est. 2022
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ISSUE 4: ETHER
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SHREYA GUPTA
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Kanya
Shreya Gupta | Prose
Andhora had only worn white her whole life.
Pure and colorless, without any trace of suffering— completely white.
Her skin was like a thin cloth stretched over her bones, and her complexion was chalky and pale. Her nails grew till they curled and her hair reached until just above her silver anklets.
Sometimes Andhora looked transparent. Perhaps when she stared at her hands, she saw right through them.
But to the people she was their salvation, the holy goddess with no impurity. Widows lay at her feet wallowing for their lost husbands, liars begged for mercy, and great kings washed her feet in pious display.
One day, upon her palanquin she was brought to a sudden stop. A chaotic havoc came from outside, so she pulled open the curtain with her doll-like fingers.
Having no words to say, because her mouth was sealed shut by wax, Andhora could only gaze around, monotonous eyes reflecting flickering flames and hysterical men.
She stood there, till her silk skirt caught slowly alight, but even when the fire licked at her toes, she did not move.
If she became ash under the glowing full moon, would that ash still be the same unending white? If her skin burnt and her bones charred to dust, would her remains stay undiluted?
A shrine would be built atop her corpse, and the people would sing to her, buy thread for good fortune, and preserve her remains because even in death unbreathing, she would be transcendent.
But Andhora did not burn, or melt into the whispering flames. She was doused from above, in a thunderous rain.
The people lay at her feet again, begging for death as their punishment. And Andhora raised her palm, closing her eyes to bless them, because their sins brought her to no end.
They doused her in milk, pressed clay to her skin till it dried to stone and her limbs would never crack. They adorned her with gold and jewels, fragrant garlands and bright diyas.
Now her eyes were forever peeled to be awake, her feet cemented to the earth, and her hands always turned to grace.
Some eternity passed. But Andhora had everything sucked out from her; what clear purity the people retrieved from her eventually became foggy.
Doubt spread like infection, and unrest rooted itself inside her abode.
After an abandoned prayer-song, Andhora realized that the priests had forgotten to dress her, and the breeze carried the scent of faded incense far away from her pedestal. The wind didn’t tickle her nose and the stench of her wilted lilies bothered none. Her arms were sore and her limbs were weak, but they had already been deeply entombed in the white rock.
Even though serenity followed her, immortality drained her.
What use did she have, forgotten by her followers to whom she gave everything yet received nothing from in return. All that Andhora had really amounted to was a beggar disguised as an all-knowing giver.
Like the blaze of the fire that incarcerated the townspeople before, an ember ignited within the hollow statue Andhora called her body. Destiny had bound her to the life of a celestial, but the whispering of the flames called her to a truer fate.
In the three-hundred thousandth toll of the wishing bell, something escaped from Andhora, painting her the unfamiliar color of her forbidden mortality. It splattered everywhere, blending with the fury of her eternity, gruesome and unforgiving.
It was unrecognizable when it flowed down her pressed white blouse, her starched white skin, and her old lily garland.
No longer was Andhora a girl. No longer was Andhora a deity.
The aging clay broke to pieces with a deafening rumble, and from there emerged Andhora, forever-changed.
Instead of empty veins and a phantom’s expression, she bled with a pulsing, beating heart.
Fresh poppies were strung through her hair and a veil draped over her forehead marked with pigmented paste. Her lips shone the same color and the auspicious strings criss-crossed her body forming clumpy knots.
With this form her unearthly aura returned. Andhora’s eyes set aflame, her dark hair grew thick and plentiful, with strong bones and sharp nails she wielded the cosmic trident. Rage overflowed from her pores, bubbling out of her eyes and her ears.
The people would face their well-deserved anguish. None of them were worthy of Andhora’s mercy.
But in a sudden revelation, she recalled the name of the color she now wore.
The day she departed from home, her mother pinched her soft cheeks till they flushed red for good luck, yet all Andhora could see were her mother’s grieving eyes soaked with wet sorrow.
Red was the color of Andhora’s fury, just as red was the color of her mother’s woe.
She loosened her grip on the world-splitting trident, realizing it was time to put her lonely wrath to rest.
She released the fire gently into the thousands of lights outside her abode. She tossed her lavish ornaments and priceless anklets aside. She forsook her heavenly throne.
And before Andhora took the final step off her pedestal, she glanced behind one last time. The expression she held was akin to her mother, identical eyes rimmed with a weary red.
Content Warnings: Themes of Suicide
cold ocean
Shreya Gupta | Prose
Mother
You were supposed to bring your red shovel. I dirty my palms with the sand anyway, forming a wet mound. You cover it in bottle caps and seaweed, and we are close enough to shore that it doesn’t crumble into dry chunks, but the tide won’t wash it away. You smile, and I realize one of your teeth has fallen out again. You tell me you wish we could come here everyday, but I only continue the trail of footsteps, thinking of the times you had seen these sands through my eyes. The daffodils on your dress are fading. You didn’t ask for new socks either. When I told you we’d be leaving you said you’d give away Bunny, who is almost soggy and flaky from all the rounds of laundry. And when I asked why you said someone else might be waiting for him. You went to bed, but I took him to the dumpster. It’s almost dusk now, I can see your goosebumps from the chill, but your still-chubby fingers pull at mine to go further. Your hair is salty and your legs are salty and your eyes are squinty-water salty. You tell me you are too hungry to just nibble your nails, that it still hurts too much. This time I tell you it will stop hurting. Maybe that makes me even more selfish. I tell you your stomach will be full of king lobsters and buttered rolls and foie gras. You ask me what foie gras is, and how a king lobster could possibly fit inside your belly. Anything can fit inside your tummy, I say, as long as you chew it. You nod with an expression of importance, as if noting it down to remember. What I didn’t tell you though, was that everything inside your tummy would eventually leave it. And for me, you were the only thing that just wouldn’t disappear. The sun is deep in the water now. I wonder if I chose differently, maybe, if I could take us to a place they would never find us. Where you wouldn’t have to worry about seeing my blue skin and you wouldn’t have to climb out of windows on the fourth floor. Where I don’t push tears out of my eyes for coming back for you after leaving you behind in a diner, swaddled up and bright red. Where you go to daycare and I cook you a dinner of pasta made with olive oil and juicy tomatoes. Where I push you on swings and when we run it isn’t away from someone. I told myself I couldn’t do this, couldn’t take us to the one place they would never find us. There is no boat at sea this time, no fish in the water. You shiver one more time, and I take you up in my arms. When the coldness touches my ankles your head buries into my neck. The air is fast and our bodies sound slow, and even when I see the reflection of the sun’s last light in your eyes, I think that you already knew.
Fisherman
I don’t know when I started watching that woman every morning. She’d come before we set up by the docks, kicking at my fishnets and brooding over by the rocks. Is she even from around here? By the time I’d gotten there, she was gone, only leaving the nets kicked off the boat. Sometimes she’d just sit by the shore, legs up to her chest, eyes closed. Then one time, when I wondered why I couldn’t see her on the sand, I realized she was right there, hiding underneath my porch. She was shivering. Through the cracks of the wood, her eyes caught mine. I pulled the shutters down. I saw headlights through the gaps, the loud rovers too, and in my dreams I heard her screaming. The next time it was even earlier, the sun wasn’t up, but she was making such a racket it woke me up. My shack was at the side of the road, so when I looked outside of the window, seeing her howling and drenched, I thought maybe she’d learned her lesson, and went back to sleep. I didn’t see her again for three months. I was coming back with some Pikes from a little farther out, the waves were crashing and the moon was out. I packed everything up, got in my truck, and drove back. Maybe my eyes were playing tricks on me that night, but I saw her silhouette, saw her round belly. And I don’t know why, but I stepped harder on the gas pedal. For days, I track packs of trout in the shallows, gathering for winter. Now the sun is setting, and I realize I can see her head popping out of the water, and I know her feet are wading underneath slowly. She looks ready. This time, this time I can’t bring myself to return to shore. She is frozen, expressionless when I take her up into my boat. She only touches the bump of her belly, hums a rasped lullaby to it, and falls asleep quickly with an unsatisfied expression. I can’t tell whether it is regret or remorse. Years later, when I find their water-clogged bodies, and I see her lips frozen in the unfinished lullaby, I think I know which one she chose.
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Shreya Gupta (she/her) is an Indian-American writer from the Chicago Metropolitan Area. She is a high-school junior who enjoys writing about experiences that resonate with her– catching momentary interactions and weaving them into webs of stories. When she's not thinking about the manga she's currently reading, she'll be on a long drive with no destination.
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