because she was always sweeter than I was
She always said: Assam for strong, Darjeeling for fruit, and Nilgiri for both but honestly, I just use PG Tips and hope it’s close
Mamma Aji and I like our chai with more milk than Mamma does (she’s always been a bit more hot-headed) so when I bring my milk and water to a boil, I always have to watch for the sneaky “sai” at the top (I used to get upset at this imperfect filmy layer but Mamma Aji would always reassure me it was a distinct feature of homemade chai)
After I throw the tea in, the bubbles die and rise again and it’s a work of art getting it from loved and heat-marked silver pot to my pre-selected IKEA cup
Mamma Aji and I would always try to see symbols in the tea grounds after straining the chai out and I’d draw pictures and outlines just to prove to her that they looked like a wolf or a kite, but my hard work would always go to waste because without fail, she’d say they looked like her motherland and my parents’ and repeat the only English words she could say with confidence: “From the East to the West, India is the best” (I’d give anything to hear her say it again) And when she inevitably had to go home after her six-month visit was over, she’d give me cobalt tin of tea masala and leave a sketch of India on top
It would always have a heart over Mumbai and our names intertwined, slightly smudged and in Marathi.
Their sturdy roots splitting the asphalt
Into black waves towering the quiet earth
The seven of us shrieked and braced ourselves
For the trailer to snap in two
We were terrified of falling overboard
But to my uncle it was nothing of the sort
He sped through the angry sea
The seven of us spilled out of the mesh lining
At the sight of ducklings following their mother
Across the asphalt sea to get to a body of still green silk
We held up traffic so they could waddle their way home
We were hungry
We only had stale cheerios to feed the fish
So I stringed the end of cattail leaves with cheerios
And secured them in place with knots for the seven of us
We threw the cattail-leaf fishing poles
Over our shoulders
And swung them forward into the algae
Wishing for a turtle or a fish to bite
So we could come home
With something to give to our mothers
We caught nothing
So we found creatures
That could not swim away from us
We scooped up roly-polies and caterpillars
They latched onto leaves that rested
At the bottom of a bottle
By tomorrow morning they were gone
Bà ngoại told the seven of us
That they left looking for their mother
Suddenly we were sorry we ever took them
Holding them captive at the bottom of a bottle
the top row of the theater is called the gods the second floorboard on the stage creaks the chandelier is made from viennese crystal the mezzanine stairs were repainted with “dark clove” by sherwin williams the wallpaper is peeling near the stage door the lights are off the theater is empty
intermission: phở gà
Neeti Badve
Neeti is a UCLA Class of 2025 alum, and although she studied Cognitive Science and Statistics and currently works as a Marketing Analyst, she has been writing poetry as a way to make sense of the world around her since she had the words to express herself. She speaks English and Marathi fluently, and her work is deeply influenced by growing up in California as a first-generation citizen, secondgeneration immigrant, and in a multigenerational household.
Sydney Do
Sydney Do is a writer and performer who illuminates narratives inspired by her Vietnamese-American gangster family. She is currently workshopping her first play at the Geffen Playhouse and hopes to bring her characters to life on stage. She also works with K-12 students by empowering them to tell their own stories through public speaking and writing, and is a graduate of UCLA.
Olivia Aerin Lee
O. A. Lee (she/her) is a third year English major at UCLA. She loves peninsulas and talking to strangers.