SAFFRON ISSUE 03: CLAIRVOYANCE by SAFFRON

staff Editor in Chief Jayashree Ganesan Operations Advisor Anna Ranabijuli Managing Editor Alija Koirala Creative Director Avani Sunkireddy Co-Writing Director Kushal Vajrala Co-Writing Director Safiyya Haider Co-Hair and Makeup Director Khushi Puri Co-Hair and Makeup Director Srikha Chaganti Co-Multimedia Director Amani Ahmad Co-Multimedia Director Vikram Banga Videography Director Riya Vardhachary Photography Director Jessie Curneal Modeling Director Kani Manickavasakam Styling Director Esha Bajaj Events Director Sanjana Pinapala Marketing Director Shreya Chintala Finance Director Ila Singh Social Media Director Divya Lohar Assistant Writing Director Pria Gokhale

Varun Jawarani, Arshia Thota, Asha Kalapatapu, Sora Ahmad, Isha Manjunath, Shriya Mukkavilli, Angeline Ajit, Zak Kadir, Anoushka Sharma, Shrika Paramasivam, Anna Salazar, Suraiyah Syed, Ishika Bindal, Sachi Sooda, Priyanka Ahmed, Ananya Sampathkumar, Krithika Elango, Irene Sibi, Dinithi Navarathna, Willy Wang, Tisha Chaudhuri, Avha Mohanty, Rida Chaudhry, Shrayes Gunna, Morgan Cheng, Srisha Chakraborty, Anushka Shah, Vikram Banga, Adithi Rao, Aahil Tharani, Mohammad Umar Ahmed, Noor Khan, Priyanka Warrier, Vennela Vattikuti, Vani Shah, Reethika Kalidindi, Yousuf Khan, Amy Lee, Tyson Humbert, Reyna Dews, Preston Rolls, Olivia Martinez, Kalista Tamez, Laurence Nguyen-Thai, Juleanna Culilap, Cristina Canepa, Grace Davila, Pranav Subramanian, Mariam Ali, Caroline Clark, Laura Gonima

To a wonderful staff and the visions you have: you are the real clairvoyants

contents 6 12 16 24 28 32 36 40 46 48 52 54 60 64 68

Nomad Samsara Double Shot Body Memory Jamais Vu In My Dreams Midnight’s Children Lakshana Ishq Woven Arcana Love as Time Travel Saheli Silence on Set Street Language

bySAFIYYA SAFIYYAHAIDER HAIDER by

creativedirection directionJAYASHREE JAYASHREEGANESAN, GANESAN, creative AVANI SUNKIREDDY & ABHI THE NOMAD AVANI SUNKIREDDY & ABHI THE NOMAD layoutJULEANNA JULEANNACULILAP CULILAP photographer photographerJESSIE JESSIECURNEAL CURNEAL layout stylistAVANI AVANISUNKIREDDY SUNKIREDDY hmua hmuaSRIKHA SRIKHACHAGANTI CHAGANTI stylist sourcingRAGZ RAGZREVENGE REVENGE studio studioSUITE650 SUITE650 sourcing

hat world would you create if you could live un- media content. It’s a job 24/7. It has no days off,” constrained? Abhi the Nomad’s independently Abhi elaborates. “It has a lot of pros—you make a produced music imagines a lucid, post-apoca- lot more money from your music directly.” lyptic planet. He defies the boundaries of genres with charisma, sprawling from indie pop to al- He explains how this hard work is ultimately reternative hip-hop, to rock. The places he’s lived warding, “The most important part about it is are equally as sprawling, from China to India, to that I own all the music I create.” He recalls Tayhis current home in Austin, Texas— meriting his lor Swift’s predicament, “they won’t give her her masters back cause she signed some f*cking moniker “the Nomad.” soul-sucking deal when she was thirteen.” He Abhi’s recently released album, “Abhi the Uni- concludes, “I think being independent is better verse II”, delves further into the cosmos, inven- because no one can do that to me—ever. I’ll altive and complex. It shows us that he “can make ways own the music.” rock songs… like real rock songs,” he says. In the short film for the album, Abhi dons a pink suit for Abhi demonstrates that what it means to be a “an intergalactic journey”, through spaceships, professional artist is changing. He paints the curhills, and suburbs. He is as infectiously striking rent industry as overly centralized in the hands and dynamic as his music, riding a pink bike of major labels, “My biggest qualm is that there through the streets and strumming a guitar on are no curators anymore. No playlist curators. No bloggers. No legitimized channels outside of mathe moon. jor labels are areas that artists can build through. “I’m in my pink era,” Abhi says, “it means Before you had Rolling Stone, Spotify creators. Now major labels have bought up playlists and no being bold.” one reads music journalism, so blogs disappear.” Abhi uses this boldness to navigate the The question of legitimacy is central, “there’s fluid landscape of the music industry as an no legitimate curation space. So I feel like audiences have lost a way to gain taste. There are no independent artist. taste-makers.” It is “way harder to be independent than it is to be signed”, he admits, “but in my case, it’s really The drought affects creators as well as audiences. Abhi says, “I think that heavily affects what a choice.” some people make.” Artists try to adapt to the The means of production are both an economic liminality of cyberspace, he explains: “People are concerned with how it sounds in the first ten and aesthetic subject. seconds… or how can this be used in a video? Or “You have to work a lot more because no one’s how can this be converted into a song that can doing any sh*t for you. I edit all my videos, I do a be used on Instagram reels.” The success of this lot of cover art, I do a lot of mixing. I record ev- approach is ephemeral, since it “might work for erything in my house. I have to edit all my social some, but doesn’t have staying power.” 9

Abhi the Nomad is no stranger to ephemerality, as a third-culture kid who was raised in many countries. He tells us about his globe-trotting life journey, and how that led him to become a professional musical artist in Texas. “My father works for the Indian foreign service, so our family would move with him,” Abhi explains. He grew up in Beijing and Hong Kong, then had a 1-year misadventure in India, “by that time I was so non-Indian that I was a f*cking mess. But I was so non-Indian that I got suspended like 15 times and almost expelled.” They moved to the Fiji islands until he went to college in California. “Then I moved to France for a year,” he continues. “F*ck it, I don’t know French. Plot twist: I knew a whole lot more French than most people. I became pretty fluent in French… I made my first album while I was in France. I signed a record deal while I was in France, with a label in the United States.”

explains his fearless attitude towards genreswitching, “you should just do whatever the f*ck you want. And unfortunately, a lot of people find it very difficult to accept that… You may take some hits and losses, but it’s worth it.” The consistent strength of his music speaks for itself, “that I can f*cking do it legitimately”. He says, “I blew up from pop songs… and then I switched completely and dropped a rap project with my homie.” He trusts experimentation, “Anyone who tells you differently is probably lying, we all just throw sh*t at the wall and see what sticks. It’s just completely random.” There is almost a supernatural element to his intuition, “trying to understand more ruins the experience in itself. It’s just something you feel, and you do it. And then if you stop feeling it, you stop doing it.”

Abhi’s art is very community-driven. He tells us Abhi then moved to Austin to study and create about how he connects with listeners and colgraphic design at ACC. He made a blazing en- laborators, “people know me for keeping it real. I trance into the music scene, “my album came talk to fans: they can reach me on Discord servout, and then everyone in Texas interviewed me. ers, they can email. We pretty much have an I got on NPR… The song ‘Sex n’ Drugs’ had been open line to people who want to talk to me. And blowing up. I went on my first tour. I quit my job. I’ve been making music only with my friends, you Then I got a talent Visa, an O1.” He got married know. Whatever success you may attribute to me, to his college sweetheart, and they have been I’m always about using friends and keeping fans planting roots in Austin ever since, his music close. My last artwork, you know, was designed by evolving with the eternally youthful city. Abhi’s a fan. A lot of fans are turning to friends that are hottest take on Austin? “That you guys should featured in my music.” Abhi the Nomad shows us keep your f*cking dogs inside,” he says. intergalactic dreams, but he is also grounded in community-building. “I tried to pay for the sauce at McDonald’s when I first moved to the USA,” Abhi admits. This disori- Is Abhi a hunter or gatherer? “I’m a f*cking reentation from moving around so much is perva- laxer,” he says, his own evolutionary niche. Abhi sive, influencing his sense of self. He says, “Find- shines in the mechanical environment of the ing different versions of yourself is confusing. current music industry. His independence alIt’s harder to find an identity to attach to that’s lows him to carve a space for himself and others not based on ‘I’m from here, I believe this,’ be- to create beyond labels. Artistic imagination has cause it all gets mixed up, and you have an iden- a particular importance in traversing diaspora. tity crisis.” This sentiment about complicated South Asian artists are often pigeonholed, but identity resonates with many people across the Abhi the Nomad evades definition. He resists diaspora. Abhi’s creative process rejects re- nostalgia and the spectacle of celebrity. Rather, ductive definitions of brownness, welcoming a he embraces the unknown future, through holistic selfhood. his cyberpunk aesthetics, use of social media to connect with fans, and genre-switching “I was the first Indian person on the cover of ‘Al- music. Listening to him, I too feel boundless ternative Hip-Hop’ on Spotify,” Abhi says. He and visionary. 10

by SAFIYYA HAIDER layout LAURA GONIMA photographer TYSON HUMBERT stylist ESHA BAJAJ hmua SRIKHA CHAGANTI multimedia MOHAMMAD UMAR AHMED models ZAK KADIR and SACHI SOODA

It was the summer of dead birds: lost angels f a l l i n g from the wildfire-smoked sky, bees nestled in their ovaries like supernatural rebirths, wounds festering with rot & life, where I— stitches torn— found myself swimming despite fearing the ocean’s infinitude, and the birds were bleeding with me.

MY BODY

UNCONSCIOUS WAS NO GIRL

just a sack of flesh. I poked my face until it bled, counted pores like stars in the galaxy, cross-eyed

{My body obeys the moon and shuns the sun. I have lived many thousands of years and am not ribcaged by human anatomy. I was once a seed head, fractal then a siren growing hair waist-long Touch me from afar. Don’t break the illusion. I’m a persona, not a person

{When I could only twist —speechless— the first person I touched was my peachless peach tree Maize gave me gender envy— their hermaphroditic fields, their shoots and ears growing at the same rate, obeying the sun

Maize clones themself into oblivion, resurrects every harvest I, too, wanted to be A PROGENITOR OF CYCLICAL TIME, a snake eating its own tail, shedding skins like old clothes.

Shed my hair the weight of dead cells on head to become a living being defined by bone marrow, shaving idiosyncratically and seasonally Sunk my hands in mud. Shed skins turned into petals and wrapped my organs, nourished in the universe’s womb.

{Sometimes I miss my long hair like a phantom limb

Am NOT YOUR GIRL NOT YOUR PURITY SYMBOL NOT YOUR SHREW TO BE TAMED NOT YOUR FIELD FOR CULTIVATION

I Am the earth & the seed Am slick raven hair Am the poster child of overalls Am the vines on your sexless offices, climbing, dancing to the rhythm of my manifold souls, heliotropic.

“I used to lIve In san FrancIsco...they let everyone dance In calIFornIa, a dIFFerent country. then I moved to texas when I was In mIddle school... my counselor, ms. Baker was lIke, Boys don’t dance. Boys don’t dance here. I was lIke, GIrl, what the hell?”“

Since he started watching K-pop music videos, Beyonce, and Bruno Mars’ performances, Clarence has been enraptured by what dance has offered. The image his podcast gives of himself is one of an energetic and playful best friend, eager to swap stories and opinions. However, he seeks to also add one more aspect to his online presence: the confident, sexy dancer. It was an intensive journey to reach this goal, though. Dance hasn’t always been accepted everywhere in his life, “I used to live in San Francisco…they let everyone dance in California, a different country. Then I moved to Texas when I was in middle school…my counselor, Ms. Baker was like, Boys don’t dance. Boys don’t dance here. I was like, Girl, what the hell?” Clarence wants dance to immerse people in his energy and choreography. More concretely, he wanted to join a festival set. Recently, he debuted as a backup dancer at two events: ACL Music Festival, and World of Dance. Clarence shares the importance of performers transforming any kind of energy into the positive, charismatic kind: any immersion you want to give the audience must be channeled within yourself. “How much Beyonce can I channel in myself,” he challenged himself. The dance journey doesn’t end here; the next goal is to be signed with a dance talent agency. Clarence wants to be deemed worthy of dancing on the stages of his favorite performers, continuing the pursuit of the unattainable standard of the K-Pop industry. Just like Clarence with dance, Alcheska has a passion for singing and aims to pursue it seriously. Arts aside, though, she aims to finally have her own “Coming of Age” era and finally transition over from college grad to full-time adult life. She comments that most media showcase these eras for their protagonists around high school graduation, which doesn’t align with her own personal life. She reminds us that she’s come to realize that milestones like these often have no specific time and that they can come even as late as 50 years old. She plans to integrate spontaneity into her interests and intentionally focus on her passions. Through this, she hopes to discover what

is worth pursuing to her. Both Clarence and Alcheska, in their virtual reality-themed shoot aim to shed light on the figures they are online and the figures the duality they wish others would see about them: from their peers in the dance studio to their loved ones. Alcheska clad in the personas her friends see – from an outgoing, comfortable persona to the opposite side of the spectrum of her parents’ views of a more conservative, mild-natured, and studious girl – we see sides of her on display for voyeurs to take a glance. Clarence, channeling his new era, sees in his goggles a vision of confidence, grace, and masculinity itching for the world to take notice. Following dreams, even if it means sacrifice, is at the heart of Asian Glow. Alcheska and Clarence give one main piece of advice to aspiring podcasters: the topic of your content must be something that you love, that gives you life. Carving out a unique life path is no simple task, but it is fun. Alcheska and Clarence say that making the content itself should feel fun, exhilarating, and loving, while the hard work comes during the editing phase. They assure the new creators that their content will, of course, be unsatisfactory at first, Clarence harkening back to his fan accounts and his first few videos on social media. At the end of the day, Alcheska assures you, the content is published primarily for yourself—so if you enjoy it, post it. Clarence and Alcheska are excited to continue their podcasting journey together. Asian Glow has not hosted guests before, but they are considering it. They want to use their platform, with over 150 thousand followers on TikTok and 50 thousand plus subscribers on Youtube, to reach other like-minded and interesting people. They are exploring Asian Glow merch, and are open to other possibilities for the future. For now, they are enjoying just being two Asian-American creatives connecting with other Asian-Americans. They are based in Texas, but maybe we’ll see them in their dream spot, California, where boys are allowed to dance... ■

body memory by Angeline Ajit layout CAROLINE CLARK

Body memory (pseudoscience): a theory that the body itself can store memories, as opposed to only the brain.

he body remembers what love feels like. my being is a tulip a river gushing blood

budding grief & a hematoma. (your blood is in the water and the water tastes sweet) hyperglycemic rivulets flow softly you are a sickness so sweet it aches. has anyone ever refused you? i have died over and over again in the night only to wake up the next morning with things i want to tell you. at dusk, the riverbed unfurls and

saline droplets soak into my cerebrospinal fluid. your touch floats from neuron to neuron & in a kinetic spidery haze.

i dream with both eyes open

WE ARE OTHERWORLDLY

self-incarnate and eternal.

orb weaver,

spinner of synapses under the weight of your hallowed body i become a cadaver pleading to be dis sect ed & touched chemically preserved

by you.

i’m taste-testing formaldehyde & my throat burns sour but your mouth is medicinal (i need a lobotomy but this love has escaped the fissures of my mind). today i fear (pray) that tomorrow our bodies (might) alchemize into

knotted axons (intertwined).

what is neural plasticity if not my cellular membranes molding to the shape of your lips on mine? lover, bring me back to life. leave scabs on the back of my skull & fill my sockets with fire so the sun rises inside my eyes. your touch is metaphysical corporeal my jaw is sewn shut but somehow you metastasize to my lungs lymph nodes mothering me skinless down to my bones.

& spine

hot-red iron drips from

subcutaneous fat

(musculo-skeletal) cardiovascular, even. deceiving the faltering electrical impulse in my chest. my mile-a-minute-tachycardic-heart can’t pump fast enough to sustain the feverish-slow-dance-of-bullets that is my love for you. still, the atrophy of my soft tissues is numbed by end-stage delirium from madly-carnivorous gluttony from primal-evolutionary hunger. (self-inflicted psychosis) i can’t smother my wanting this is euphoria they say that we are the universe experiencing itself YOU ARE MY UNIVERSE a macrocosm in a microcosm a cerebral laceration tran scend ing

space

an incessant in-pouring of light visceral blurs of golden

and time super-imposed on my retinas.

you burn brighter than bleach-drowned flesh & all the bioluminescent creatures in the cosmos. with you, i become the moon WE ARE AN ECLIPSE one heavenly body passing into the shadow of another heavenly body. my naked eyes can’t look away but even in blindness

in this celestial darkness

(solar retinopathy) i would recognize you in every

universe.

i reach for the skin of your person but find the memory instead.

There will never be a moment in which i do not remember you.

End of story. 27

by SRIKHA CHAGANTI

layout YOUSUF KHAN photographer KALISTA TAMEZ stylist VENNELA VATTIKUTI & REETHIKA KALIDINDI hmua SRIKHA CHAGANTI nails ANOUSHKA SHARMA model KANI MANICKAVASAKAM

I am full. A shock struck her body, the ground falling from beneath her. She was choked with substance deemed worthless to her. Venus watched her from afar, unable to touch. Her body felt like an empty cavity meant for her soul, suddenly constricting her, as a rubber band about a taut balloon— hostile longing. Veins on the back of her hand became maps of foreign cities-

and heartbeats became banging on jammed doors. An animalistic desire to indulge, to create, to love broke the surface tension that had held her face for so long. A flash of vermillion left an afterimage on her grayscale vision. She manually filled her cavity with her soul and her ego. She had regained control of reality. I am filled. Adagio.

in my

layout ASHA KALAPATAPU photographer JESSIE CURNEAL stylists SORA AHMED & AVANI SUNKIREDDY hmua ISHA MANJUNATH model VANI SHAH studio SUITE650

Midnight’s Children

by PRIA GOKHALE

layout GRACE DAVILA photographer JOSH GUIZAR stylist VIKRAM BANGA, IRENE SIBI, & AAHIL THARANI hmua JAYASHREE GANESAN & PRIYANKA AHMED models ARSHIA THOTA & ZAK KADIR

To those who stayed, to those who left, and to all those who were lost Midnight’s Children were born on August 15th, 1947 at midnight, the exact moment India gained its independence from British Rule. In his famed novel, Rushdie mythologizes them to embody the unifying-dividing-comic-tragic-real-mythic elements of partition and the post-colonial experience. Through these children we are given glimpses of South Asia before, during, and after partition through a lens dimmed by the tragedy befitting a nation and its people fragmented by colonialism.

As it Was

Time before partition holds a serenity that would soon cease to be. Unburdened by the corruption of clocks, the land and its people belong to each other. Gold-speckled dust glides through the deserts coating sand dunes in divine shimmer Pearl toned snowflakes settle atop the mountains a blanket of warmth for the rock beneath Waves break upon the pocket beach shores each drop a kaleidoscope of blue-green hues The sea-land-mountain-scape hums Its careful geography cradling Six-hundred-thirty-million souls Equal parts foreign and familiar Hear their voices echo until their souls begin to sing Here they are shrouded in sandalwood-scented belonging This land holds its people and its people hold each other

II.

Partition

The clock strikes midnight on August 15th, and the land splinters. Handfuls of people stumble across the haphazardly drawn lines, and handfuls are lost in the inbetween. All are violently uprooted from everything they have known. Once an ancient forest The earth blisters under the weight of crossing Her many wounds stitching our genealogy Entire towns dream fever dreams of slipping children beneath their saris Its greatest wish to turn them invisible As midnight makes its ghosts This land knows no victor nor victim Here an uncle suffocated by the hands of hunger There a cousin laid to rest as a rung in the train track As backbones tremble under the weight of tragedy Anything-everything is an omen when read from skeletons singed with suffering 38

As it Will Be III.

The aftermath scars its victims with psychological and somatic wounds. Our elders and earth carry traces of this trauma. Their love languages become tinted with humour and fear, while their souls are burdened with a loss that will transcend lifetimes. Fractures adorn the land and its people Each crack filled with loss and lament As Politics’ pale hands grab fistfuls of history and attempt to peace them together Each child borne of a time beyond repair Desperately clings to their then and their now Superstition sweetens their tongues As they learn to carve caring out of warning Survival, they whisper, is a tribute of generational love Only pickle-sweet memories saved from the corruption of the clocks are the wisps of what once was Eulogies to the yesterday-tomorrows

by VARUN JAWARANI

layout LAURENCE NGUYEN-THÁI photographer LIV MARTINEZ stylist SACHI SOODA hmua PRIYANKA AHMED models KANI MANICKAVASAKAM & ANANYA SAMPATHKUMAR

ou chew on your own dainty porcelain with your own gapless teeth. One crunch after the other, it is heard around the world and we all listen, and even though the ceramic is in your mouth, we are cut. It is not like when you sink your gapless teeth into my clay. That is silent and apathetic, with your mouthful of mush and your face full of pity. I feel sorry for you because you do not taste it right—but you also did not mature your taste buds on the third-grade-cafeteria-table-brown-paper-bag-test the way I did. I have become used to the crunch of your gapless teeth on your dainty porcelain, and it is no longer cacophonous—no longer mouth nails on my chalkboard skin—now that I refuse to join your supper, and now that I refuse to bite. I’ve been watching you chew for my whole life: crunch after crunch after crunch on pretty girl after no thanks of ugly girl after crunch on pretty boy after ew no of my mother and all my family and now my daughter after yet another crunch on the pretty pigments and each crunch taught me that I need sunscreen more than they do because I may as well compensate if I am to compete and so I—begging to my reflection in the bodega shelf—choose the foundation that I did not grow up on and I choose a foundation that is just a little more dainty, and then I am silica and not lakshana. That is not my lakshana because my lakshana is my lakshana is beauty is grace is not Miss Anywhere but it is certainly not here is really my pageant where I am judge, jury, and executioner and it is not a poison like your hydraulic adherence to gnashing delicate dainty porcelain—not China nor a delicacy, don’t you misunderstand it. It is poison for me, and you have poisoned my mother—I do not forgive, much less forget—with such virulent and therapeutic poison that when she taught me to carry my clay, it was fuller’s earth she gave me, and when I inquired hi I did some research and this not just an ayurvedic Cetaphil it is a facial bleach, she did not know that a purpose (not side effect) was to turn skin more normal more lovely because her mom was poisoned too and the multhani mitti was an heirloom—and now I clutch my lakshana for my amma’s mom’s mom who covered her ears from the crunch crunch crunch, and now I shield my lakshana and her small-and-attached lobes on her ears as much as the ears themselves and I shield the crooks of my daughter’s nose and elbows and all other crooks—and now I heat my lakshana in the office microwave and take big fucking bites, and I let the smelly adoration trickle out of my mouth, and I hope you find your lakshana too—and now I pray for my mother, in the morning, in the mirror, when I throw water on my cheeks to wash and not wash away. 41

I have recently undertaken praying for my daughter. You have poisoned her, too. Yesterday, I was let down. My mother was the courageous ship, I was the brave settler, and my daughter, or so I thought, would not need to be brave or courageous; this would be home. Yesterday, my daughter was calm when she walked through the door, sixty feet from the bus stop, stoic like parents are. Either she was afraid to tell me something, or the bus wasn’t her favorite part of the day for once, or both—and I saw in her face that her lakshana was encouraged for the first time to shut the fuck up. They probably didn’t say that, because third-graders don’t use such adult words as ‘shut the fuck up’ for their adulterated feelings—especially not in school— but they are armed with equally tasteful euphemisms for my girl to soak up, and soak up she does because children are sponges. You do not wash your sponges after doing the dishes, airing your dirty laundry, and your sponges smell like your shit. Yesterday my daughter smelled your shit. Yesterday I was let down because I know that I was not enough to satisfy you and so you taught your kids—and I was let down because I know that she does not know that her paper bag tests have already begun—and I was let down because she thinks her lakshana is tightly wound around your fingertips. I reminded her to yank it back. This is still not home for her like I thought it would be, even though she says ‘munk’ not ‘monk’ and her clothes are from Malls not Marshalls.

She asked for hand sanitizer this morning, already late for school. We had only just buckled in, after a hurried breakfast matinée of Jessie, and when I performed the typically giggly reminder of ‘buckle buckle’ she did not reciprocate with her usual ‘okay okay’, but instead thrust it upon me that hand sanitizer was a necessity and we would leave on her terms. I knew why, and still asked. “My hands smell”: the truth “No they don’t”: lie “Like paratha”: the evidence “So?”: feign ignorance “Please?” I obliged. We were not leaving on my terms. We were not leaving on her terms either, but instead on the terms of your porcelain-barbed shit sponge. I reminded her to clutch it again, but she is not old enough to know she has lakshana, only to think it when prompted. In the car ride back, when she was unsafely tucked away in school for a few hours, I called to mind the faces of each indiscriminate child I had seen her with. Who was it? Was it the fat boy with the ginger hair? That ugly child with the crass father who wore shitstained Skechers and basketball shorts to the secondgrade play? The school’s name begins with ‘St.’ and he chose shit-stained Skechers. He looked the type to gleefully infringe on my lakshana, and his son, my daughter’s. I heard his beer-bellied laugh, and saw his full grin, and condemned his son’s raucous behavior from the one time at Parent’s Visit Day when his son threw the class fish across the room at another boy. I saw son in front of father, both with: face muscles erect in a pumpkin’s smile plaid shirt selfishly unbuttoned derelict sneakers with a margarita rim of mud, dirt, grass, and dogshit. I gifted the fat ginger boy the same shoes, not only because I could not remember the (I’m sure, tasteless) shoes the fat ginger boy wore, but also because it fit my narrative. I did not ever ask my daughter who her arbiter of hand smell was, and why they were so merciful to peanut butter jelly and cinnamon roll and french toast—but not the savory kind, not any breakfast I make. It did not matter. I was grateful for this artificial father-son pair. To hate two in theory is less suffocating than to hate you in truth. I sat in the garage.

There was no smile on my daughter’s face, today, again— only defeat, betrayed by vacuum eyes. We ate dinner quietly. Time moves so quickly for children, but I was more impatient. She noticed. I waited for her to talk. She had plenty of time because she was not eating with my daughter’s gusto: no haldi peppering her chin from the mouthfuls too full, no fervor to mix together the dahi and the chawal and the kadhi, and no lackluster attempts at napkin use. No big fucking bites. I asked if I made dinner poorly today. I didn’t. She said I didn’t. I asked what was wrong. She said nothing was wrong. I should’ve known. I asked why she didn’t want to spend this Tuesday afternoon at the after school YMCA, the commune of all her best friends, especially Isa who she adores the most and always wants to sleep over with, come to think of it, Isa has been absent in her chattering this week, so is it Isa? I hope it is not because at least you can laugh off the little fat shit-stained-Sketcher-adorned white boy—not another brown girl.

I asked myself if it was worth it to push all these buttons. She looked about to cry. I asked her if she wanted to talk. She said no. “Okay. I love you.” We finished dinner, and she went to her room to do homework. We did not watch Jessie tonight, but maybe it is best—she finds the Ravi voice funny and I do not want her to think that she can make you laugh like that ever, so. Ten minutes ago, my daughter entered my room, inquisitive but not curious. She did not want to learn. She wanted to know. At eight years old, she wanted to know—but I didn’t know how to tell her to stop the hurt without looking the hurt in its vacuous blue eyes and rejecting its perverse advances again and again and again. I told her they did that to me too: the cafeteria tables; the high school resistance friend group I was in that was labeled the Nonwhites; watching my father receive citizenship after me and the officer correcting him when he pronounced it indievisible and not indivisible (which I have since never fucked up) in the pledge of allegiance. I told her that I never pledged allegiance again. I handed her every ounce of my resentment and told her that here is the homeschool education my daughter will receive and it will help my daughter compete and not just compensate for the homeschooling that you received and will pass on to your children.

My daughter will learn to eat clay, and porcelain, and everything else she wants to eat, but she will never eat dahi and chawal and kadhi without taking big fucking bites and letting the adoration spill all over the place, the peppered haldi-stained orange-colored adoration that will stain her clothes until she is old enough to cook for herself, having moved out, and then once again when she remembers that what she misses most about being my daughter is ghar ka khana, having watched a Youtube video on Sindhi kadhi.

Tomorrow, when my daughter comes home, there may not be a smile on her face. There may be bits and pieces of her that your kids’ bite-corrective-braces (soon to be gapless) tore out of her 8-year-old heart again—and your kids, with their shit-stained Skechers and splintered porcelain and proper elocution and pretty faces and thrown fish for which there was no punishment nor castigation, will walk the sixty feet from the bus stop having blissfully chewed another day. It will not always be like this. Some of your children will learn to taste, and I thank you and/or them, sure, but others will sink their teeth in and deny agency and bite at my daughter’s not-as-pink areolas and for a moment relish in the shame of having put themselves out for unrefined clay and tell her to feel grateful for the missionary work and assume their missionary works and relish in the pride of having taken a dose of something different, abnormal, not from here, from someone who is not at home and I imagine your children as such because, after all: they are your children, and my daughter is my own.

by SHRIYA MUKKAVILLI

layout CRISTINA CANEPA photographer REYNA DEWS stylist IRENE SIBI & AAHIL THARANI & SACHI SOODA hmua PRIYANKA AHMED models ARSHIA THOTA & MORGAN CHENG

To be loved is to be changed. With every close female friend I’ve made, I’ve become more well loved, more evolved. Each one has taken a piece of my heart, wherever they went. I’m like a game: a newer, more complex level being unlocked with each person I love. I know the foods she loves and hates, my mind creating little Venn diagrams with every one. Their favorite colors are my passwords. I look at her and she knows what I’m thinking. One glance means a long debrief later. She knows the right things to say when I need to hear them, harsh or not. Yes, I messed up. No, I’m not a terrible person. With her, there’s no judgment, no fear. Where did this come from? This openness, this transcendence? Could I have foreseen it? This feeling could be traced to my childhood. My kindergarten teacher had to email my mom to tell her I had trouble making friends. I sat alone on the swings for days at recess, watching the other girls play soccer, braid each others’ hair, share secrets and sleepovers. Could any of that be for me?

She made the decision for me. In third grade, she asked if I wanted to be friends, a hand reaching out in front of me. Could she have known? Did she see us now, a decade in the future, two doors away, heartbeats away? That little girl hasn’t left me, the little girl who felt like Corduroy. I am wanted. Wanted by her. Wanted by them. That was all it took for me to transform. I’m not alone in a crowd, How are their birthdays days apart from each other? How do most of them have ‘S’ names? What did I do to earn these people, who take the worst parts of me and make me a more complete, better person? It must be a freak of continuity. We end up in the same place. Huddled together over an iPad watching a 2015 Vine compilation. Peeking through our fingers at a slasher film while the wind howls outside.

If there’s anything high school journalism gave me, it was two of my best friends. In both cases, I thought the worst of them–mean, judgemental– and I was met with care and empathy. Despite what I thought, some of me still wanted to befriend them. Bigger parts of them wanted to be friends with me. We split pieces of our hearts and each take our own piece, whether it’s four blocks away from me or four states away. They taught me to look beyond my initial feelings, find out who they really are. I’ve never gotten closer to people than them in the shortest amount of time. They’re the closest friends I have that I didn’t spend my childhood with. Sometimes when we talk about growing up, I think to myself how nice it would’ve been to be in the pictures with them, two little girls with big smiles and missing teeth. How does she know the exact thing to say when I’m sad? How are my thoughts her words in a flash of light? How does she have an encyclopedic knowledge of my being? She was the shy, artsy girl who transformed into an outgoing, artsy girl. People find her intimidating at first, but I can never. We know each other too well for her to be an unknown, scary entity. She can make me laugh until I cry, and she can draw my likeness to an exact T. She can cover all the parts of her body with tattoos and piercings, but I’ll still find her adorable, and still encourage her to get another. Words don’t come easy to me. I spend too much time in my head for coherence. But she knows. She can read my mind like a picture book. I’ll share anything with her. The quiet moments, the chaos. The brownies, the makeup. We seek each other out. Our hands reached out, both of us looking forward.

We grew up together since middle school, awkward limbs reaching out. Invites to each other’s birthday parties. Then graduation parties. We were in each other’s periphery, one person away from each other’s orbit. Until now. I can’t say I believe in fate. Fate can’t compare to the effort, the conscious decisions we make as people to grow. Because that’s what my female friends help me do. These spaces aren’t given, they’re earned. They aren’t daintily crafted, or forged by fire. We each add our own, creating a larger space, and breaking walls down. We’re not perfect friends. We’re not perfect people. As we’ve grown up, insecurities, immaturity, anger, miscommunication all threatened to break our bond, mar our sixth sense. But we knew better. We knew we could do better. We didn’t need to have conversations detailing our plans. We just knew. Because losing our friendship meant losing a part of ourselves. So we did better. Now we have changed for the better.

I bought us matching necklaces. I saw your favorite Sanrio character at the store. I helped you name your stuffed animals. I love you. I remembered Wisconsin was a state. I saw you in my camera roll. Remember when you made me laugh so hard I cried? I miss you. Do you want to get food? Do you want to go study? Are you ready to go out? I’m glad I’m here with you. We end up in different places. At a crossroads, I always wish to return and be with you forever. Thank you for listening to my rants about figure skating. Thank you for telling me about your day. Thank you for making me who I am.

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Th d s e

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F N A 64

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ue to ue facetosimilar issuesissues because of Post-9/11 xenophobia “Art serves as a megaphone, ” Ravjot Mehek SinghSingh told Saf“Art serves as a megaphone, ” Ravjot Mehek told Safface similar because of Post-9/11 xenophobia and Islamophobia. ” fron. fron. and Islamophobia. ”

“Artyoung serves as a megaphone,” Ravjot Mehekdraped Singhdraped told ByBy creating a space Sikh creatives to stories, a space forforSikh totell telltheir stories, The young queerqueer Sikh artist and filmmaker, in a inBya creating The Sikh artist and filmmaker, creating a space for creatives Sikh creatives totheir tell theirSingh stories, Saffron. curated an exhibit that navigated historically censored political Singh curated an exhibit that navigated historically cendark magenta sari, shared stories of her work and the readark magenta sari, shared stories of her work and the rea- Singh curated an exhibit that navigated historically cenissues. sored political issues.issues. sons for her to centralizing communities experisons fordevotion her devotion to centralizing communities experisored political The young queer Sikh artist and filmmaker, draped in a dark encing prejudice. encing prejudice. magenta sari, shared stories of her work and the reasons “Most of the reason I did [Pardafash] was because I wanted of the reason I did [Pardafash] waswas… because I wanted “Most the reason I Sikh did [Pardafash] was I wanted for her devotion to centralizing communities experiencing “Most people toof know what the genocide it’sbecause actually people to know what the Sikh genocide was… it’s actually It is no secret that the film industry has long prioritized from textbooks, even in India; in the it It prejudice. is no secret that the film industry has long prioritized omitted peoplecompletely to know what the Sikh genocide was… it’scities actually took place in just a few decades ago.” omitted completely from textbooks, even in India; in the male,male, able-bodied,, and heteronormative experiences — it able-bodied,, and heteronormative experiences — it omitted completely from textbooks, even in India; in the It isBut, no secret that the film has long Singh prioritized cities cities it tookitplace justina just few decades ago.” ago.” still does. with likeindustry Ravjot Mehek ded-male, still does. But, creators with creators like Ravjot Mehek Singh dedtook in place a few decades able-bodied,, and heteronormative experiences — it still Activists or sympathizers who spoke of the genocide ended icatedicated to their craft, diverse voices are growing impossible their diverse voicesMehek are growing impossible does.toBut, withcraft, creators like Ravjot Singh dedicated to up incarcerated, missing, or blacklisted from India, Singh told or sympathizers who spoke of the of genocide endedended to ignore. to their ignore. Activists or sympathizers who spoke the genocide craft, diverse voices are growing impossible to ignore.Activists Saffron. up incarcerated, missing, or blacklisted from India, Singh Singh up incarcerated, missing, or blacklisted from India, toldArt, Saffron. For Singh, livingliving in a inPost-9/11 America whereany any Singh, living America where andand all and as aSaffron. result, became a platform for discussions and ForForSingh, ina Post-9/11 a Post-9/11 America where any told media depicting South Asian peopleconsisted consistedof ofeither either reflections on the Sikh genocide, a platform rid of all media depicting South Asian people all media depicting South Asian people consisted of either violence and barbarism or nerdy butt-of-the-joketokens tokens Art,insurmountable fear of speaking out about it. a result, became a platform for discussions and and violence and barbarism or nerdy butt-of-the-joke violence nerdy butt-of-the-joke tokens as Art, as a result, became a platform for discussions showedand thembarbarism a clear lackor of representation of people who reflections on the Sikh a platform rid of rid insurshowed them them a cleara clear lack oflack representation of people who who showed of representation of people reflections theitgenocide, Sikh platform of insurlook like her and her family. “We got to talkon about from genocide, a subjectiveaand emotional way, mountable fear of speaking out about it. look like her and her family. helping sway people ways thatout perhaps media look like her and her family. mountable fear ofinspeaking abouttraditional it. got talk itoffrom subjective and “My dad is Sikh, as am I, so he and my brother wear turbans“Wewouldn’t… Art istalk a wayabout avoiding censorship andemotional being able to “Wetogot toabout it afrom a subjective and emotional —isallSikh, we were seeing in the media at that time was these men speak yoursway mindpeople freely without asthat much hindrance as simply way, helping in ways perhaps traditional “My dad as am I, so he and my brother wear turbans “My dad is Sikh, as am I, so he and my brother wear turbans way, helping sway people in ways that perhaps traditional with beards and in turbans bombing eachtime otherwas and other saying it out loud.” media wouldn’t… Art is Art a way avoiding censorship and and — all— we seeing theinmedia at that these allwere we were seeing the media at that thatwas time was these media wouldn’t… is aofway of avoiding censorship countries,” she explained. “The imagery blasted being able to speak your mind freely without as much hinmen with beards and turbans bombing each other and othmen with beards turbanshaunted bombing and beinginterest able toinspeak your mind freely without as much hinat us [during my and upbringing] meeach and other followed meoth- Singh’s amplifying the Sikh genocide began in drance as school simplywhen saying it created out loud. ” er countries, ” she explained.since “The imagery thatinwas blasted honestly especially those firstblasted 10 grade a piece by her family’s er around countries, ” she ever explained.but “The imagery that was drance as simplyshe saying it out loud.inspired ” at us [during my upbringing] haunted me and followed me following at years us [during my9/11.” upbringing] haunted me and followed me immigration story titled Udassi — meaning both journey and interest in amplifying the Sikh genocide began in around honestly ever since but especially in those first 10 Singh’s around honestly ever since but especially in those first 10 sadness. Singh’s interest in amplifying the Sikh genocide began in Showcasing the ever-present diversity amongst grade school when she created a piece inspired by her famyears following 9/11.” years followinghistorically 9/11.” othered by the Western world grade school when she created a piece inspired byasher communities started to really understand a lot of mom’s history a family’s “Iimmigration story titled Udassi —my meaning both jourily’s immigration storyat titled Udassi — meaning both quickly became a cornerstone of Singh’s practice of this genocide 16 years old,” Singh said. “She andjourand sadness. Showcasing the ever-present diversity amongst communi- ney survivor her entire family were hidden by very pious Hindu neighbors Showcasing the ever-present diversity amongst communi- ney and sadness. ties historically by the Western quickly beoriginothered in filmmaking itself inworld Bollywood tiesHer historically othered finds by the Western worldwhere quickly be- as police and nationalists went door to door looking for Sikh to understand a lot of my mom’s history came a cornerstone ofjourney Singh’safter practice she began her film school, though her queer “I started people to really kill.”to really came a cornerstone of Singh’s practice “I started understand a lot of my mom’s history as a survivor of this genocide at 16 years old,” Singh said. identity found little room to grow in the traditionally intolerant as a survivor of this genocide at 16 were years old,” Singh environment. experiences of thishidden genocide to besaid. andhorrific her entire family were by verynowhere pious HinHer origin in filmmaking finds itself in Bollywood where “SheThe Her origin in filmmaking finds itself in Bollywood where found “Sheinand her entire family were hidden bybeing very pious Hincommon historical texts despite them as police and nationalists went door toimprinted door she began her journey after film school, though her queer du neighbors she“Ifound beganlittle hersafe journey after in film though her neighbors police and nationalists wenthas door didn’t feel as a woman in India in general — but to queer be a ondu psyche of as survivors. The government yetto to door lookingthe for Sikh people to kill. ” Indian identity room to grow theschool, traditionally intolqueer Sikh woman in Indiato I felt extraordinarily targeted.”intol- acknowledge this brutal event and those committed to the identity found little room grow in the traditionally looking for Sikh people to kill. ” erant environment. truth are censored and silenced to the fullest degree. This erant environment. horrific experiences of thisinto genocide were nowhere to Singh’s intersectional identity informs her work through The transformed Singh’s practice resistance. The horrific experiences of this genocide were being nowhere to “I didn’ther feelcommitment safe as a woman in India in general — butMost to be found in common historical texts despite them to centering overlooked narratives. “I recently, didn’t feel safe as woman in India inbygeneral — butimprinted to “My bemom found ina psyche common historical textsIndian despite them being sharing the her family bit of a memory issue from that time, which onhas the of survivors. The governbe a queer Sikh woman inatrauma India experienced I felt extraordinarily tara queer Sikh woman in historically India I feltglossed-over extraordinarily imprinted thehorribly psychetraumatic,” of survivors. The Indian governcommunity during the Sikh tarsense. Itacknowledge was Singh explained. mentmakes has yet to on this brutal event and those geted.be ” and genocide has been a focal point of her practice. “Seeing the patterns of how her memories were suppressed geted. ” ment has yet to acknowledge this brutal event and committed to the truththis aredetective censoredboard and tosilenced to the those inspired me to create really investigate committed totransformed the truth are censored and silenced degree. This Singh’s practice resis-to the Singh’s From intersectional identity informs hera gallery work in through June to September of this year, Rochester,fullest what actually happened to her during those daysinto she can’t Singh’s intersectional identity informs her work through fullest degree. This transformed Singh’s practice into resisher commitment overlooked narratives. Most NY featuredtoancentering exhibit curated by Singh titled Pardafash: Arttance. remember.” her commitment to centering overlooked narratives. Most tance. a Sikhthe Perspective. recently,from sharing trauma experienced by her family and recently, sharing trauma experienced hergenofamily and Kahani, latest mixed piece, an “MyZubani mom has a bitSingh’s of a memory issuemedium from that time,is which community during thethe historically glossed-overby Sikh “It featured eleven incredibly diverse Sikh artists from amalgamation of witness testimonies from family members community during the historically glossed-over Sikh geno“My mom has a bit of a memory issue from that time, which makes sense. It was horribly traumatic,” Singh explained. cide has been a focal point of her practice. around the world, tackling the issues Sikhs faced in the 80s sprawled across a p`olice-like evidence board. A photo of cide has been a focal point of her practice. makes sense. Itofwas traumatic, Singh explained. “Seeing the patterns howhorribly her memories were” suppressed in India and how they parallel with today, where we continue Singh’s mother at 16, when the genocide occurred, sits in the “Seeing thepiece patterns of how herconnecting memories were suppressed meofto this to really investiFrom June to September of because this year,ofaPost-9/11 gallery in Rochester,and inspired to face similar issues xenophobia middle thecreate with detective red string board her to familial From June to September of this year, a gallery in Rochester, inspired me to create this detective board to really investiwhat actually happenedPost-it to hernotes during days from she NY featured an exhibit curated by Singh titled Pardafash: gateand Islamophobia.” archival photographs. withthose anecdotes NY afeatured an exhibit curated by Singh titled Pardafash: gate what happened to her during days she accompany imagery alongside the fewthose articles can’trelatives remember. ”actuallythe Art from Sikh Perspective. available telling the truth of what happened in 1984. Art from a Sikh Perspective. can’t remember.” “It featured eleven incredibly diverse Sikh artists from Zubani Kahani, Singh’s latest mixed medium piece, is an “Itthe featured eleven incredibly diverse Sikh artists Zubani Kahani, Singh’s latest mixed piece, 65 is an amalgamation of witness testimonies frommedium family memaround world, tackling the issues Sikhs faced in the 80s from around the world, tackling the issues Sikhs faced in the 80s amalgamation of witness testimonies from family memin India and how they parallel with today, where we contin- bers sprawled across a police-like evidence board. A photo in India and how they parallel with today, where we contin- bers sprawled across a police-like evidence board. A photo

“Rather than simply being an art piece, Zubani Kahani is a form of activism — a textbook of sorts.”

‘I’m launching my resort wear, would you like to come walk as a model at New York Fashion Week?”

When an entire history of a people is erased from public resources, art like Singh’s is a lifeline to past histories and thus allows healing and acknowledgment to begin.

All the cards aligned for Singh’s dream to come true as she walked the runway earlier this year, engaging in the chaos of NYFW on the frontlines.

*** Singh’s charisma and presence are both captivating and light, despite the scope of her work revolving around amplifying the difficult experiences of marginalized people. Apart from her day job of unveiling overlooked histories, Singh plays eight instruments and claims to have an Ariana Grande impression like you haven’t seen (with a couple of weeks of practice of course). Like a lot of us, she dreamed of one day walking New York Fashion Week — though in Singh’s case, she actually did.

“There was so much yelling going back and forth. We were freaked out but we all worked so well together as a team… we kept each other calm, in check, and in a bright and positive mood.” If you were to catch Singh post-runway relaxing, it would probably consist of an Aamir Khan movie (preferably PK but they love them all) paired with chicken pot pie, an odd choice of comfort food she vehemently defends. The unconstrained activism and artistry taken on by Singh doesn’t make them above indulging in Keeping Up With The Kardashians or unable to spill the person they are currently missing. Hear from Ravjot themselves that creative powerhouses are just like us too.

“It wasn’t based in truth, just one of those things you dream of as a kid,” Singh said. “Preeti Gore, who is the founder of Tilted Lotus, reached out to me after having previously worked on a brand deal together and was like

by PRIA GOKHALE

layout MARIAM ALI photographer AMY LEE stylist ESHA BAJAJ, AVANI SUNKIREDDY hmua SRIKHA CHAGANTI creative directors JAYASHREE GANESAN, AVANI SUNKIREDDY, NISHU PAWAR sourcing PAVEMENT studio SUITE650

Fashion is so much more than the pieces of clothing we choose to dress ourselves in. When we let it, the fabric can tell pieces of our story for us. Nishu Pawar’s clothing brand The Urban Indian does just that, both for him and the people who wear it. The Urban Indian offers a selection of streetwear items that have warm words printed on them in a host of South Asian languages. From the Masala Sweatshirt to the Love Tee, each garment is designed to fuse urban aesthetics with traditional Indian flavors to celebrate South Asian culture in a stylish way. We sat down with Nishu to learn more about him and his inspiration for the clothing he designs. The anime-loving, coffee-addicted, Atlanta native was never into fashion growing up as a kid.

“

I didn’t really know how to dress myself. I wear wild things sometimes and my parents don’t really get it, most people don’t really get it, they’re always like, “yo, why are you wearing such baggy ass clothes?” I like it, you know. It makes me feel comfortable, it makes me feel confident, and that’s what it is. Fashion is just a way to express who you are through fabric.”

However, as he grew older, Nishu took to streetwear and found fashion inspiration among prominent creatives like Kanye West, Virgil Abloh, and Tyler, the Creator. Beyond individual people, Nishu pointed to fashion trends which helped keep him creative as the brand grew and continues to grow: “I think as a whole Japanese and Korean fashion is kind of popping off right now and I also like that as an entity rather than a person - that’s super influential. I like a lot of the flowyness I see in Indian garments so that’s one thing I’ve been inspired by.” Though inspired by cultural garments and current fashion industry trends, The Urban Indian distinguishes itself from other brands in the streetwear space in affordability and quality. It is important to Nishu that the garments feel high quality at an affordable price, so that “people can celebrate themselves and their culture in a way that doesn’t feel like they’re breaking the bank.” The affordability and trendy style of the clothing are but two of the many reasons the 70 brand has gained immense popularity since its conception.

When starting The Urban Indian, though, Nishu’s sights were set simply on experimentation with running a clothing business. Soon, however, it became clear that the brand deeply resonated with the South Asian community. “The entire point of The Urban Indian when it first started was me just trying to experiment and learn more about the entrepreneurship world. And then people were like yo this is dope, like it’s so cool that the culture is being supported here. And like representation. And I was like oh, wow, this has an unknown little side to it that I didn’t expect. That’s when I started realizing this could be more of something than what I originally thought it would be. At the same time, I was falling more and more in love with South Asian culture, and like, my Indian-ness. So that kind of went hand in hand, and I’m like let’s get it, we’ll just run with that.”

Bollywood, Tollywood, no major music or movie industry – what that’s allowed me to do is step into all these different cultures, all these different languages, through my parents’ interactions with their friends who speak other languages. And that kind of exposure made me super into different parts of India. That easily translated into me having the knowledge to make a Hindi t-shirt or Telugu t-shirt or Tamil t-shirt. And that snowballed into me learning more about other cultures. That’s kind of what The Urban Indian is for me: learning more about India and how the different parts of India make India, India.”

“That’s kind of what The Urban Indian is With most of their sold out online, for me: learning more items we asked Nishu what’s next for The about India and how the Urban Indian. Nishu “We want different parts of India explained, to start dropping more and more make India, India.” seasonals… I also

Part of the reason for this widespread resonance among so many members of the South Asian community with a variety of vastly different cultures has to do with Nishu’s own linguistic heritage. He considers Khatri to be his mother tongue, a language that has no script and is spoken by very few people in the United States. He points to these facts as fundamental in shaping his affinity for South Asian cultures other than his own: “Because there’s no script or large community - no

want to continue adding more and more languages and flesh out those spiced basics we’ve been doing for the past two years now.” More generally, Nishu hopes to keep showing off as many South Asian cultures as possible. As the brand grows to include more scripts and new words, The Urban Indian may continue to find a greater community eager to showcase its identity in an easy, but meaningful way. With creatives like Nishu committed to breaking boundaries in crafting Western garments with odes to South Asian identity, we are excited to see how the streetwear industry continues to evolve. ■

compiled by LAURA GONIMA