Pacific Ties Spring 2023: Rebirth

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Letter from the editor Charlotte Chui

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

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Reclaiming My Name Manisha Wanniappa

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

Amber Phung

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New Year, New Me Sophie Vansomphone

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Icarus Lisa Ramos

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A Letter to Myself Kelly Ou

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My Mercury Retrogrades are Out of Order Jasmine Fung

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Medea on the Pyre Varsha Ravi

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Young People Anisha Menath

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Staff Page

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merging from the flames 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 find 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 finds 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 reflect upon where you are in your own process of rebirth.

Best,

Charlotte Chui Editor-in-Chief

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acific Ties is the oldest studentrun Asian Pacific Islander Desi American (APIDA) newsmagazine in 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 Pacific 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” (Pacific 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 pacificties.org.

Pacific 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 office at 118 Kerckhoff Hall @ 310-825-9898.

PACIFIC TIES NEWSMAGAZINE

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Book Review:

“American Born Chinese”

by Gene Luen Yang Written by Christine King Designed 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?

Early in the graphic novel, a character named Jin Wang recounts a story from his childhood in San Francisco’s Chinatown. An herbalist once first heard of “American Born Chinese,” the asked him what he wanted to be when he grew 2006 graphic novel by Gene Luen Yang, from up, to which he replied: a transformer. When he talk of its television adaptation set for release went on to express his doubt at the likelihood of on May 24, 2023. The upcoming Disney+ show this actually happening, intrigued me with its fantastical premise and star-studded “It’s easy to become she told him, “It’s easy to become anything you cast, including Stephanie Hsu, you wish...so wish…so long as you’re Michelle Yeoh, Ke Huy Quan and anything Ben Wang. In anticipation of its long as you’re willing to willing to forfeit your soul” upcoming release, I decided to forfeit your soul” (Page 29). (Page 29). read the original source material This idea is deeply for the show to develop a better embedded in the interwoven storylines, a constant understanding of what to expect. Yang’s beautifully reminder that identity is malleable and can be illustrated graphic novel is an action-packed and changed to better conform to norms or achieve insightful look at the ways in which individuals social desirability. However, the supposed social navigate identity, the pressure to assimilate and benefits of this transformation must be weighed out the search for belonging as part of a minority against the cost of losing the freedom to express facing the effects of racism. and embody one’s own original sense of self. The possibility of this rebirth into a new identity drives The novel follows three distinct storylines which all three characters, as they navigate who they eventually intertwine, each focused on a central want themselves to be and how they want to be character struggling with the unique challenges perceived by their peers. of their environment as they contend with the

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Photo credit: Aaron Burden, Unsplash

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The decision to attempt to transform and reidentify as part of the “in” group due to social pressures is first introduced with the Monkey King, a central figure in the classic Chinese novel, “Journey to the West.” A deity who finds himself scorned by the other figures 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 modification 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 finds 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 find themselves bound together through common themes as they seek to find a sense of belonging in the face of social ostracization, reflecting each other’s stories through the ways each tried to escape their identities to “fit in” and what it cost them to do so. Nearing the end

Photo credit: MChe Lee, Unsplash

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of the novel, the Monkey King says, “You know, Jin, I would have saved myself from five 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 superficial transformation allows him the freedom to be himself, without the pressure to maintain “Told with the illusion of “fitting 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.

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 find belonging in places where the population does not represent them. Danny’s bold colors, efforts to distance himself from the negative caricature thrilling action and humor, embodied by Chin-Kee reflect this set of intertwining the pressure to escape racist stereotypes and redefine stories paints an engaging oneself outside the context of and empathetic picture those prejudices.

of what it means to stay Each character’s journey true to yourself in the face through their rebirths into a of immense pressure.” new, reconstructed identity

When I finished 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 find belonging in unwelcoming environments and the challenges in accomplishing it.

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.

Photo credit: Andre Mouton, Unsplash

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Reclaiming My Na Name me Written by Manisha Wanniappa Designed by Charlotte Chui

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used to 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.

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 flame in my heart telling me that this was what I was made for. I felt completely in my element and the time flew by. I will never forget that night.

When I was finally 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.”

This hatred of my birth name formed as a It sounded good to my ears and it made me result of my environment. I have always felt feel like a star, like Madonna or Cher (please caught between two bear with my delusions). identities: my identity However, I soon discovered as an American and my that there were 200+ singers This hatred of my birth identity as a Sri Lankan. named Manisha and suddenly As a child, I attended a the name felt less unique and name formed as a result predominantly white personal to me. of my environment. I private school where have always felt caught I often felt out of I decided instead to take a between two identities: place because of my leap of faith and go with my full ethnicity. name: Manisha Wanniappa. my identity as an The decision made me toss American and my identity My name was and turn at night, but once my as a Sri Lankan. occasionally the songs came out and my name punchline of jokes, and was next to each of them, I I resorted to going by knew I made the right choice. nicknames like “Mini” or weirdly enough even “Minnie Mouse” for Now you might be thinking, “What was the entirety of fourth grade. I considered the big deal in the first place? Her name is going by my middle name, Christen, to not even that unusual.” And you would be avoid feeling embarrassed but abandoned right. the effort after I failed to respond to it many times. I couldn’t see the beauty in my name In hindsight, I don’t understand why it until I reached 17. bothered me so much either. But lately I’ve been trying to reconnect with my younger In April 2019, I recorded music for the self and understand her better. The past first time. On a Wednesday evening in the versions of ourselves still live on in all of recording studio of the California College of us. And I like to think that younger me is Music, I performed and sang four original proud that every song of mine is written by songs that would eventually form my debut “Manisha Wanniappa.”

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

Written by Amber Phung Designed by Charlotte Chui

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hroughout history, fashion has been a marker of self expression, individuality, culture and social status. Global trends are a reflection of societal norms and current events, and they are extremely pervasive in our everyday lives – maybe more than we know.

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, specifically with regard to pop culture and fashion. This process has made consumers and designers more receptive to cultural influences and inevitably broadened the physical range of the apparel marketplace.

For instance, the American flapper dress of the 1920s that we associate with “The Great Gatsby” epitomized the youth and rebellion dominating the Though exposure to prohibition era. This look different cultures is was further popularized important, the question in Korea, where the of cultural appropriation Japanese colonial underlies the rebirth of government promoted American fashion. The Western modernity, popularity of Western thus demonstrating the powerful salience of trends. fashion trends that

reflect globalizing ties

For modern consumers in Western societies, globalization signifies 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, specifically in American fashion.

Another example is with Asia can be seen in Chinese clothing in the motifs on clothing. year 265: it was a unique amalgamation of northern and southern traditional dress –– casual and flowy This tendency has versus formal and stiff — due to migration proven to be both beneficial and detrimental initiated by frequent wars. to global communities. Though exposure to different cultures is important, the question of Moreover, women in the Philippines from cultural appropriation underlies the rebirth of the 16th to 18th century wore Hispanicized American fashion. The popularity of Western versions of traditional Filipino clothing due fashion trends that reflect globalizing ties to the Spanish occupation of their country.4 with Asia can be seen in motifs on clothing.

Looking at what may seem as simple fashion For instance, symbols of wealth, power and trends through a more complex, nuanced respect from Chinese culture like koi fish, lens provides insights into broader social dragons and tigers have become increasingly structures and themes. common in American fashion.

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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 profiting 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 profit-making.

binary on which the rebirth of American fashion operates with regards to the AAPI community. Asian Americans, as a key demographic in the global fashion industry, have played a vital role in reshaping the directives of contemporary fashion.

However, this influence is not always acknowledged or even valued, and there are often contrasting perceptions that categorize AAPI consumers as either fully assimilated or completely foreign (like the model minority myth versus the idea of being “FOB” or fresh off the boat) rather than recognizing the diversity and complexity of their identities. The ways in which global trends intersect with AAPI heritage speaks to a larger cultural conversation about representation, inclusion and the power dynamics that shape the fashion industry.

M o r e o v e r, the widespread prevalence of Japanese kimonos Photo Credit: during this time CottonBro Studio, Pexels period further This cycle was also alludes to this habit. replicated with Korean Celebrities like fashion.

Amidst the Kendall Jenner, Lady skyrocketing popularity Gaga, Rihanna and Beyonce have been of K-Pop in the 2010s came a surge in Korean frequently spotted wearing silk kimono fashion influences on American style. K-Pop robes, demonstrating a celebration and idols became both icons of music and fashion, appreciation of Japanese culture. However, as numerous stores (such as more fast it can be difficult to draw the line between fashion companies like Yesstyle and Shein) cultural appreciation versus appropriation. carrying their apparel appealed to K-Pop fans by creating a “K-Pop Outfit” section.

Cultural appropriation takes elements of a culture without proper understanding, The influence of these globalizing patterns respect or permission, using them in a way on consumer desires demonstrates the

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that can be seen as disrespectful to the culture and its people. Conversely, cultural appreciation involves learning about and respecting other cultures and their traditions, as well as finding ways to celebrate and honor them without crossing boundaries or perpetuating stereotypes.

Unfortunately, celebrities also sometimes cross this careful boundary and offend cultures through their desire to be popular and well-liked. Kim Kardashian tried to trademark the word “Kimono” in a shapewear line launched in 2019, which was intended to be wordplay on her name. Kardashian’s attempt to brand herself in a catchy manner backfired, as her announcement sparked controversy over the ignorant misuse of Japanese national heritage.

As the fashion industry evolves and diversifies, we need to remain conscious of our own buying habits as consumers and trend-followers, making sure to support AAPI designers and amplify their voices.

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

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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 color red?”2 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 American.

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 influenced 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 profit, while lacking respect and understanding towards the minorities themselves.

Therefore, the benefits of increased awareness of different cultures and inclusivity must come with a collective cognizance of the clothing itself. As the fashion industry evolves and diversifies, we need to remain conscious of our own buying habits as consumers and trend-followers, making sure to support AAPI designers and amplify their voices.

_______ https://coldteacollective.com/redefining-celebrating-asianamericans-fashion/ 2 https://excusemythoughts.com/how-asian-americandesigners-have-impacted-the-fashion-industry/ 1

Written by Sophie Vansomphone Designed by Sophie Vansomphone

New Year, New Me

Illustrated by Sophie Vansomphone

5

years old

“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 reflection. 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 first 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 stuffed 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 off my tip toes.

Phew. That was exhausting, I think, but it's so pretty.

Now for the finishing 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 fix 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 off the stool and skip to my Disney princess backpack so we can go to school.

“I love it just the way it is!”

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10

years old

“Hey guys!” I smile brightly as I skip up to my friends.

We are about to start the first day of fifth 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 off.

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.

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.

“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.

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

We crowd around her, all screaming excitedly.

They are pretty great shoes, with a shiny red color and gold buckle.

“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.

“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!

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

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

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

“Don’t worry, they come off 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.”

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

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

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

Instead, I stay quiet, thinking about how I can’t wait to get these braces off and be pretty again.

15

years old

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

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Hundreds, maybe even thousands of videos pop up, and I flick my finger to begin scrolling to get through the many YouTube videos. This is incredibly important. The first 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 outfits 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 first 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 off 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.

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years 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 first 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 confidence 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.”

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

Now in this new environment, she continued to fly almost aimlessly. She extended her wings wide in a grand array that surrounded her, dipping them in any piping hot opportunity she could find. Elated and ecstatic, she spun and flipped in circles, flinging 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.

ICARUS Written by Lisa Ramos Designed by Jasmine Fung Illustrated by Amber Lee

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hat does it mean to fly 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, confident women. It’s meant to be an admirable, empowering change that people strive to achieve.

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 flocks 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 flocks she managed to cling on to. Now, she flew solo, setting all responsibilities aflame 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 find better. But then she would see them again, flying higher than she could have ever dreamed of and leaving her in the ashes.

Imprisoned in her tower up north, views bleary Then, there were forgotten anniversaries, forgotten with clouds too hazy for a bright future, a girl longed friends from the tower up north from when she was to find a way out and make a name for herself. But blinded by the enticing glow of a clearer sun, no she needed the skills, the background, the resume to longer blocked by her homeland’s opaque fog. sprout from a former nobody. And so she wrestled with abstract concepts and characteristics, taking Instead, the delayed consequences of her advantage of her wanderlust aerobatic loops done to mind to find different parts impress had now hit her with to create something that dizzying anxiety. The sickness But the wider the wings would lift herself up from this of being everywhere all at expanded, the more she once rendered her unsteady in isolation, akin to patchwork. spread herself thin. There were motion, wings offset.

She eventually forged a unavoidable repercussions of masterpiece — makeshift In the wake of her trail wings, unrecognizable from its putting oneself out there and were now burned bridges. source materials. By doing so, bridges whose initial aiming for high sights that no Burned she built herself a new identity, flames she once embraced for one even warned or whispered both comforting solace and strong enough to jump out and soar down a pathway south: the fiery, exciting thrill. about. where the sun never sets, Only to remain with where carefree angels roam its the harsh scorches

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

The exhaust fueling her wings will give out eventually — a reflection 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 — fueling her not when she is mere miles wings will give out eventually away from an even more — a reflection of her own daunting final destination.

There is no turning, exhaustion, or perhaps a sign Adulthood. no reverting back to her old that those who had once helped self.

lift her wings have grown exhausted of her as well.

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 flies 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.

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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 finally 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 finally 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 first 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

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of going to class, office 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 Written by Jasmine Fung Designed by Jasmine Fung

I

am 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.

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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.

There are 30 pages left to wrap up the story. Each page flip 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.

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

pages anxiously. Suspense.

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 fighting to keep open. My fingers flip through the rest of the PACIFIC TIES NEWSMAGAZINE

15

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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 first 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 fingertips.

rather, recognizing that art and books are only a mimicry and a reflection 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.

Romanticizing life, or I was able to pause my own ambitions and dreams for a rather, recognizing that few days and see life from art and books are only a someone else’s point of view.

In that instance, I understood mimicry and a reflection that everyone else was also of real life is disheartening just trying their best to live their lives like I was. but liberating too.

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

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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

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.

time job at a local bakery, figuring 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 I think it’s quite relieving to know post-COVID college life, that people are just trying to live their I had done things I was actually proud of myself lives and that whatever is happening for.

3. In a melancholic twist, another sublime moment I had was during the initial months of lockdown. I was a in my own life is just a tiny blip in the graduating senior in high school, FaceTiming 1. I was at LAX universe as I’m packed like sardines my best friend on the recently. I flew back between two other passengers inside slanted driveway of for the start of spring my house. The sun was quarter, and I had one a Delta Airlines aircraft. setting on the horizon of those moments where and all I could do was you pretend as if you are reflect on the passage completely upheaving of time – my best friend your life and starting and I had completely run out of things to talk about over while staring out the airplane window (even several weeks into lockdown, and nothing else though I was in the aisle and the flight was only an was going on in our lives. It was truly unreal to hour long). And then, I started to think, “Why are conceptualize that I was graduating in a few days in all these people here on a Sunday afternoon?” It’s my living room, through a slideshow presentation, interesting when you see yourself from the outside, with cars driving around the neighborhood honking and you realize people are probably asking the same their congratulations. questions about you – like duh, I’m a college student trying to get back to my apartment after spending a Cue the existential crisis, I guess. great week eating the best food with my parents in the Bay Area.

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 It’s a weird moment when you’re in a space with so out of everybody’s control. Sitting on my driveway many moving people going from place to place with and reflecting on that panic and dread for the future schedules and plans to fulfill. But, I think it’s quite makes you realize the inevitability of time. As much relieving to know that people are just trying to live as I wanted to reject everything that was happening, their lives and that whatever is happening in my own I was a high school senior graduating, no matter how life is just a tiny blip in the universe as I’m packed like weird my situation was. Instead of fighting time and sardines between two other passengers inside a Delta losing, I realized that I could only let it pass.

Airlines aircraft.

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-

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 floating 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 find the selfcompassion I’ve been neglecting. Time stretches on, everything seems possible and I can finally embrace that sense of peace and enjoy the chaos of life that comes with being human.

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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

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that she first raises a dove and there that she first 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, fingertips 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 flings itself out of her hands and into the air.

For a moment he finds himself paralyzed with awe, of the distance between them, the distance they must eyes flitting between the corpse bird and his lady. both keep in place. Without it, he feels unmoored.

Then he remembers himself, his work, and sets the “Does the lord governor know?” Her shoulders drop. dove on fire.

“I do not mean to–” The mage hears her gasp as he guides the charred “He does not,” she says carefully, “And he will not.” bird to the workbench but does not look away until Her eyes are refulgent, bright as coals, and she is it has fallen to ashes. It deserves that dignity, at the unsmiling. A peculiar chill takes hold of the mage, the very least. “Why did you do it?” burning cold of fever drawn too far.

He has lost count of the times people have asked Rain beats at the balustrade, rivulets tracing down him that. Imbued with curiosity, horror, sympathy, to fill the stone between. Malli sidesteps these as she condemnation. Every action of his becomes a trial of crouches. its own, although none so terrible as the Academy’s They wait until the squirrel has disappeared into the last. But he meets Malli’s gaze now, a concession he gardens. She turns, or he turns to her. There is rain in had not offered the tribunal. “If you had failed, it his mouth, so there is rain in hers. A laugh bubbles to would not have suffered. But the dove died broken life in his throat, but they cannot make noise – they and in pain – it returned much the same.” must not. So it makes itself magic, presses petals to her “We could’ve healed it,” she argues, eyes bright. skin and lifts sparks into the air, and they do not break “Would you have?” He remembers the rabbit hutch apart. Magic is a waste without an audience. at the Academy, dank with fear and blood. Abruptly But it does not feel like a waste, he thinks hazily, he feels a raw, violent sort of envy that she can think moving back to his lady’s lips. He is sodden, soaked to of this dove as something that might be saved, when the bone, but her touch turns water to oil and sets him they only ever worked with animals born to die. “I alight. apologize, then. Next time we will wait.”

Perhaps he was ill, and she was too. He thinks of But there is no next time. They move to other this afterward with some regularity, trying to trace magics, and just as he thinks of turning back to everything back to its roots. Perhaps what laid between necromancy, she meets him in the parlor with a them was simply sickness, a strange new strain of squirrel wriggling in her hands. A smear of blood and madness. soot rings its neck, but it But he knows that love is at its seems content to eat acorns heart a sickness, a madness that led A laugh bubbles to life in them sweetly to the pyre. Only an out of her pouch.

“Look,” she tells him, lips his throat, but they cannot affliction would have ruined them curling into that grin that make noise – they must not. so swiftly. he knows. He wonders who else has seen it, who else So it makes itself magic, she has offered it to. He presses petals to her skin wonders if her husband has.

Then he forces his mind to and lifts sparks into the air, the squirrel, reaching out and they do not break apart. with his magic to its health She tells him in her bed, not two and happiness, and feels months after that first kiss. He still himself grow still. teaches her in the parlor, to keep up appearances, but “My lady,” he begins. Cautiously, he says, “It is not afterward, he scrambles up the eastern trellis to steal in pain.” inside her unlocked window.

“I merged a few of your spells,” she explains, smug.

It makes him feel unbearably young, this fool’s affair She’s earned it, she’s – he can’t tear his eyes away of theirs. But they have not been children for quite from the squirrel. He tries, and his gaze wanders some time, and so, inevitably, the discussions of those back. Distantly, he hears her say, “I’ve been trying at lucent, warm evenings turn toward the topic of her it for a while.” When? “Have I made a mistake?” marriage.

The mage puts his hands over hers. Over the “I have not lain with him,” she says, unbidden. “Not squirrel. The squirrel, she – he returns himself to the like I have with you. He is on campaign so often, or herculean task of speaking. “No, you – Not a mistake. in the tribute territories, and when he returns, I make To call it a miracle would be to rob you of the excuses. I steal myself into the woods. He never asks.” accomplishment, to put it in the hands of the gods.” She pauses, turns to face him. “I do not want him to. I He feels frayed; something has torn loose, some dam want – I want for him to never ask.” come to collapse, and the words rush out, heedless The savagery of those last words stills his fingers and dangerous and impossible to keep at bay. “You where they comb through her hair. He searches her are – marvelous. My lady–” face, taking in her strong brow, high cheekbones, thin, “Malli,” she cuts in. Her shoulders are heaving curling lips. He is not sure what he is looking for or if slightly. “Call me Malli, for once.” he has found it.

“Malli,” he says, tentative, covetous, shivery with “My lady,” he says, eventually. the strangeness of it all. He has only ever referred to “Malli,” she corrects. And then, “Or Kali, if you wish. her as the lady of the house. It helps to remind him It is not as if I don’t hear my maids in their work.”

—

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“Why do they call you that?”

December 7th.

Her mouth twists.

I told her of my concerns. She does not share them – “Early in my time here, there was a banquet. said “this future is more of a nightmare than anything During the monsoons. None of the fires would [she] will face in the afterlife.” But I have spent years keep – nothing was dry, nowhere. But it was my raising the dead. Of her return, I have no doubt. The first function, as lady of the house, and I was – world of the living has always posed a greater challenge determined. Adamant, they will tell you. So I sent to the both of us. the courses out half-cooked, in that Western style, I wish she would let me kill him, even though she has and took the first bite for myself.” earned the right to do it herself. I wish she would let me “It was bloody.” It isn’t a question; she nods. die in her stead, as a heretic witch and not a bereaved He thinks of her with blood on her teeth, smeared wife following sati. I wish she would raise me; I would at the corner of her mouth, hands outstretched welcome it, I think. It has always been too easy for me with all those undead animals to go to her. squirming between them. “Have “Strange, isn’t it? We have our you developed a taste for it?”

Malli makes a face, shoving magics, our conquests and him across the sheets. He goes courtesies, and yet women easily, lips twitching up. But there are darker topics still at are still called to follow their task, and he soon sobers. “Ladies husbands to the pyre in sati.”

He raises her on the very choose their husbands, do they pyre that burned her. Her skin not? Why did you choose the is dusted with soot, blistered lord governor, if you…” where the barrier spell grew She picks at the discarded edge of her pallu. “My thin, and stiff to the touch. He has come by so many family needed the marriage. Ladies can reject their corpses, been the cause of so many more. Death is suitors, but I could not. Not in our circumstances.” closer kin to him than his sire.

Her face crumples for a moment, a spasm that she But his nausea does not abate when he presses magic swiftly erases. When she speaks, her voice is even. deep into her skin, his stomach turning even as his “I thought I was prepared for this. Clearly I was not, lady gasps back to life. She looks at him, at the sky, at and now I am bound here for the rest of my days. the manse past the line of his shoulders, recognition Until my death, or his. Strange, isn’t it? We have flickering and fading in her eyes. He does not breathe our magics, our conquests and courtesies, and yet for fear of retching. women are still called to follow their husbands to Then she settles, lips curling up. That old smile, the the pyre in sati.” one he knows better than his own – he relaxes, finally.

His gaze snaps to her, and just as quickly moves Their kiss tastes of smoke and bile. 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.

He takes her across the river to the village by the “Nothing, my l– Malli. Please, forget I–” eastern sea where he grew up. The monsoons have only She says his name, and the fight slips out of him just passed, but even the humid, rain-soaked air does so swiftly he wonders if she wove it into some spell not lift her hair to curl, not as he remembers it to. he did not pick up in his time at the Academy. She There is some land left to him by his brothers, both says his name and asks again. This time, he cannot of whom have long since passed. They never saw eye to deny her. 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 December 3rd. mage is half sure she’s senile, but their position is too Plans finalized. I worry hesitate. I do not doubt precarious to risk it. that the revival spells are now painless. But there She looks around, noting the thick mantle of dust have never been human trials. The Academy does on the windowsill, the crust of salt where the sea not allow vivisection, and it is not something I have wind blows in, the threadbare curtains. Absent all ever been interested in. I do not want her to feel I the comforts she’s been raised to crave. Not for the do not want her to be the first trial. first time, he feels uneasy over the role he’s played in bringing her here, lowering her as he has.

—

—

—

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“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 flower 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.”

— 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.

—

are so many people left to see it. The mage steps on the kolam, unraveling its designs and mixing the rice flour so thoroughly that there are only flecks 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?”

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.”

The mage looks down, uncurls his fist 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.”

There is blood scattered on the pressed dirt outside their house. In places it has mixed with the rice flour 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.

January 28th.

But it had always had a It does make sense. K’s purpose. It was for the best, A clever shift in letters, explanation, that is. There were he knew. It was for good; it intonations, emphasis, one rags printed with the bounty in the was for them, for their pain, city, and it isn’t as if Uma pati is an for the screams he’d heard that seems to remake her unbiased, rational source regarding and the blood that always entirely, from flower to blood. this. But my old nurse has alleged – came with it. certain unsavory things, regarding He hasn’t seen blood in that previous altercation. Things so long. Not like this. about my lady, about what she did with the bodies.

A choked noise draws his attention. The dying sun About who the bodies were. silhouettes his lady under the low lintel. There is I don’t know. There is too little evidence either blood on her hands, and it drips. way, too much strangeness. The nights grow darker, It is not so late. Her hands are bloody, and there and when I return home from my work, I cannot distinguish the smoke of prayer from that of the pyre.

—

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—

flames flicker, 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.”

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 finds 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 March 11th. water closes over his head easily.

K grows more… erratic. I have told her many times For a moment, he lets it. Tastes the faint siltthat I do not plan to marry the magistrate’s daughter, strangeness of water that his movements have dug up but she continues to ask, every occasion more fraught from the floor of the pond, thin and fusty where it rises than the last. above the clean taste of the springwater.

The work from the magistrate has convinced the Distantly, he remembers his work. His lady. Now, as village of my good skill, though, so there has been more always, he cannot let himself go. work of late. There are some weeks I spend entirely out By the time he returns, his wrung-out clothes have of the house. And when I return, the bedchamber is dried well enough, but he still changes before returning empty, and the house stinks of smoke and turned earth. to his office for the night. He senses, rather than sees, I go to the spring so often now. But it never brings the heat of the oil lamps burning within. But by then me to rest. it is already too late. Kali looks up from his desk, correspondence falling through her fingers like ash.

April 6th.

“Is it true?” Her voice cracks against him like a whip.

We held the funeral for Uma pati today. She wanted “Has the magistrate offered you his daughter’s hand in to be cremated, as her mother was, and so we followed marriage? Do you plan to accept?” her wishes. I was sick afterwards, as I always am after “Kali,” he says, and then closes his eyes. He had time I see the pyre. 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 Kali meets him beside the spring, her hands and eyes how to answer her. shadowed strangely under the new moon. The mage “It is true that he offered,” he says at last. Low, cannot remember ever seeing her here – but that does scraping. She hisses out a not matter now. He is so tired. Of the breath in response. “She is Perhaps he will always go fights, the blood. The smoke.

– of age. Barely. But I have He cannot be sure whether the almost a decade on her, I to her when she asks, when woman in front of him now is the one he don’t – Kali, I don’t want her. she smiles, when the waters wants to see – he does not trust himself You know I don’t.” so much anymore.

“Is it because I killed rise high. Perhaps their story And he has missed her so much. When them? Is that why you’re has only ever had one end. Kali steps into the pond, he follows her. leaving?” she asks. The birds The water pulses around them, and shriek again, twisting the the mage casts a simple spell to keep the very edge of her voice into a howl. “I had to. They were silt from getting in their eyes. When he opens his own, going to kill us – they were going to take me back. I she is already smiling at him. will not go back.”

Perhaps he will always go to her when she asks, “Kali,” he says again. Opens his eyes, meets hers. when she smiles, when the waters rise high. Perhaps They glint strangely in the firelight, he thinks faintly. The their story has only ever had one end.

—

—

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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 flame.

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नौजवानों

young people

Written by Anisha Menath Designed by Varsha Ravi Illustrated by Van Tran

Devi (1975)

But she was late – all the time, chronically. And this She was the girl neighbors would gossip about. awful trait was what Mrs. Ramesh was sure would “She always returns so late. I wonder who she was lead to other horrible things, like lipstick and short with,” said Mrs. Ramesh. A light sleeper, the retired skirts. It was a view that many neighbors and friends school teacher would often catch Devi at the door late shared, and it hurt Devi deeply. into the night.

Every time she tried to While it looked like Devi improve her image, a new flaw didn’t have a care in the world, Films and the glitz and glamor was revealed. A few weeks ago, her long braids occasionally of the Mumbai lifestyle were Mrs. Ramesh’s fancy boarding whacking Mrs. Ramesh in the school nephew came to visit face as she frantically opened her escape from her world. It from Ooty. Devi accidentally the door, she was deeply was a reality where anyone stuck the aachar spoon to mix affected by the way her world could sing or dance – the hero the sugar into the chai, and viewed her. the minute the tea entered his Devi was a storybook good was never the smartest, but mouth, the boy’s gelled hair girl. She always helped her the one with the biggest heart. collapsed and he screamed, mother with the groceries, “Hot! Hot!” completed her homework on Everyone had their time, spent loads of time with her grandparents, and imperfections, but Devi wished for a time when she never bunked class. 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 filmmaker 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 film 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 floor of the theater.

On one of these evenings, Devi got the feeling that she was late. It was the first 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

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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 flat 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.

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 first 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.

Devi (1980) She would briefly converse with my father when For the second time in her life, Devi felt the urgency she made chai, but oftentimes it came out all wrong. to be somewhere. She was standing in My father would always complain a supermarket looking for kottamalli, about Amma’s chai, and each No. drink poured down the sink a word that she didn’t know the “Cow-toe-molly?

English translation for. It was winter We don’t have that, would be a piece of Amma’s heart in Stamford, and everything was in the drain. blanketed by a fine, foreign white try somewhere else,” She rarely spoke with me woman at the either. Her words with me were powder that Devi was slowly getting the used to. register barked at her. limited to “Finish your food The brightness of the white snow Radha” or “Ayo, Radha you have and the light reflecting off the tiled left such a mess.” I had been up floors was making her dizzy as she tried to explain from my nap earlier than expected, so I hid behind what she needed to a cashier. the stairwell, observing my mother in her unnatural “Cow-toe-molly? No. We don’t have that, try habitat. I was worried my long braids that she had somewhere else,” the woman at the register barked oiled in the morning would hit the wall and reveal at her. my cover.

Devi’s head spun. Every bit of reflected white light The pressure cooker started to hiss, but Amma seemed to enter her eyes and strain them. She ran out remained still, her eyes fixed on the clock. I thought of ways to explain what she needed, but as she was about calling out to her, but every time I tried, the about to give it one more try, she vomited over the hissing became roaring, and the roaring became thundering.

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

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Radha (1995)

brisk. Amma was walking through the driveway in a Amma’s few words over the years turned into bright red sari and I saw her calling out at me from mutters which later fell into silence. It wasn’t just the bedroom window. Before I could properly wake that we didn’t talk about our emotions or that we up, we were in the car driving to Hartford to see a argued; we simply avoided conversation all together. movie.

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

We would go days floating through the house, each of Amma asked. us on our own cloud, the distance felt through silence I was lost and confused; she was genuinely excited and through time. There was still a hole in the wall from when the pressure cooker lid had hit the clock. to take me somewhere and this out-of-character Sometimes if I looked closely, I could see the black behavior was starting to concern me. As we pulled into the parking lot, she asked me to open the glove circle that used to be there and its stiff white hands.

My father was still out for work often. His visits box. Inside, I saw the packets of big envelopes.

“What do you think about moving to Mumbai, back would consist of broken tea cups and slightly Radha?” she asked. It came out of nowhere. Shock disconcerting conversations with me where he would resonated through me as I tugged at my kurti – I ask about school and friends, making sure I was staying out of trouble. Ten years had changed nothing. had never even been to India, let alone thought It was autumn and the heat of summer had calmed about moving there. We got out of the car, but she continued asking questions into a crisp breeze. Amma was about this potential idea even content these days, I could tell.

An Indian store had opened in There was still a hole in the wall as she moved the envelopes Hartford and she would listen from when the pressure cooker towards the mailbox.

“I understand if you don’t to the many cassette tapes of have an answer yet, but I came lid had hit the clock.

Sometimes Hindi songs that she bought across these opportunities. from there all day. if I looked closely, I could see I’m just sending your pictures Even music alone wasn’t the black circle that used to be in, we will see where it goes,” enough to make her smile as she said, more assertive than bright as it once was. Money there and its stiff white hands. before. was tight, she lacked friends “I’m sorry, what to support her and her own opportunities?

Amma, I’m daughter was barely of any help. But I would find her confused.”

I spoke up for the first time in this in the kitchen in the evenings dancing by herself to conversation. some ‘70s soundtrack.

“Just a couple of opportunities for acting and One day, she returned late in the evening with modeling.

They make good money and they always prints of my yearbook photo and envelopes. She need young Indian girls. And you being from America sat for hours at the kitchen table filling out forms. I sat behind the wooden veil of the staircase banister makes you more attractive, you know,” she said, as watching her work. It could be for scholarships, she opened the lid of the blue box to slide the letters for college – maybe it was to send home for my into.

Panic rose from my body. The red heat that had grandmother. This became a routine each Sunday night, and occasionally, I mistook the photos she started pulsating through my heart came straight to pulled out as photos of herself. It was strange the way my cheeks and out of my mouth as I screamed at her.

“Amma, stop, don’t do this! I don’t want to move, that we were looking more and more similar each day stop, it’s going too quickly, please just stop!” that we sat in silence at opposite ends of the room, “Radha, please listen, this is a dream for most girls. draining the time.

One Saturday morning, the air was particularly It was a dream for me, and now I’m giving that to

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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 first 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 floor, 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 floor and puked.

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

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Cover by Amber Lee