by Nidhi Krishna 

The splish-splooshing of puddles. Slashes of green against grey. Umbrellas nudging each other (a tad rudely), jostling for space.

The smell of dampened soil embracing sticky air. The crunch of wet tar loosening itself and the slaps of chappals and shoes against water.

She was not fond of it.

People rushed to take shelter under metalled roofs, pressing their wet bodies against the closed  shutters of shops. Vegetable vendors shouted out to each other as they shovelled bundles of paalak and kadipatta into sacks, trying to protect their prized possessions from the shrieking wind. The thunder rumbled and grumbled and shook the sky ; it almost sounded like a giant was frantically pacing the floor of the heavens.

She had never been very fond of the rain. Each pellet of rain that met her skin felt like the prick of a needle and the wet gravel that got stuck between her toes as she wound her way in and around the packed cars at the traffic junction got on her nerves. She hated the muck and the slime and the stickiness.

Yet here she was.

A basket of wilted roses was sitting beside her on the white-washed wall. Her grimy pink patialas molded themselves to her thighs as the wind buffetted her body. She rubbed her hands together and blew on her knuckles, trying to warm them.

She shut her eyes as the droplets made their way down her face. The sensation was still not enjoyable but she had experienced worse. Her hair had plastered itself to her scalp and she could feel the water running through the grooves between the strands.

She turned her palms outward, facing the sky as if trying to catch the rain. She didn’t know if it actually worked, she had only seen it in the nineties’ Bollywood film that the old woman across the road had played on her TV set yesterday. She had a cramp in her neck now, from trying to peer into her window.

She didn’t like the rain, but here she was, trying to catch it. It seemed that the rain was the only thing which could help her now. She was too hopeful, too desperate.

She had tried to use bucketfuls of icy water from the tap outside her small room in the slum. She had tried to scrub her skin with a smooth pebble she had found in the garden of the same old woman whose window she had peered into, until her skin was red and raw. She had even used a small piece of soap she had found — still in its wrapper —  in the dustbin.

But none of it seemed to work.

The rain, they said, was pure, unfiltered, clean. It brought water to the Ganga, which was holy. Maybe it would help.

Maybe it would wash away the feeling of his unfamiliar fingers on her legs. Maybe it would scrub her skin so hard that she would no longer feel his hands roaming over her body, pressing into her hips so hard that her brown skin turned white. Maybe the rain would work  better than the soap; maybe it would wash away her sins.

 Because she was certain she had done something absolutely horrible in her previous life to end up with his body thumping against her, flattening her so hard she could barely breathe. She had to have been so filthy that she had somehow ended up with his large, bitter-tasting hands clamped against her mouth. She had to have been so dirty that the police man could barely stand to listen to her; barely be in her presence.

Maybe the rain would clean her.

Maybe the rain would wash away her memories of that night.
Maybe the rain would help her forget.

[Read More: What the Qandeel Baloch Murder Means to South Asian Women]

Nidhi Krishna is a sixteen-year-old from Pune, India who has just recently completed her Indian Certificate of Secondary Education board exams from St. Mary’s School and is now in the eleventh grade in the humanities stream at Delhi Public School, Pune. When she’s not procrastinating, she can be found devouring a large number of books. She also loves dogs and dark chocolate and knows the lyrics to a large number of Disney songs. Read more of her work on her blog. 

By Brown Girl Magazine

Brown Girl Magazine was created by and for South Asian womxn who believe in the power of storytelling as a … Read more ›

Photo Courtesy of Varsha Panikar

“After so Long” is a poetry film created for Simha’s EP, which is streaming on Spotify, Apple Music and Amazon Music. The poem was collaboratively written by Simha, a U.S. native, and Jae, who is based in India, during the 2020 lockdown. “After so Long” was recited by Simha and their parents. In 2022, I directed and produced the film through my studio, Star Hopper. “After so Long” premiered on Nowness Asia in March 2022.

By Varsha Panikar

Varsha Panikar (they/he) is a filmmaker, writer and multi-disciplinary artist from India. They are the co-founder of Star Hopper, a … Read more ›

Photo by VAKS-Stock Agency via Shutterstock.com

“Take what you want//Take everything” reflects on a time with my partner and our cat, Layla. It’s a retelling of the chaotic night I adopted her. I didn’t know why Layla hid from me. When I chased her around, it scared her more. “Take what you want//Take everything” juxtaposes our first night, filled with misunderstanding, with the rest of the time we spent together. My fond memories call back to the loving moments Layla and I shared.

Such memories defined us; they reverberated in my partnership. I wonder if my partner, like Layla, only remembers her fear of me, over our shared moments of love. The title, a Kanye West lyric, is an acknowledgment that their happiness together–without me–destroyed my sense of self. When I see their photos, I wonder if I can see myself reflected in their eyes. I wonder if they still keep kind moments of our time together.

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Take what you want//Take everything

I remember when she would look at me from behind a laundry basket.

A small simple cat with green owl eyes. She was afraid of her new home and its owner. Shit, I remember the night I got her, she hid under my bed, in the middle just out of my reach for maybe 6 hours, watching me. She didn’t eat anything the entire day. When the night fell I was afraid she’d starve or come out and attack me. I was just scared. I didn’t have a childhood pet, I’m not white, I didn’t know what to do. I picked up the whole bed and yelled that she needed to move. I chased her into the closet with a vacuum cleaner. When she ran in, I called my lover and yelled to her that she wasn’t helping enough, she needed to be there to help me. That was our first day together, me and that cat. No one will ever have that memory but me and maybe her.

It was during Ramadan, my first year fasting.

Our problems had already begun by then. Enough so that I decided to fast and show retribution. I’d try to change into a more patient and understanding self. Like the Prophet (SAW) I guess. To become someone that my lover could feel safe around. Somehow, getting a cat felt like it fit into that picture. I’d be a cat dad, you know, gentle. We’d raise her. I’d fast and become New Again. Maybe I’d wrap an inked tasbih around myself and show I’m a man of God.

I don’t know how a cat remembers fear any more than I know how a lover does.

I know her body stored it. My cat’s must have stored it too. That first night, I wish I could tell her that I was afraid too. It doesn’t make sense that I was afraid really — I’m bigger, more threatening. We don’t speak the same language anyway, so how could I ever tell her? She learned to trust me though, in her own way. Her small bean paws would press on my chest in the mornings. She’d meow to berate me for locking her out some nights, or when I was away from home too long.

She lives with my lover now. They share photos with me, they’re happy together.

I saw my lover once, it was on 55th and 7th, Broadway shined blue performance lights over us. She wore a red sacral dress. She said her mental health has never been better. I think she was trying to tell me that she’s doing well, because she knows I care for her. I don’t think she was trying to say she’s happier without me. We don’t speak the same language. I actually think they are happier with just each other. And I loved them both, so it hurts. Sometimes, not all the time. And it doesn’t always hurt that bad. Other times it does get pretty bad, though. I probably owe it to myself to say that.

I look back at the photos, the ones of our life together, and the ones of their new life.

Two green owl eyes, and two brown moonlit eyes. I look for myself in them.

[Read Related: How Love Matures as you Grow]

By Umrao Shaan

Umrao Shaan is a short storyist, poet, and ghazals singer. You can find his songs on his Instagram. His other … Read more ›

Photo by Biscotto Design via Shutterstock.com

NAKED: The Honest Musings of 2 Brown Women was born in the autumn of 2018, when Mimi Mutesa and Selvi M. Bunce began sharing their poetry collections. It was scary, beautiful, and terrifying when they decided to trust each other with their most intimate thoughts. Not only did they feel relieved after doing so, but Selvi and Mimi also felt more seen as women of color. They embarked on their publication journey, so others may feel as seen as they did on that fateful autumn.

“Ingrown Hair” deals with the themes of societal and family pressures that are reflected throughout NAKED. Mimi and Selvi have always written for themselves. They see poetry as an outlet, and their poems exemplify their personal frustration and vulnerability. “Ingrown Hair” speaks to Selvi’s experience with the societal pressures of South Asian women, such as getting married, being a good wife, becoming a good mother, and leading a certain kind of life.

[Read Related: Exploring the Endless Possibilities of who I am In the Mirror]

Ingrown Hair

There is something strange beneath my skin
telling me to build a house,
make a home,
mother children.
I am not sure how to reconcile it.
My mother was strong
and a mother after all.
My philosophy has been to spend my time
on myself and the world.
I have always thought
I could simply address the thing under my skin
when it finally crawled out.
But when my family starts guessing
who will get married first, and my father
has been saving wedding money for years,
I begin to wonder
if I will have to pluck it out.

[Read Related: Reconstructing and Deconstructing our Ideals]

You can purchase your copy of NAKED on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Waterstones, Bookshop, and The Black Spring Press Group. Follow Selvi on Twitter and Instagram. Don’t forget to check out her project, Brown & Brazen.

The opinions expressed by the guest writer/blogger and those providing comments are theirs alone and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of Brown Girl Magazine, Inc., or any employee thereof. Brown Girl Magazine is not responsible for the accuracy of any of the information supplied by the guest writer/bloggers. This work is the opinion of the blogger. It is not the intention of Brown Girl Magazine to malign any religion, ethnic group, club, organization, company, or individual. If you’d like to submit a guest post, please follow the guidelines we’ve set forth here.

By Selvi M. Bunce

Selvi M. Bunce (she/they) has written for academic and creative journals and spoken at diversity conferences and TEDx. Selvi currently … Read more ›