never-satiated pleasure to fnd better. But then she would see them again, fying higher than she could have ever dreamed of and leaving her in the ashes.

Then, there were forgotten anniversaries, forgotten friends from the tower up north from when she was blinded by the enticing glow of a clearer sun, no longer blocked by her homeland’s opaque fog.

Instead, the delayed consequences of her aerobatic loops done to impress had now hit her with dizzying anxiety. The sickness of being everywhere all at once rendered her unsteady in motion, wings offset.

In the wake of her trail were now burned bridges. Burned bridges whose initial fames she once embraced for both comforting solace and the fery, exciting thrill. Only to remain with the harsh scorches

But the wider the wings expanded, the more she spread herself thin. There were unavoidable repercussions of putting oneself out there and aiming for high sights that no one even warned or whispered about.

of past extinguished relationships, snuffedout prospects and frozen memories unlikely to be reignited, remembered.

The exhaust fueling her wings will give out eventually — a refection of her own exhaustion, or perhaps a sign that those who had once helped lift her wings have grown exhausted of her as well.

The exhaust fueling her wings will give out eventually — a refection of her own exhaustion, or perhaps a sign that those who had once helped lift her wings have grown exhausted of her as well.

new life was for naught. She doesn’t know if she can even generate the energy given another chance of rebirth — not when she is mere miles away from an even more daunting fnal destination. Adulthood. There is no turning, no reverting back to her old self.

Either way, she is doomed to crash. Does she continue soaring to eventually be incinerated by the sun or plunge into the unknown abyss? If all things fail, the distance made for this

With these questions in her head, she fies forward, ensuring her eyes remain level at the horizon. No more blazing, stratospheric aspirations or falling into oceanic trenches of tears — only what is right before her.

Flying not too high, not too low.

A Letter to Myself A Letter to Myself

Written by Kelly Ou

Designed by Charlotte Chui

Dear Kelly,

Congratulations! Your 17 years of hard work have paid off. You are studying at one of the best universities in the country, and you should be very proud of what you have accomplished.

As you are packing up your things to move into your new dorm and saying goodbye to your parents and friends, I know you’re feeling a roller coaster of emotions looking at the clutter of suitcases and bags by your bed. You’re looking at your acceptance letter constantly just to remind yourself that you are fnally going to a school that you had never imagined yourself at.

Excitement, fear, nervousness, or more importantly, the anticipation to reinvent yourself into the person you’d always dreamt of being when you fnally got to college. It was what everyone instilled in you your whole life, so of course you thought college would be the magic solution to breaking free from the negative stereotype that inner-city youth will never be able to attain higher education, much less one from a prestigious university.

By the end of your frst quarter, you may have realized that the “college experience” isn’t all just going to parties and getting to explore LA with your new group of friends. There will be multiple nights where you will stay up writing essays or the many times you will eat alone in the dining halls for lunch when everyone else has class.

That is when you understand that you are just one of many thousands of UCLA students in the seemingly endless grind

of going to class, offce hours, studying for exams and working towards the glamorous milestone of being able to call yourself a college graduate.

You may think that by moving to the city, you would automatically change into the person your 14-year-old self envisioned being: fearless and ready to conquer whatever comes her way. You’re going to recognize the hard way that you are going to fail at times, whether it’s getting rejected from a research position or bombing that one physics exam you spent the entire night studying for, and that’s okay.

You’ve been hearing since high school that college would be the best years of your life. In reality, college might not be the best four years of your life, and even though that might initially come as a shock to you, that just means you have other opportunities of growth after college ends. When you start a new job or introduce yourself to a stranger, you have the chance to reinvent yourself and strive to be a better version of yourself.

Don’t worry too much if you don’t accomplish everything you thought you would in college. You’re going to have an experience of a lifetime in these four years regardless. Congratulations for making it to UCLA and you’re going to accomplish amazing things!

Best wishes, Your future self (Kelly)

My Mercury Retrogrades are Out of Order

My Mercury Retrogrades are Out of Order

Written by Jasmine Fung

Designed by Jasmine Fung

Iam an incredibly introspective person to a fault. Not in an “I’m better than you” way, but genuinely, my thoughts, anxieties and fears just get the better of me sometimes.

I practically live in my own head most of the time. And yes, I may be completely egotistical and think too highly of myself when I tell people that I believe that I might be one of the funniest people I know, but it actually gets so exhausting thinking all the damn time. Sometimes, I just want to be a farm vegetable soaking in the sun until harvesting season.

I really hope you found that funny or at least, a little weird.

Nevertheless, here are some moments in my life where I felt unreal, like a voyeur of life instead of a participant, and I felt a fresh new perspective.

I promise I have a point here.

5. Finishing a book that I’ve been way too invested in is completely and utterly devastating. It begins with me cracking open a new book (probably an epic fantasy romance novel) with a sense of wonder and curiosity about the universe I’ve been transported to and the characters I meet along the way. Then, it gets to the juicy parts: the plot unfolds and you can feel the betrayal coming – everything that’s happened so far in the book is on the line. There’s a sheen of sweat on my brow, I haven’t eaten anything in hours and my eyes are fghting to keep open. My fngers fip through the rest of the

pages anxiously. Suspense.

There are 30 pages left to wrap up the story. Each page fip means less material in my right hand, and I’m trying to understand how this book, which has just upended my entire life, could be ending in a couple of pages.

It ends, and I can’t comprehend how or why it’s done. I just know that I am brought back to reality. I am tired and hungry. The frst lights of dawn streaming through my window and the morning birds cooing from outside. Most importantly, I am confronted with the fact that there is no secret magic world with every possibility at my fngertips.

No. Instead, I realize that I am a human being with limitations, and I rummage the kitchen cabinets for a snack as the brunt of my hunger hits me. In these moments, I ask myself: why be anywhere in the real world when I can escape into one with heart-wrenching plot schemes that make me feel alive in the comfort of my own home? In this case, I feel too real and weighed down by the burden of existing.

But, I am also encouraged and resolved to believe in and live the exciting parts of life. Being present in the moment and enjoying both the contentment of mundanity and the sublimity of beautiful moments is incredibly surreal on its own. Romanticizing life, or

rather, recognizing that art and books are only a mimicry and a refection of real life is disheartening but liberating too.

4. It’s a different kind of unsettling, too, when I visit a different city. I become an outsider looking into a local’s life instead of being an ever-revolving door in my own life. Last year, when I was on a spontaneous trip to New York with my mom during spring break, it became a desperately needed break in perspective. I was able to pause my own ambitions and dreams for a few days and see life from someone else’s point of view. In that instance, I understood that everyone else was also just trying their best to live their lives like I was.

It was a much needed bird’s eye view of life that made me ponder all the other possibilities of life. I would see children playing in Central Park and wonder how their experience growing up and going to school was different from my experience in San Francisco. Visiting a new city makes you realize how big the world is and how small

PhotoCredit:Pixabay , Pexel s

Romanticizing life, or rather, recognizing that art and books are only a mimicry and a refection of real life is disheartening but liberating too.

your individual self inevitably is. It’s a scary concept, but I also think it makes the world so much bigger in possibilities and opportunities for new things to learn, new people to meet and new friends to make.

3. In a melancholic twist, another sublime moment I had was during the initial months of lockdown. I was a graduating senior in high school, FaceTiming my best friend on the slanted driveway of my house. The sun was setting on the horizon and all I could do was refect on the passage of time – my best friend and I had completely run out of things to talk about several weeks into lockdown, and nothing else was going on in our lives. It was truly unreal to conceptualize that I was graduating in a few days in my living room, through a slideshow presentation, with cars driving around the neighborhood honking their congratulations.

Cue the existential crisis, I guess.

I didn’t want to graduate and go into the real world and become an adult. I wasn’t ready for that, but it was out of everybody’s control. Sitting on my driveway and refecting on that panic and dread for the future makes you realize the inevitability of time. As much as I wanted to reject everything that was happening, I was a high school senior graduating, no matter how weird my situation was. Instead of fghting time and losing, I realized that I could only let it pass.

2. I guess sitting in a designated vehicle parking area is a recurring theme here because I had a sequel to my existential crisis at the parking lot of my community college. For three semesters, I stayed at home and did school either online or virtually. I had never set foot in my community college except to pick up some preserved bones for a lab in a bio class. Spring semester of my sophomore year was the only semester I did not have to go through the mandatory “I want to see your beautiful faces” comment. For that, I was super grateful.

Anyway, I was sitting in the parking spot and had to realize how much I had grown since that day in senior year. I drove myself (on the 280 Highway) to school, and now I was about to head into class. It was a big departure from the uncertainty two years prior. I contemplated all the things that I’d done since then, including going to college, getting a part-

time job at a local bakery, fguring out my major and getting accepted into UCLA as a transfer. In this moment, I realized how life was moving without me even realizing it. It was surreal because although it felt like I was just going through the motions of post-COVID college life, I had done things I was actually proud of myself for.

1. I was at LAX recently. I few back for the start of spring quarter, and I had one of those moments where you pretend as if you are completely upheaving your life and starting over while staring out the airplane window (even though I was in the aisle and the fight was only an hour long). And then, I started to think, “Why are all these people here on a Sunday afternoon?” It’s interesting when you see yourself from the outside, and you realize people are probably asking the same questions about you – like duh, I’m a college student trying to get back to my apartment after spending a great week eating the best food with my parents in the Bay Area.

It’s a weird moment when you’re in a space with so many moving people going from place to place with schedules and plans to fulfll. But, I think it’s quite relieving to know that people are just trying to live their lives and that whatever is happening in my own life is just a tiny blip in the universe as I’m packed like sardines between two other passengers inside a Delta Airlines aircraft.

Okay, jokes aside.

These sublime moments always get me out of my own head, and it’s beautiful when they do. My daily life is often jam-packed and fully booked with getting assignments done, readings, dinner plans, mid-day existential crises, then deciding if I should call my parents – I should probably stop there.

The point is, these moments make me feel like a tiny, little human bean on a foating rock. My ambitions, goals and priorities of course matter to me, but it’s nice to have that moment of realization where I am able to remember that I am trying as hard as I can and doing my best. In these moments, I fnd the selfcompassion I’ve been neglecting. Time stretches on, everything seems possible and I can fnally embrace that sense of peace and enjoy the chaos of life that comes with being human.

I think it’s quite relieving to know that people are just trying to live their lives and that whatever is happening in my own life is just a tiny blip in the universe as I’m packed like sardines between two other passengers inside a Delta Airlines aircraft.

medea on the pyre.

Written by Varsha Ravi

Designed by Varsha Ravi

Illustrated by Van Tran

The mage knows her given name to be Malli, but to all of the servants of the house, she is Lady Kali, my mistress Kali, and if he ever asks after the origin of the nickname, he is met with blank stares and disparaging shrugs. You’re the genius, they seem to be saying. Surely this is obvious enough.

But there is nothing obvious about the lady wife of Governor Kumaran, except perhaps her beauty. Perhaps her wit, which would have put her through the Academy at a faster pace than even him, if women were allowed to enroll.

They take lessons in her parlor, a small, gabled veranda in the offshoots of the Lotus Palace. It is there

that she frst raises a dove and there that she frst kisses him.

The dove, though not far short of a miracle, is a lesser shock. He’s known of her genius for a while now, and though it took him years to master necromancy –nigh on a decade, now – he knows what will happen as he lays the dead bird on the table.

Lady Malli glances up at him, fngertips brushing across stiff feathers, and then turns her gaze down to the dove. “What happens if I fail?”

“It stays dead.” She bites her lip, and he adds, “It would not feel anything, my lady. But if you succeed…”

“If I succeed.” Malli strips the glove from her other hand. “You think too much of me, Master.”

But she sounds pleased as she says it, a grin curling along the line of her mouth that he remembers from past lessons. The lady loves to win, he knew even then. And she does win, light sparking through the dove’s breast until it fings itself out of her hands and into the air.

For a moment he fnds himself paralyzed with awe, eyes fitting between the corpse bird and his lady. Then he remembers himself, his work, and sets the dove on fre.

The mage hears her gasp as he guides the charred bird to the workbench but does not look away until it has fallen to ashes. It deserves that dignity, at the very least. “Why did you do it?”

He has lost count of the times people have asked him that. Imbued with curiosity, horror, sympathy, condemnation. Every action of his becomes a trial of its own, although none so terrible as the Academy’s last. But he meets Malli’s gaze now, a concession he had not offered the tribunal. “If you had failed, it would not have suffered. But the dove died broken and in pain – it returned much the same.”

“We could’ve healed it,” she argues, eyes bright.

“Would you have?” He remembers the rabbit hutch at the Academy, dank with fear and blood. Abruptly he feels a raw, violent sort of envy that she can think of this dove as something that might be saved, when they only ever worked with animals born to die. “I apologize, then. Next time we will wait.”

But there is no next time. They move to other magics, and just as he thinks of turning back to necromancy, she meets him in the parlor with a squirrel wriggling in her hands. A smear of blood and soot rings its neck, but it seems content to eat acorns out of her pouch.

“Look,” she tells him, lips curling into that grin that he knows. He wonders who else has seen it, who else she has offered it to. He wonders if her husband has. Then he forces his mind to the squirrel, reaching out with his magic to its health and happiness, and feels himself grow still.

of the distance between them, the distance they must both keep in place. Without it, he feels unmoored. “Does the lord governor know?” Her shoulders drop. “I do not mean to–”

“He does not,” she says carefully, “And he will not.”

Her eyes are refulgent, bright as coals, and she is unsmiling. A peculiar chill takes hold of the mage, the burning cold of fever drawn too far.

Rain beats at the balustrade, rivulets tracing down to fll the stone between. Malli sidesteps these as she crouches.

They wait until the squirrel has disappeared into the gardens. She turns, or he turns to her. There is rain in his mouth, so there is rain in hers. A laugh bubbles to life in his throat, but they cannot make noise – they must not. So it makes itself magic, presses petals to her skin and lifts sparks into the air, and they do not break apart. Magic is a waste without an audience.

But it does not feel like a waste, he thinks hazily, moving back to his lady’s lips. He is sodden, soaked to the bone, but her touch turns water to oil and sets him alight.

Perhaps he was ill, and she was too. He thinks of this afterward with some regularity, trying to trace everything back to its roots. Perhaps what laid between them was simply sickness, a strange new strain of madness.

A laugh bubbles to life in his throat, but they cannot make noise – they must not. So it makes itself magic, presses petals to her skin and lifts sparks into the air, and they do not break apart.

“My lady,” he begins. Cautiously, he says, “It is not in pain.”

“I merged a few of your spells,” she explains, smug. She’s earned it, she’s – he can’t tear his eyes away from the squirrel. He tries, and his gaze wanders back. Distantly, he hears her say, “I’ve been trying at it for a while.” When? “Have I made a mistake?”

The mage puts his hands over hers. Over the squirrel. The squirrel, she – he returns himself to the herculean task of speaking. “No, you – Not a mistake. To call it a miracle would be to rob you of the accomplishment, to put it in the hands of the gods.” He feels frayed; something has torn loose, some dam come to collapse, and the words rush out, heedless and dangerous and impossible to keep at bay. “You are – marvelous. My lady–”

“Malli,” she cuts in. Her shoulders are heaving slightly. “Call me Malli, for once.”

“Malli,” he says, tentative, covetous, shivery with the strangeness of it all. He has only ever referred to her as the lady of the house. It helps to remind him

But he knows that love is at its heart a sickness, a madness that led them sweetly to the pyre. Only an affiction would have ruined them so swiftly.

She tells him in her bed, not two months after that frst kiss. He still teaches her in the parlor, to keep up appearances, but afterward, he scrambles up the eastern trellis to steal inside her unlocked window.

It makes him feel unbearably young, this fool’s affair of theirs. But they have not been children for quite some time, and so, inevitably, the discussions of those lucent, warm evenings turn toward the topic of her marriage.

“I have not lain with him,” she says, unbidden. “Not like I have with you. He is on campaign so often, or in the tribute territories, and when he returns, I make excuses. I steal myself into the woods. He never asks.” She pauses, turns to face him. “I do not want him to. I want – I want for him to never ask.”

The savagery of those last words stills his fngers where they comb through her hair. He searches her face, taking in her strong brow, high cheekbones, thin, curling lips. He is not sure what he is looking for or if he has found it.

“My lady,” he says, eventually.

“Malli,” she corrects. And then, “Or Kali, if you wish. It is not as if I don’t hear my maids in their work.”

“Why do they call you that?”

Her mouth twists.

“Early in my time here, there was a banquet. During the monsoons. None of the fres would keep – nothing was dry, nowhere. But it was my frst function, as lady of the house, and I was –determined. Adamant, they will tell you. So I sent the courses out half-cooked, in that Western style, and took the frst bite for myself.”

“It was bloody.” It isn’t a question; she nods. He thinks of her with blood on her teeth, smeared at the corner of her mouth, hands outstretched with all those undead animals squirming between them. “Have you developed a taste for it?”

Malli makes a face, shoving him across the sheets. He goes easily, lips twitching up. But there are darker topics still at task, and he soon sobers. “Ladies choose their husbands, do they not? Why did you choose the lord governor, if you…”

She picks at the discarded edge of her pallu. “My family needed the marriage. Ladies can reject their suitors, but I could not. Not in our circumstances.” Her face crumples for a moment, a spasm that she swiftly erases. When she speaks, her voice is even. “I thought I was prepared for this. Clearly I was not, and now I am bound here for the rest of my days. Until my death, or his. Strange, isn’t it? We have our magics, our conquests and courtesies, and yet women are still called to follow their husbands to the pyre in sati.”

His gaze snaps to her, and just as quickly moves away. He feels dirty for even thinking it, a traitor to his lady and his work – he makes to rise off the sheets and she catches his wrist. Her eyes are slitted; she never misses anything. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” he says, unconvincing to his own ears. He pulls away, tugs on his half-buttoned shirt and the brocaded long coat that marks him as a mage. “Nothing, my l– Malli. Please, forget I–”

She says his name, and the fght slips out of him so swiftly he wonders if she wove it into some spell he did not pick up in his time at the Academy. She says his name and asks again. This time, he cannot deny her.

December 7th.

I told her of my concerns. She does not share them –said “this future is more of a nightmare than anything [she] will face in the afterlife.” But I have spent years raising the dead. Of her return, I have no doubt. The world of the living has always posed a greater challenge to the both of us.

I wish she would let me kill him, even though she has earned the right to do it herself. I wish she would let me die in her stead, as a heretic witch and not a bereaved wife following sati. I wish she would raise me; I would welcome it, I think. It has always been too easy for me to go to her.

December 3rd.

Plans fnalized. I worry hesitate. I do not doubt that the revival spells are now painless. But there have never been human trials. The Academy does not allow vivisection, and it is not something I have ever been interested in. I do not want her to feel I do not want her to be the frst trial.

He raises her on the very pyre that burned her. Her skin is dusted with soot, blistered where the barrier spell grew thin, and stiff to the touch. He has come by so many corpses, been the cause of so many more. Death is closer kin to him than his sire.

But his nausea does not abate when he presses magic deep into her skin, his stomach turning even as his lady gasps back to life. She looks at him, at the sky, at the manse past the line of his shoulders, recognition fickering and fading in her eyes. He does not breathe for fear of retching.

Then she settles, lips curling up. That old smile, the one he knows better than his own – he relaxes, fnally. Their kiss tastes of smoke and bile.

He takes her across the river to the village by the eastern sea where he grew up. The monsoons have only just passed, but even the humid, rain-soaked air does not lift her hair to curl, not as he remembers it to.

There is some land left to him by his brothers, both of whom have long since passed. They never saw eye to eye, even before the controversies of his necromancy, but it still rips something loose in him, to stand in this house and not smell betel and smoke.

“Have you decided?” he asks his lady, pitching his voice low so as to not alarm his childhood nurse, now the only remaining servant of his eldest brother’s household and the cottage’s previous tenant. The mage is half sure she’s senile, but their position is too precarious to risk it.

She looks around, noting the thick mantle of dust on the windowsill, the crust of salt where the sea wind blows in, the threadbare curtains. Absent all the comforts she’s been raised to crave. Not for the frst time, he feels uneasy over the role he’s played in bringing her here, lowering her as he has.

“Strange, isn’t it? We have our magics, our conquests and courtesies, and yet women are still called to follow their husbands to the pyre in sati.”

“Kali,” his lady says, turning with a smile that sharpens under nearby shadow. Familiar, and yet shaded strangely, brought to light with different pigments. Not unlike the nickname – a clever shift in letters, intonations, emphasis, one that seems to remake her entirely, from fower to blood. “I will call myself Kali here.”

“My lady Kali?” And he goes cold, but his lady turns easily, meets the old nurse as she ducks into the room.

“Just Kali, pati,” she corrects, patting the woman’s hand. “Miss Kali, if you’d like.”

are so many people left to see it. The mage steps on the kolam, unraveling its designs and mixing the rice four so thoroughly that there are only fecks of pink, here and there. Hardly noticeable. He pulls the palm fronds that fringe the thinnai further out, until they cast the whole porch in shadow, thrusting Kali into the darkness of the unlit house. He shifts close, throws his shoulders back. Only then does he speak.

“What happened? Did you raise something?”

Her face – so beautiful, always so beautiful, clean and pure as a lotus – twitches. Spasms, in something that could be a smile if it studied the craft. Then it disappears.

But her eyes still burn.

“Malli,” he whispers, but it’s all wrong, it’s all ash and old bile. He tries again. “Kali. What happened?”

January 20th.

M K posing as my assistant and wife. Villagers have accepted this; her skill in magic is extraordinary. If anything, I should be her assistant. But that would draw attention, even if

The magistrate has contracted me on a smaller project. Not necromancy – headache medicine, if somewhat tailored to his daughter’s needs. Past that, few jobs from the community. Gardening, and the like. Raising the dead makes one few friends among the living, it seems.

She seems to return to herself with the name. Swiftly she turns to the side and pours the water jug over her hands, scrubbing idly. Without looking up, she says, “People came looking for you. For us.”

“People?”

Kali waves a hand. “Cutthroats. There is a bounty out, and one of them seemed familiar with you.”

The mage exhales and feels years older for it. He refused to return to his home after he began at the Academy. But there were a few friends, neighborhood children, that might remember his interest in magics, even at that young age.

“The payment?” He glances up to see his lady incline her head towards his hands. “From the magistrate.”

There is blood scattered on the pressed dirt outside their house. In places it has mixed with the rice four of the kolam and turned the pale blush of the early dawn. In others it has mixed with dew-damp earth in a darker, more dispersed stain, one only belied by a viscous gloss that glints in the light.

The mage stares at the blood. Thinks of rabbits, of fear, of the stench of dried blood and emptied bowels and the shining stone table that he’d laid every corpse upon before he’d brought them back to life.

They’d told him it was torture, what he was doing – the anatomy courses killed them once, but he had stretched that death a thousandfold through resurrection.

But it had always had a purpose. It was for the best, he knew. It was for good; it was for them, for their pain, for the screams he’d heard and the blood that always came with it.

He hasn’t seen blood in so long. Not like this.

A choked noise draws his attention. The dying sun silhouettes his lady under the low lintel. There is blood on her hands, and it drips.

It is not so late. Her hands are bloody, and there

The mage looks down, uncurls his fst to reveal the coin pouch and the magistrate’s note. Yes, he remembers now – the magistrate, his daughter, the headache medicine. He drops the pouch into his satchel and steps past her into the house. Turns.

“And their bodies?”

Kali waves her hand again, and water splatters against the side of his cheek, perfumed with iron and smoke, earth and camphor. “I took care of it.”

January 28th.

It does make sense. K’s explanation, that is. There were rags printed with the bounty in the city, and it isn’t as if Uma pati is an unbiased, rational source regarding this. But my old nurse has alleged –certain unsavory things, regarding that previous altercation. Things about my lady, about what she did with the bodies. About who the bodies were.

I don’t know. There is too little evidence either way, too much strangeness. The nights grow darker, and when I return home from my work, I cannot distinguish the smoke of prayer from that of the pyre.

A clever shift in letters, intonations, emphasis, one that seems to remake her entirely, from fower to blood.

Not far from the house, a freshwater spring burbles, mingling with the faraway crash of the waves in the dead of night. Enough of a lullaby to put him to sleep most nights as a child, but the mage fnds that repose does not come so easily these days.

He wades in until the soft, rocking waves of the surrounding pond have risen to his knees. There was a time when he derived a kind of peace from that. He had hoped it might still work the same… He had hoped.

A shriek of birdsong erupts from just beyond the treeline, and he loses his footing in the muck. The spring perches upon a bit of lifted stone, but the pond itself is deep enough to drown a grown man, and the water closes over his head easily.

For a moment, he lets it. Tastes the faint siltstrangeness of water that his movements have dug up from the foor of the pond, thin and fusty where it rises above the clean taste of the springwater.

Distantly, he remembers his work. His lady. Now, as always, he cannot let himself go.

By the time he returns, his wrung-out clothes have dried well enough, but he still changes before returning to his offce for the night. He senses, rather than sees, the heat of the oil lamps burning within. But by then it is already too late. Kali looks up from his desk, correspondence falling through her fngers like ash.

“Is it true?” Her voice cracks against him like a whip. “Has the magistrate offered you his daughter’s hand in marriage? Do you plan to accept?”

“Kali,” he says, and then closes his eyes. He had time to change, but not dry himself. Water drips from the edge of a curl onto his collarbone. “My lady. Please.”

“You can’t call me that.” She grasps his shoulders, shakes him roughly. Just once. But it sinks her nails in to the quick, draws blood so easily he wonders if she was made for it. The dregs of the pond drip themselves down, mix with his blood, and still he does not know how to answer her.

“It is true that he offered,” he says at last. Low, scraping. She hisses out a breath in response. “She is – of age. Barely. But I have almost a decade on her, I don’t – Kali, I don’t want her. You know I don’t.”

“Is it because I killed them? Is that why you’re leaving?” she asks. The birds shriek again, twisting the very edge of her voice into a howl. “I had to. They were going to kill us – they were going to take me back. I will not go back.”

“Kali,” he says again. Opens his eyes, meets hers. They glint strangely in the frelight, he thinks faintly. The

fames ficker, and dance, and behind them, something writhes. “Did you… What happened to their bodies?”

Her eyes grow still, all that darkness freezing in place. “I took them down to the sea.”

It does not feel like a lie. Not a lie, but not the full truth either.

“And then?” he prompts.

The line of her mouth curls. “I burned them. Like they did to me.”

March 11th.

K grows more… erratic. I have told her many times that I do not plan to marry the magistrate’s daughter, but she continues to ask, every occasion more fraught than the last.

The work from the magistrate has convinced the village of my good skill, though, so there has been more work of late. There are some weeks I spend entirely out of the house. And when I return, the bedchamber is empty, and the house stinks of smoke and turned earth.

I go to the spring so often now. But it never brings me to rest.

April 6th.

We held the funeral for Uma pati today. She wanted to be cremated, as her mother was, and so we followed her wishes. I was sick afterwards, as I always am after I see the pyre.

Kali meets him beside the spring, her hands and eyes shadowed strangely under the new moon. The mage cannot remember ever seeing her here – but that does not matter now. He is so tired. Of the fghts, the blood. The smoke.

He cannot be sure whether the woman in front of him now is the one he wants to see – he does not trust himself so much anymore.

And he has missed her so much. When Kali steps into the pond, he follows her. The water pulses around them, and the mage casts a simple spell to keep the silt from getting in their eyes. When he opens his own, she is already smiling at him.

Perhaps he will always go to her when she asks, when she smiles, when the waters rise high. Perhaps their story has only ever had one end.

Perhaps he will always go to her when she asks, when she smiles, when the waters rise high. Perhaps their story has only ever had one end.

Springwater swirls around them, shifting, slipping. A strange taste slips onto his tongue, neutral but for that bare edge of bitterness. He presses his lips to his lady’s and tastes it twofold, sharper and more acrid than he remembers it in his own mouth.

Kali reaches out, cups his face with one hand. He leans into it and watches the other twist deftly in the liquid around them, setting oil to fame.

नौजवानों young people

Designed by Varsha Ravi

Illustrated by Van Tran

Devi (1975)

She was the girl neighbors would gossip about.

“She always returns so late. I wonder who she was with,” said Mrs. Ramesh. A light sleeper, the retired school teacher would often catch Devi at the door late into the night.

While it looked like Devi didn’t have a care in the world, her long braids occasionally whacking Mrs. Ramesh in the face as she frantically opened the door, she was deeply affected by the way her world viewed her.

Devi was a storybook good girl. She always helped her mother with the groceries, completed her homework on time, spent loads of time with her grandparents, and never bunked class.

But she was late – all the time, chronically. And this awful trait was what Mrs. Ramesh was sure would lead to other horrible things, like lipstick and short skirts. It was a view that many neighbors and friends shared, and it hurt Devi deeply.

Every time she tried to improve her image, a new faw was revealed. A few weeks ago, Mrs. Ramesh’s fancy boarding school nephew came to visit from Ooty. Devi accidentally stuck the aachar spoon to mix the sugar into the chai, and the minute the tea entered his mouth, the boy’s gelled hair collapsed and he screamed, “Hot! Hot!”

Everyone had their imperfections, but Devi wished for a time when she wasn’t this way. She aspired to be a poised Hema Malini or a graceful Sridevi, like those heroines she saw on screen at the complex. Films and the glitz and glamor of the Mumbai lifestyle were her escape from her world. It was a reality where anyone could sing or dance – the hero was never the smartest, but the one with the biggest heart.

It was in these movie complexes that she spent hours fantasizing about a life she knew she would never lead. One where she moved to Mumbai after school to work as a model until she got discovered by a small-time director who would become a bigbudget flmmaker that could transform her into a star.

But that was a daydream. One that was so rosy and romantic that it tasted of endless rasmalai. Sometimes she would sit and think about this for hours after the flm ended, just to taste the sweetness of what could be just one more time. Hours drained from the clock and minutes drizzled slowly and sank into the red foor of the theater.

On one of these evenings, Devi got the feeling that she was late. It was the frst time in her life that she ever felt this sense of urgency to be somewhere.

When she stepped out, it was already dark and the chaiwala had closed for the night. She rushed home on the uneven road, her footsteps from earlier that

Films and the glitz and glamor of the Mumbai lifestyle were her escape from her world. It was a reality where anyone could sing or dance – the hero was never the smartest, but the one with the biggest heart.

day still visible. She kept walking, thinking about what was waiting for her at home – something more than Mrs. Ramesh’s nasty glare, she thought to herself. And she was right.

Devi entered the fat slowly, taking her time and trying to see what noise would seep through the door. Once she turned the key, four heads turned back at her. Her mother, her father, Mrs. Ramesh and the boarding school boy watched her walk in and sit. Devi focused on the clock on top of the bookshelf and watched as time fell, like a waterfall. She didn’t need to ask questions. She already knew.

Devi (1980)

For the second time in her life, Devi felt the urgency to be somewhere. She was standing in a supermarket looking for kottamalli, a word that she didn’t know the English translation for. It was winter in Stamford, and everything was blanketed by a fne, foreign white powder that Devi was slowly getting used to.

gray countertop. The cashier took one look at her and handed her a pregnancy test.

“Clean up in the front,” she screamed into the intercom.

Radha (1985)

My frst memory of my Amma was of her sitting in the dining room watching the clock. Her eyes glazed over the time, and it looked as if the minutes were falling one by one into her eyes and then streaming down her face. The dal was in the pressure cooker, and Amma was waiting for it to whistle. I wondered who the last person she talked to was.

She would briefy converse with my father when she made chai, but oftentimes it came out all wrong. My father would always complain about Amma’s chai, and each drink poured down the sink would be a piece of Amma’s heart in the drain.

“Cow-toe-molly? No. We don’t have that, try somewhere else,” the woman at the register barked at her.

The brightness of the white snow and the light refecting off the tiled foors was making her dizzy as she tried to explain what she needed to a cashier.

“Cow-toe-molly? No. We don’t have that, try somewhere else,” the woman at the register barked

Devi’s head spun. Every bit of refected white light seemed to enter her eyes and strain them. She ran out of ways to explain what she needed, but as she was about to give it one more try, she vomited over the

She rarely spoke with me either. Her words with me were limited to “Finish your food Radha” or “Ayo, Radha you have left such a mess.” I had been up from my nap earlier than expected, so I hid behind the stairwell, observing my mother in her unnatural habitat. I was worried my long braids that she had oiled in the morning would hit the wall and reveal my cover.

The pressure cooker started to hiss, but Amma remained still, her eyes fxed on the clock. I thought about calling out to her, but every time I tried, the hissing became roaring, and the roaring became thundering.

The lid of the pressure cooker few from the stove to the wall, knocking the clock from its mount and awakening Amma from her trance. She sat on the foor and cried over her spilt lentils. That was my frst memory of her.

Amma’s few words over the years turned into mutters which later fell into silence. It wasn’t just that we didn’t talk about our emotions or that we argued; we simply avoided conversation all together. We would go days foating through the house, each of us on our own cloud, the distance felt through silence and through time. There was still a hole in the wall from when the pressure cooker lid had hit the clock. Sometimes if I looked closely, I could see the black circle that used to be there and its stiff white hands.

My father was still out for work often. His visits back would consist of broken tea cups and slightly disconcerting conversations with me where he would ask about school and friends, making sure I was staying out of trouble. Ten years had changed nothing.

It was autumn and the heat of summer had calmed into a crisp breeze. Amma was content these days, I could tell. An Indian store had opened in Hartford and she would listen to the many cassette tapes of Hindi songs that she bought from there all day.

Even music alone wasn’t enough to make her smile as bright as it once was. Money was tight, she lacked friends to support her and her own daughter was barely of any help. But I would fnd her in the kitchen in the evenings dancing by herself to some ‘70s soundtrack.

brisk. Amma was walking through the driveway in a bright red sari and I saw her calling out at me from the bedroom window. Before I could properly wake up, we were in the car driving to Hartford to see a movie.

“Karz, do you know what that means, Radha?” Amma asked.

I was lost and confused; she was genuinely excited to take me somewhere and this out-of-character behavior was starting to concern me. As we pulled into the parking lot, she asked me to open the glove box. Inside, I saw the packets of big envelopes.

“What do you think about moving to Mumbai, Radha?” she asked. It came out of nowhere. Shock resonated through me as I tugged at my kurti – I had never even been to India, let alone thought about moving there. We got out of the car, but she continued asking questions about this potential idea even as she moved the envelopes towards the mailbox.

There was still a hole in the wall from when the pressure cooker lid had hit the clock. Sometimes if I looked closely, I could see the black circle that used to be there and its stiff white hands.

“I understand if you don’t have an answer yet, but I came across these opportunities. I’m just sending your pictures in, we will see where it goes,” she said, more assertive than before.

“I’m sorry, what opportunities? Amma, I’m confused.” I spoke up for the frst time in this conversation.

One day, she returned late in the evening with prints of my yearbook photo and envelopes. She sat for hours at the kitchen table flling out forms. I sat behind the wooden veil of the staircase banister watching her work. It could be for scholarships, for college – maybe it was to send home for my grandmother. This became a routine each Sunday night, and occasionally, I mistook the photos she pulled out as photos of herself. It was strange the way that we were looking more and more similar each day that we sat in silence at opposite ends of the room, draining the time.

One Saturday morning, the air was particularly

“Just a couple of opportunities for acting and modeling. They make good money and they always need young Indian girls. And you being from America makes you more attractive, you know,” she said, as she opened the lid of the blue box to slide the letters into.

Panic rose from my body. The red heat that had started pulsating through my heart came straight to my cheeks and out of my mouth as I screamed at her.

“Amma, stop, don’t do this! I don’t want to move, stop, it’s going too quickly, please just stop!”

“Radha, please listen, this is a dream for most girls. It was a dream for me, and now I’m giving that to

you. Do you know how expensive it is to mail these letters? I’m doing something for you.”

“You wouldn’t even know what I want! You don’t even talk to me, you don’t even know what it means to do something for your daughter.”

The minute the words left my mouth, I instantly regretted them. The white envelope was swallowed by the blue mailbox and that was it. A family stood outside the theater watching this all unfold with mouths agape, and all Amma did was walk forward with her head held high. We watched the movie without speaking a word and drove back in utter silence.

Radha (2007)

I was back in Stamford for the weekend. I had a job interview in New York and had the idea of paying Amma a visit after 12 years of silence.

I drove to the house and parked outside but couldn’t get up from the driver’s seat. It looked like no one was there. So I sat there draining time as I had as a child, thinking about how she sent photos of herself to the modeling agency, but put my name on them. She had used me as a do-over and I hadn’t been sure why I was letting her. I sent money back for the frst couple of years, but then a couple of checks never were deposited, so I stopped and was never contacted for more.

I was parched and wasn’t going to make it inside, so I drove to the grocery store and took a tour of American suburbia. As I walked through the aisles, the brightness of the white lights started to make my eyes ache and the faint snow through the glass panes only added to the strain.

I turned around on aisle six, and found a woman with a bunch of kottamalli in her hand staring at me.

She was in a sari. One that looked so familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it. It wasn’t my Amma, maybe some aunty? But I couldn’t tell, everything was blurry.

“Amma?” I croaked. But there was no response. The woman moved along swiftly. I tried looking for her all over the store, through the aisles and dairy cabinets, but there was no one there – just a coriander bunch on the foor, a trace of a woman that there never was.

As I stood at the cashier with a coriander bunch that had somehow made its way to my hand, I suddenly felt that I needed to go somewhere. To return home to someone. But I felt unwell and uneasy until I looked down at the shiny white foor and puked.

I looked up, and the cashier handed me a pregnancy test. Déjà vu.

Cover by Amber Lee