Nomadology Volume 2, Autumn '25: Video Meliora

Volume 2, Autumn 2025

Video Meliora

NOMADOLOGY

ART

Bee Della Guerra, Irina Tall Novikova, Ky Struck

Poetry Aaryan Wadwekar, Bryce Sng, Cally Lim,

Carly Jo Helm, Dan Brook, Kai Li Tay, LillyRuth Beck,

Stephen Mead, Vanessa Chiam

Fiction & Essays

Dr Raluca David, Whitney Sol

Ely Jóse Couto, L.A. Nolan,

Illustrated by Ky Struck

The Lovers, digital art, 12.7 x 17.8 cm

NOMADOLOGY, AUTUMN ISSUE 2025

Contents Page

Editor’s Note 3

Art

Dream the Adventure 6

untitled by Irina Tall Novikova 10

Side B 14

untitled by Irina Tall Novikova 28

Chess dreams 42

Chess dreams part 2 59

Poetry

Sati 4

The Drive Home 5

Compassion in a Confessional 8

The Problem with People 9

Melusina Search 11

Smoke Screens 12

My rapist made me a poet 15

Kissing 16

Stars become the sky 18

Spring 20

Fiction & Essays

Ennui Addict 22

To Have Time, To See Orion 30

The Sculptor’s Daughter 44

Self-portrait as three existentialists at the end of the world 62


Editor’s Note

“Video meliora proboque, deteriora sequor”

– Ovid, Metamorphoses

Video meliora, proboque... so goes Medea in Ovid’s Metamorphoses as

she grapples between familial honour and passionate, foolish love. Latin

for “I see the better path, and approve it”, the theme of Nomadology’s

second issue captures the timeless struggle between knowing what is

right and yet, yearning to do otherwise. This Autumn, we invited writers,

poets and artists to do just that: to relish in choice, to explore the cold

and warmth of the human soul, and to kindle the amber glow of autumn

with the steady warmth of the creative spirit.

The pieces in this issue return us to the fundamentals of this idea. Here,

you’ll find poetry that pushes back against orthodox notions of culture,

gender, and sexuality, and prose that persists in the small liminal spaces

between what we feel and what we know. Each piece embodies a unique

message and perspective that makes this issue truly special.

Within this vein, we extend our deepest gratitude to the incredible

writers, artists, and essayists who entrusted us with their work. Within

these pages, you’ll find no fewer than 22 beautiful pieces, contributed by

voices spanning 4 continents and 9 countries. Lastly, thank you to each

reader for giving us your time.

Welcome to The Nomadology Review, Autumn 2025.

,

Jamie and Luke

Co-editors-in-chief, Co-founders


Sati

Aaryan Wadwekar

yesterday, my sister asked me to

kill her so i did. when

she knocked, i buried her

body in the ganges.

my hands plowing brown soil

all over her face. just

enough to erase her

bruises. our father traded her

for a husband and his hits.

when he passed and body became

ash, we waved incense to

his murti until it hung black

like her eyes. her tears

burning from the smoke.

sometimes, when i think of

her, i see the idols staring at me,

her reddened eyes and her white chalked lips when she saw the

4 POETRY NOMADOLOGY, AUTUMN ISSUE 2025

The Drive Home

LillyRuth Beck

Sweet emotions. Fickle and sweet. Sitting in the backseat,

Wishing that everything could stay the way that it is at this

very moment. Love as thick as honey. Passion as sharp as a

knife. The whole world at our fingertips. A breeze passes by the

window blowing my hair about and reminding me soon we will

be home. Sweet Emotions. I feel the excitement of the new world

and the fear of leaving this haven of superb love. Emotions are

fickle. As the Aerosmith song concludes so does our drive. A

strange wave of comfort sweeps over me. “We will always be live

this.”


6


DREAM THE ADVENTURE 40 x 50 cm

Ky Struck

Compassion in a Confessional

Cally Lim


The Problem with People

Bryce Sng

the problem with people is that people have problems.

i am lying whenever i say no problem.

some problems are problem sums.

other problems are products.

one pro duct is flexitape.

the line above is problematic.

as above, so below is a problem.

this line believes that it is not a problem.

a poem is a subset of a problem.

rbl = roblox is another subset of a problem.

problem spelt backwards is melborp.

in hindsight every problem starts with me.

the problem is my foresight says otherwise.


untitled

Irina Tall Novikova

10 NOMADOLOGY, AUTUMN ISSUE 2025

Melusina Search

Stephen Mead

(Thanks to A.S. Byatt)

In your bath & everywhere else

I meant to find the great serpent head

& stroke its massive mane.

Yes, I meant to know griffin-feet,

climb flanks & rise, a raw hold

on neck, horns, the two wings

big as ship sails, hinged as steeple

doors & flapping the color of fire.

They too were the color of your gaze

above the untamed nostrils breathing

with your young too, once you’ve been seen,

changing to coil shrikes, desert lizards,

& moving, a small wood motif

on some primitive sea.

So what if I’d die, Mr. Pandora,

betraying years of your female secret,

that dragon-snake hidden in guise of Eve?

Though disclosing no fangs, I too am reptilian,

I too, chameleon-legendary, holed up in my library

turning over, opening, book after book,

but never finding, not once,

your name or mine.


Smoke Screens

Stephen Mead

Are you homo

sexual, the so important question, always

to somebody else.

Not us:

sunset hands, glorious

grocery shopping, vegetarian debates &

walking the cat,

the cat walks

peace marches, edges

of wide protests, of racial

rights protesting

out of the tube,

the paper, the imported

goods crackling

(crunch crunch)

with consumerism’s

silence—

The isms, the oppressed, the lives

gone to causes, the cause of flesh

intertwined with political laws,

with pleasure with simple times stretched

into Lotte Lenya’s voice as Pirate Jenny


when the ship

(a black freighter)

of eight sails/of fifty cannons

takes this hotel

(Surabaya Johnny)

to sea,

to standing

(I still love)

androgynous, at some

night spot

(take that damn pipe)

posing sultry, ambiguous

(out of your mouth)

sensuous smoke & gin

(you rat)

& leave alone believing

(the mystique)

our world’s larger

(the deep heart)

than that.



SIDE B Bee DellA Guerra

My rapist made me a poet

Carly Jo Helm

Because I craved some way to

Expel the affliction, fruitless

I wrote circles around it to change course the bleeding

Allusions only she and I could know

I stab my pen to paper long after we end

She’s twisted herself into an overflow

A figure of our intemperate shared history

Everchanging, and frozen in time

My love and my body have learned to expect

The tears, the shaking, the silence, the screams

Even after touching me with all of my rules

And I always still every single time lose.

My rapist made me a poet,

And for that, now I know

I owe her everything she took

And all that's left after.


Kissing

Dan Brook

two faces

moving closer

and closer

feeling each other’s heat

the warm, moist air

breath on neck

arching of back

hand through hair

brushing past the ear

soft sounds escape

face to face

intimate

noses playfully rub

until one nose pushes the other away

lips now touching

tingling

all over

breathing faster

hotter still

lips part

tongues meet


in freedom

as they deserve to do

speaking their unique language

dancing the dance of connection

with purposeful passion

their wet and wild ways

tasting each other’s sweetness

heavier breathing

feeling hotter

a little loss of consciousness

where even the here and now

all sense of time and space

disappear

into ethereal frisson

the universe collapses

serendipity, synchronicity, synergy, syzygy

and sweat

while these two hearts

beating faster together

melt into one


Stars become the sky

Kai Li Tay

When I was little, I learned early on that stars

weren’t really 5-pointed shapes hanging in the sky

but tangible balls of gas burning up over millennia.

Even so, I liked to imagine the sky a velvet curtain,

the stars, pinholes in its thick fabric.

The naked eye cannot undress its secrets,

though we try—and how we try.

See how the city lights flicker in imitation,

our own version of constellations

since we cannot reach the sky.

It is not the same. It cannot be.

Rippling puddles on asphalt roads

cannot hold the universe.

Ours are not lights at the end of endless tunnels

or peepholes in sealed doors, no opening in the wall

through which hope may peek.

Look up at the Northern Star.

Here shines a speck of

daylight

cast down to the bottom of the universe,


light rays spilling past its outline.

What lies beyond this ceiling crack?

Heaven, surely, a place of only light.

I imagine God created the stars, holes in the jar

of our mortal world’s lid, so we could have a breath.

Perhaps He crafted the sky to keep us from it, a vast

galactic blanket, cosmic blindfold―would the light burn

us away, engulf us in our entirety and leave no ashes?

Let me carry Icarus’ legacy.

I dream of it vividly―

If I could reach up enough,

finger pushing through to hook

the light side of the curtain;

if I could just dig my nail into the fabric

and pull

then I might fit both hands in the tear,

rip open the blinds, into it like Christmas wrappings,

until the star becomes the sky, every shred of night gone,

and dawn comes pouring down into our world,

finally flooding it with light.


Spring

Vanessa Chiam

soon — you say, the heaviness of last season

will melt at the ends of frosted branches,

it is only a waiting game

but i was never your strongest soldier

still this quiet grace prevails, leaves its footfalls

on the long, silent march toward

the first blush of light

we thirsted for -

all autumn

look — how this fragile light

touches one blossom, and then every other

tell me - how can anything be the same

when everything has been undone

even once?

see — even now, the earth is made new

this tug-of-war of pink on thaw

down to the root and marrow

of the way things are

for what is a season but nothing more,

nothing less than


a promise made and kept

and these beginnings

springing forth from

wisps of honey-sweet winds,

the light in your eyes


Ennui Addict

Whitney Sol

In other things

a woman may be timid—in

watching battles

or seeing steel, but when she’s

hurt in love,

her marriage violated, there’s no

heart

more desperate for blood than

hers.

(Euripides Medea 262-266)

I

knew he was going to

propose when he suggested

the trip, but I still went. It was

flippant; We’re going to Ischia,

no, don’t pay me back. The flight

was cheap, he said. Two planes,

a train ride, ferry, bus, and

motorbike in silence. I wasn’t

nervous, I knew this day would

come since I met him. He was

perfect. Of course he would

marry me.

O

n the trip he still worked

remotely during the

mornings, so I walked around the

small town by myself. Italy gets

hot in August but the island was

cool from the ocean. I found a

café with open walls and a

thatched roof for the breeze,

filled with clocks. I didn’t

particularly like it but I didn’t

look for a better one. It was

always empty. My order was one

espresso at the bar and one

lemon soda to take to the beach.

Three days of this into the two

week trip, I met Medea.

M

edea was addicted to

slashing tires. She had

slashed them all over the world,

she said.

She began talking the third day of

making my espressos. “It’s not

easy. The first time was kind of

difficult, actually. It was back

home in Korea, and he was my

first love. I bought a boxcutter

from the convenience store near

his apartment one night.

Spontaneous. I hadn’t planned

anything out at all. Or I guess I

kind of knew something was

going to happen. I was wearing a

22 FICTION NOMADOLOGY, AUTUMN ISSUE 2025

black zip-up and a scarf around

my face when I set out that

night.”

She hit a button and espresso

slowly drizzled from the machine

to a cup. Medea was a slow

speaker, tall and tan with black

hair to her waist. She stood out in

Ischia. Didn’t look at me when

she talked.

“Not much to say about him. He

was tall, smart enough. But he

cheated on me. We dated for

almost a year, which is a long

time for an eighteen year-old. He

cheated on me with another girl

from our high school who was in

the cooking club. That’s why I

never learned how to cook.”

I took the cup and saucer from

her hand and sipped it standing

at the bar.

“I wasn’t angry at first. Mostly

just sad. It felt kind of inevitable

in a way, like of course this would

happen to me. I was at his

apartment one day when he said

I could have the rest of his boba

in the fridge. The label read

Order 1 of 2. Of course.” Her

eyes darted around the clocks on

the walls. “Only when I was

twenty-one did I feel the anger.

My last year of college. I woke up

one morning to my chest burning

hot. It hurt. My body fell out of

bed and I doubled over, gasping

for breath. I stood in the shower

for a long time, but the heat

wouldn’t go away. It took me all

day to realize it was anger. Anger

for my eighteen year-old self. I

stayed in my room until

midnight, researching and

finding any information I could.

He lived a ten minute bus ride

from me, had a car listed online

for sale. I knew that revenge was

the only way to cool the heat in

my chest.”

She cleared my empty espresso

cup.

“I was inspired when I saw the

boxcutter in the convenience

store. So much possibility in the

little thing. I still have it.” She

smiled. “I was terrified when I

bent down to his tire. He lived on

a busy road and I thought that

someone might see me. I stabbed

his tire as hard as I could, but the

blade wouldn’t cut through the

rubber, just bend. I was getting

more nervous. But it would bend,

and bend, and bend. Eventually I


ran away back to the convenience

store because I wasn’t sure what

to do. I wanted to quit, go home.

But the heat was still hurting in

my chest. I just need to get rid of

the nerves, I thought. I bought a

bottle of soju and drank the

entire thing in one breath outside

the store. I hardly remember

stumbling back to his car and

digging the boxcutter into the

tires. But I know it took a few

minutes of wiggling the blade

back and forth until I heard a

hiss from each tire.

“No one saw me. Miraculous, my

first time seems so messy now

looking back on it. The heat had

subsided for the most part,

though not completely. At least it

didn’t hurt, but it bothered me. It

was like having one ear plugged

with water. I was still functional

but there was something

bothering me. I tried everything I

could; massage, acupuncture,

bloodletting, even calling him

one night on a burner phone to

make sure his tires were actually

slashed. ‘Hey, I’m calling to

inquire about the car you have

listed for sale. May I take it for a

test drive sometime this week?’

‘Oh, yeah… Actually I’m fixing

some damages on it right now.

But it should be ready by next

week. What’s your name?’ I hung

up immediately, a little peeved I

had only caused a week of

inconvenience. But at least I

didn’t hurt, I figured it was time

to move on.”

Medea was wiping the counter

now. I said thank you and paid.

T

he beach I liked was actually

a boat harbour. Filled with

old men in speedos, old women

in bikinis with leather-tan skin. I

migrated down the wall with the

shade for the entire morning. Got

too hot, jumped in the Med.

Watched the salt turn white on

my arms. Too lethargic to read or

think.

M

edea smiled when she saw

me the fourth day. “How

long are you here for?”

“Two weeks.”

“Nice. For vacation?”

“No, I’m here to get engaged.”

“You got engaged? Congrats. You

look young, though.”


“No, not engaged yet. But I know

I’m being proposed to.”

“Oh.” She paused, tamping some

grounds. “Okay. How old are

you?”

“I’m twenty.”

“Wow. Are you sure you’re ready

for that?”

I looked at a clock on the wall.

“Okay. Well, congrats, I guess.”

Medea wiped some cups with a

towel.

M

T

edea didn’t talk to me the

fifth day.

he sixth day she spoke

again. “I left Korea after a

month without graduating

because the heat in my chest was

unbearable. I wanted to move on,

but I realized I was never going

to. I booked the cheapest ticket I

could find that took me the

furthest away, so I ended up in

Cancún. The heat was quelled

after a few days of sun and ocean.

It was like hearing air for the first

time when you come up from the

ocean. But then I met this new

man.”

Medea set the espresso in front of

me. “Have you ever had your

heart broken?

“No.”

“Have you been with anyone else

besides who you’re with now?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever been in love?”

I sipped the espresso.

“Cancún isn’t great but there’s a

lot of nature right outside the

hotel strip that’s beautiful. When

I was there I went to cenotes

every day. I had to live in the city

to work but I’d try and get out

during the day before I poured

drinks or whatever. But the

cenotes—do you know what those

are? They’re these natural

limestone sinkholes filled with

fresh water. I liked the

underground ones, these caves

with narrow staircases that go

deep until the air is heavy. The

water in those ones are cold, but

I think they’re the most tranquil.

But tranquillity doesn’t really

appeal to me. I guess I got used

to the heat in my chest. It felt


weird, almost lonely to float until

the heat went away. So I’d go to

Cenote Zapote. That’s one of the

deepest cenotes in the world, it

goes down 63 meters. Cenote

Zapote isn’t underground, just a

pit surrounded by rainforest. It

used to be a sacrificial site, since

from the ground level it’s

seventeen meters before you hit

the water. Now there’s stairs so

no one drowns in it, but I would

jump into the pit all the time. The

heat in my chest would ignite my

entire body when I jumped. It

was exhilarating, I felt like I was

being sacrificed, too. It’s such a

jump that you go deep into the

water, and it takes a couple

seconds to float back to the

surface.” She took my empty

espresso cup. “Cancún is

somewhere I could have stayed,

actually. But I had to leave after I

slashed his tires.”

I

couldn’t stop thinking about

Medea that day. Her long hair

swaying in the Ischia breeze, free

and smooth. I imagined her as a

ball of fire falling through the air.

Her skin, perfectly dark and tan,

but glowing with heat. It was

frustrating to be thinking on the

beach. I preferred to lounge with

my head empty, tongue full of

soda.

“

The man in Cancún

never actually hurt me.

But he would talk about women

in the most degrading way. He

told me one day that he filmed

himself with this girl while she

was unconscious. I felt my entire

body catch on fire, like I was

jumping into Cenote Zapote. I

was fucking mad. It hurt, but it

felt good. Like my anger for

myself was mixing with anger for

other women in the world. I

knew better this time. I took a

drill bit to the tire wall of his

stupid Subaru. Poured half a

gallon of bleach in the gas tank.

Then I was off to Bali.”

It was hard to imagine her so

angry as she wiped the counter

without looking up.

“Anyways, I guess I’m just

waiting for another man to

disappoint me before I leave

Ischia.”

“You don’t think it’s weird to let

men dictate your life like that?”


She paused, holding a towel. “If I

wanted to do something else, I

would.”

“Okay.”

She wiped the counter again.

“It’s just hard, you know?” Medea

looked at me. “I want to love. I

want to travel the world with

someone else, not because of

someone else. But I’m no good at

it. Men make me really hurt. And

I get angry when I see other

women concede their lives to

men. You know I avoid the

kitchen supply stores because I

never learned how to cook? It’s so

easy for me to laugh about it with

you, like ha! I never learned how

to cook. But when I’m alone it’s

like FUCK! I never learned how

to cook? A new cooking store

opened on my drive home from

work and I almost crashed my

motorbike. When I got home I

broke all the plates in my house.”

She moved her hair out of her

eyes. “I just can’t seem to fit right

in this world of men.”

“Congrats. I saw your ring, it’s

nice.”

“Thank you.”

I

slept on the beach and

dreamt about kissing Medea.

Woke up and my towel was

covered in drool. Mouth tasted

like saltwater and lemon soda.

T

he ninth day Medea was not

at the cafe. An old man

made my espresso. It tasted like

water. I washed my mouth out in

the sea, floated and pretended I

was underground until a wave

swallowed me.

I

left early the tenth morning,

hoping Medea might make

my espresso that day. As I left

our house, I saw the motorbike

we rented had tipped over. The

tires were flat.

I picked at the dried espresso on

the lip of my cup.

“He proposed yesterday.”


untitled

Irina Tall Novikova

28 NOMADOLOGY, AUTUMN ISSUE 2025

To Have Time,

To See Orion

Ely José Couto

1| Extant

Charles warmed his gloved and

dirty hands by the gasoline

heater in the centre of the

basement. Next to it rested a

heap of broken chairs and

flammable rubbish they had

collected from countless empty

apartments.

“Dad,” Jake, his older son, called.

His eyes pointed to the heater’s

floating meter, already near the

bottom. Tomorrow they could

extract some gas from the

abandoned cars around. Today,

they had to keep on battling

against the cold.

Charles nodded but didn’t speak.

He was too weary for that. He

blamed his old age and the sea of

radiation he had absorbed in the

last couple of years.

He flung a match into the heap,

the mudded bits of torn playbills

catching fire at once. The

crackling of the flame sounded

like a distant shooting. The three

of them held their breaths, alert

to whether a fight rampaged in

their vicinity.

“It’s just the fire,” the youngest,

Noah, said with a relieved sigh.

“At least today it’s just the fire.”

His dark skin and stubble shone

against the ersatz fireplace.

Charles coughed once, then

twice, and then uncontrollably,

falling to the floor and clutching

his ribs, coughing even harder.

His sons rushed to his side and

helped him back to his seat.

Blood splattered his lips and

beard.

“No going to your workshop

today,” Jake joked weakly.

Charles managed an even weaker

smile. “Nor seeing Orion,” he

wheezed.

“That’s a shame.” Noah sat back

down with his eyes fixed on the

fire. “The dust clouds are

especially pretty around Orion

nowadays.”


“You’ve got time to see it,”

Charles croaked. “You’ve got time

to see Orion.” Something gurgled

in his throat, and he erupted into

a coughing fit again.

“Sure. Perhaps one day we’ll see

it,” his youngest said, his

absentminded eyes focusing on

the swirling hot amber.

2| Defunct

When he was a boy, Charles often

reminisced about the sun,

imagining it as a ball of swirling

hot amber, unaware there’d come

a day he’d find the very idea of

sunlight alien. Back then, he had

the supernatural ability of being

able to run for more than an hour

without his knees aching,

unaware there’d come a day

when even getting out of bed

would be considered a small

victory.

He had always found amusing

how any circumstance—even

nuclear winter—could become

part of normality if given enough

time, which Charles certainly did.

He always had enough time to

spare.

“You can bet your ass I know the

future,” Charles’s father had said,

pointing to a clear patch of sky as

he walked Charles home from

school. “Right there is where

Orion’s gonna be later. It’s gonna

go round—” he swept his finger

across the blue above “—and end

the night down there.” His hand

stopped, formed a fist, and then

he opened his palm. “Then the

sun comes up and erases it for a

couple of hours, waiting for the

show to restart right…”

His father squinted one eye and

aimed at another point in the sky.

“Right there.”

“How do you know all this?”

Charles asked.

“Told you. A little bird from

Orion told me the future.” He

ruffled his son’s hair. “You just

gotta figure out how to get up

there and ask him yourself.”

“How’d you get there?”

“The birdie flew to me, but I

reckon he’s tired now.” He didn’t

take his eyes off the clouds as he

said, “You got time to get to it.


You got time to see Orion. All

that’s left is figuring out how.”

3| Extant

Jake kept getting up to fetch

parts of furniture, throwing them

into the burning heap, which

would then crackle louder—the

bullets getting closer—and

eventually subside. Noah, since

seeing the charred remains of his

mother, couldn’t take his eyes off

the chaotic flame, dancing and

curving however it wanted.

Charles tried to warm his hands

again, but they were always cold

when he tested them against his

chapped lips.

Charles grew jaded, trying to

warm up. His neurons, yes—

those were truly numb and cold.

He got up.

“Where you going, dad?” Jake

asked, throwing pieces of what

used to be a drawer into the fire.

“Workshop,” the old man rasped.

Noah chuckled dryly. He toyed

around with the splinter of wood

he was holding too close to the

fire. “He’s still trying to get us out

of this planet.”

Charles strained to throw a smile

from under his beard. “Before I

run out of time, son.”

Jake nodded as if those were the

words of a great wise man.

“There isn’t as much time as

there used to be, though.” He

dropped the wood into the fire. It

crackled. The bullets got closer

and faded again.

4| Defunct

Charles was sitting on the stairs

of his childhood house, listening

to the screaming contest his

parents got into every other day.

So far, his mother was winning.

Something about his father not

being emotionally available. It

seemed like a very strange

complaint at the time—how could

someone have available

emotions? Did that mean putting

your thoughts right in the open

for your significant other to use?

Or did it mean showing you had

enough emotions to choose

from?


Minutes later, his father walked

up the stairs in defeat. His face

contorted as his eyes met

Charles’s, as if he had plucked his

finger with a needle.

“You heard it all?” he asked.

Charles nodded. “I’m sorry, kid.”

He gazed at his own feet, like a

child being yelled at. “Either

way,” his old man shook his head,

“I guess you were coming down

for something. What is it?” His

lips trembled into an insecure

smile.

“I need forty-one dollars and

thirty-seven cents,” Charles said.

“What for?”

“Potassium nitrate and dextrose.”

his hand around, held out his

wallet, and got four twenties out.

“Use what’s left to buy safety

stuff. If you need any more, just

tell me. I want to see you with a

fire extinguisher and wearing one

of those big, thick masks before

you start mixing anything.”

Charles nodded vigorously. He

jumped up and hugged his dad.

“I’ll say hello to the little bird for

you.”

“You do that, son.” He hugged

him back. Two months later, his

father had to tell Charles that he

and Mom would be getting a

divorce, but that they still loved

him very, very much.

“Sugar?”

Charles nodded. “Dextrose. Corn

sugar.”

The man’s brow became a

quizzical V. “Are you making a

bomb, son?”

Charles chuckled and rested his

shoulder against the handrail. “I

want to make a rocket. I’ve got to

find a way to get to Orion, dad.”

“Oh, right, right. But you’ve got

time. Do it safely.” He whipped

5| Extant

Charles’s sons slept around the

dying fire while a small, liquid

rocket engine blazed in his

makeshift workshop. The nozzle

grew red-hot. The exhaust

produced marvellous shock

diamonds—albeit barely

noticeable ones—which meant he

had gotten the throat-to-exitarea

ratio just right. Now he had


to craft another engine to work

on the cooling.

His nose wrinkled at all the

nitrogen in the air, driving him

into another coughing fit. There

really wasn’t much time now. He

gingerly got up and inserted the

engine into the rocket’s body. It

was as tall as him, so it couldn’t

get very far up. But at least it was

a start.

No, it was a restart. He wasn’t

inventing anything new; he was

merely attempting to prove

mankind hadn’t quit yet, that

they could still rebuild a

civilization, one that would

someday ignite actual rockets

again. Nevertheless, he knew he’d

fail. Not many hands were

needed to count the current

world population, growing

smaller by the day. By the hour.

By the minute.

He sighed, coughed some more,

and went down to the basement

to try and get some sleep, even

though he also knew he wouldn’t

get any.

6| Defunct

He stared with pride at the

Apollo 11 poster on his bedroom

wall. Almost sixty years had

passed since humans last landed

on the Moon, so Charles decided

that would be the destination of

his first rocket. Under the poster

was a pot filled with dextrose and

two packs of stump remover,

which contained his precious

potassium nitrate. He had

sculpted a ceramic mould for a

small chamber and nozzle, so the

only thing left to do was mix the

fuel.

But that morning, the only thing

he’d be doing would be opening

his Christmas presents.

His father gave him the most

recent edition of Rocket

Propulsion Elements. The book

looked absolutely gorgeous on

his hands. The overwhelming

scent of fresh print, the prickly

and sharp pages, the finishing of

the hardback glaring hard against

the light. It was perfect.


Charles hugged his dad hard

enough to bruise his ribs. “I love

it, dad,” he said.

“I love you too, son,” he replied

with some difficulty, gently

prying his son off him, a genuine

smirk stamped all over his face.

“Now come on, I gotta drive you

to your mom’s.”

At his mother’s house, he

received a brand-new console.

His father was against the gift,

but his ex-wife reassured him it

was fine, that children had to

play. He nagged at her, arguing

Charles liked learning, arguing

the console would only dull his

mind.

She laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Charles has time to study. He

has enough time for everything,”

she told him.

“Dad,” Charles said, beaming

with the big box on his small

arms, “it’s alright. I’ve got time.

I’ve got time to see Orion.”

7| Extant

Though Charles tried to lie down

quietly, he woke up Jake, his face

distorted by the dancing shadows

of the dying fire. What did Jake

see? Charles touched his face.

There was dried blood on his

beard, and the bags under his

eyes were swollen. When was the

last time he’d slept through one

night?

Noah wasn’t asleep yet. He was

staring at Charles.

“A regret-fuelled machine,” he

said. “That’s what you are, dad.

Why do you keep messing

around with your—”

“Leave him alone,” Jake

grumbled at his brother and

turned to sleep.

“It’s okay, Jake,” Charles said. He

coughed, then coughed again,

and then he couldn’t breathe

because his body was doing its

best to bring some devil out of

his lungs. When he stopped, his

sleeve was speckled with blood.

“See?” Noah went on. “You’ve got

time, dad.”


“Noah!” Jake rasped.

Charles laid down on the old

mattress. He wanted to reply to

Noah, but his conscience was

drifting far away. Didn’t they all

have time? All the time in the

world, surely.

8| Defunct

Charles had dozens of tabs open,

each on the minimum

requirements for a gazillion

degrees at twenty different

universities. Ever since his father

died, he was aware his grades

were dropping. He hadn’t

realized how much.

As he tried to focus on his future,

he’d find himself glancing

hatefully at the gaming desk

behind him and wistfully at the

poster next to it. Though it was

losing colour and peeling at the

edges, it still showed the Saturn

V in all its splendour and

excellence, the moon as its

destination. His now-yellowed

copy of Rocket Propulsion

Elements rested next to the

unused pot of dextrose and packs

of dated stump remover. I’ve got

time, he thought. He got up and

weighed the thick book in his

hands, opened it, the spine

cracking softly, and started to

read.

Night fell without his noticing.

His mother knocked and peered

in. “Charlie, have we come to a

decision?”

He closed the book, went to his

computer, and opened the

decisive tab. “I think a business

degree would be a good idea.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I thought

that engineering—”

“I’ve decided.”

Alright,” she replied, knowing he

didn’t have the grades to study

engineering at a decent

university that wasn’t too far

away. “Very well, son. Don’t go to

bed too late.”

After she closed the door, he

installed a 3D-modelling

software and got to work on a

nozzle model. He reckoned the

dextrose couldn’t be too mouldy

to finally be used. Good enough,

he told himself, after spending

half an hour working on his

design, drawing a rough, curving


shape somewhat resembling a

de-Laval nozzle. He got up, tired,

and turned the PlayStation on.

He’d have time to work on it

some more tomorrow. The day

after, he guessed he’d have

enough time next week to print

the nozzle. He planned that, in

the following month, he’d

manage to make time to put the

fuel into the combustion

chamber. There had to be a lab

where he could mix the fuel at his

university, so perhaps waiting

until enrolment would be the

safest choice.

But he met his future wife there.

She, mingled with parties, his

studies, and videogames to wind

down after a stressful day, made

a lot of his time turn into thin

sand, which sifted through the

large holes of his complacency.

The little bird in Orion waited a

long time indeed; long enough to

witness Earth’s nations grow too

strenuous with each other, until

the rope snapped.

9| Extant

The three of them jostled awake

with the sound of crackling fire,

yet their fireplace had died long

ago, reduced to lumps of warm

coal. Noah was the first to get up.

He grabbed one of the three rifles

leaning against the wall and

made his way up the stairs, two

steps at a time. Jake followed

suit. By the time Charles finally

managed to sit up, the two

brothers were already upstairs,

peering through slits in the

sealed windows. Charles’s knees

seemed to be the only thing

crackling right then. He trudged

to the third rifle.

“A gang?” he asked in a heaving

whisper as soon as he reached

the top of the stairs.

Noah nodded. “Four of them,

maddening around with guns.”

One of the gang members shot

the hinges off a door and kicked

it open, his companions barging

in after him. Luckily, that house

was empty, as was the rest of the

street. The gang came out and

moved on to the next house.


“They’re going from house to

house,” Jake said.

“Very well observed,” Noah

scoffed.

“Keep calm, boys,” Charles

croaked. “They’ll leave,” he

continued without much faith.

10| Defunct

Once Charles finished his

Bachelor’s, he put the plan he

had drafted into action. As soon

as the bank approved the loan, he

opened a hardware store in the

centre of his small town, having

minimum knowledge of how to

use the tools he sold. For as

much as he wanted to say his

business succeeded due to his

keen eye and management talent,

Charles knew that what had

guided him was mostly blind luck

and half a dozen close calls with

bankruptcy.

Three years later, he opened a

second shop, a little further

south. A year later, another

further west. Five years after

exiting university, he got

married, five stores under his

wing.

Six years in, after making sure

his business would survive

without his constant supervision,

he went home to rest for what

seemed like the first time in an

entire life. He sat himself on the

couch of the home office he never

used. His eyes fell on the

whitening Apollo 11 poster, its

edges curled and yellowed, the

colours faded. Under it rested

that same book. He got up and

drew his finger along the sharp

pages.

“I figure I got the time now.” He

read the first page for the sixth

time in his life.

“Honey?” his wife called, leaning

against the door frame.

“Yes, sweetie?” Charles lifted his

gaze to find his wife holding a

white piece of plastic with round

edges. Her finger pointed at the

two stripes in the pregnancy test.

His jaw hit his chest; his heart

boxed against his ribcage like an

imprisoned bird desperate to

escape. “Is that…”

She nodded. Charles ran, hugged

her, and lifted her high. He filled


her right cheek with kisses, then

he made sure the left one was

balanced. Jake was growing in

that small space in her belly,

using the rest of Charles’s time as

fuel—but he still had time. Oh, he

had time alright.

11| Extant

The gang burst into the house

four doors over.

“Dad!” pleaded Jake.

“We’ve got time,” Charles said,

hoping the gang would go away

after breaking into enough

houses to think the whole

neighbourhood was empty. They

waited a few minutes only to hear

another door getting shot.

“Dad!” Jake called as well.

Charles got up and weighed the

rifle in his hands, coming to a

decision. Many people believed

only the other team got hit in a

gun fight—something that kept

being a significant contributor to

human casualties even after the

war—but Charles and his sons

knew better. Noah had scars to

show for it.

“Jake, keep an eye on them,”

Charles said. “Noah, come with

me.”

They walked up the stairs to his

workshop, where a couple of

engines rested on dusty shelves.

“What are we doing, dad?” Noah

asked.

“Seal off the nozzle.” Charles

screwed steel lids over the open

ends of the engines. “The exhaust

gases will have nowhere to go.

The chamber’s walls will grow

hot, and something will have to

give in. I don’t have access to the

best steel, so something—

hopefully the chamber walls—

will yield.”

“Basically a grenade, then?”

Noah asked.

“Basically a grenade,” Charles

agreed.

12| Extant

Jake was born, and five years

later, so was Noah. Charles and

his wife did their best so that


their children wouldn’t have the

fragmented childhood both of

them had had. At times, Charles

behaved wrongfully, and

sometimes, his wife did; but they

always worked out their flaws.

Despite it all, Charles wished she

had been a nagging, horrible

person. Perhaps that would’ve

lessened the impact of her death.

A few weeks before Noah’s

thirteenth birthday, broadcasts

strongly advising everyone to

stay home due to the eminence of

war began. Charles, after Noah

was born, had built a bunker in

his backyard, conscious of the

growing tensions between the

planet’s superpowers. All he had

to do then was stuff the bunker

with provisions.

The moment the sirens blared,

Charles’s wife was in the local

supermarket buying razorblades,

the only utensil Charles had

forgotten during his months of

hoarding. He told Jake and Noah

to run to the bunker, keep the

door shut, and await while he

held on a little longer.

The sirens had cried for eleven

minutes, and still, there was no

sign of his wife, even though the

supermarket was eight minutes

away by car. With his hands

trembling, his breaths jagged as

if he couldn’t pull air in, his heart

thundering, and his vision

blurring, Charles joined his sons,

wondering why she wasn’t even

picking up her phone.

All that had happened was that

when the sirens activated, all the

people mass-shopping in the

market broke out running in a

stampeding frenzy. Charles’s wife

got her phone out to tell him to

wait for her, but she dropped it

as a man ran by her and struck

her hand. As she bent down to

pick it up, someone hurried past,

kneeing her in the head. She fell

back, dazed, only conscious

enough to step away from the

torrent of legs streaming in front

of her. As soon as her mind

cleared, she rushed to her car,

thinking solely of getting home as

fast as possible.

Charles and his sons huddled

together on the long bench,

hoping with clattering teeth it

was all a false alarm, and that by

the time the sun set, the four of

them would be snuggling in the

living room, as usual.


Suddenly, the ground exploded in

a rumble, as if Earth was a

mighty beast hungry for its prey.

The rumble became a rattling

earthquake, which, in turn,

turned into a godly shake.

Something banged on the door.

“Let me in!” yelled a muffled

voice. “Let me in!” it screamed

louder. “It burns! Let me in!” The

voice grew weak and distorted,

scorched, almost guttural.

“Please!”

Charles’s fingers grabbed the

bench so hard they bled. His

mind ordered him to yank the

door open right that moment,

and it wasn’t as if his legs

couldn’t move—instead, they

held him against the wall, thick

blots of blood dripping from his

fingers as he clutched the metal

edge even harder. From the far

recesses of his mind, he would

then recall Jake vomiting over

himself, and Noah, so still he

could be a statue, so blueish-pale

Charles could swear his youngest

had been dead from the moment

the sirens first came to life.

When it all stilled, Charles had to

grab Jake by the hip and throw

him back before he could get to

the door, the blood on his hands

getting all over his son’s clothes.

The sudden silence was crushing,

palpable, like a moonless night to

a wanderer in the woods.

In that instant, Charles

remembered thinking, against all

odds, against all that is

simultaneously considered

human and cynical, that the little

bird in Orion had caught up with

his wife, yet it still hadn’t caught

up with him.

13| Extant

Their door burst open. The gang

entered, but quickly stopped. It

appeared they had found their

first non-empty house, though

their prize didn’t seem to be

worth much: just three upright,

rusty cylinders with a curved end.

“What the hell’s that?” one of

them asked as the cylinders

started to shake and run red-hot.

The sun swooped down onto that

small hall, the white light from

the exploding engines scattering

boiling shards of steel through


the four outsiders. Two of them

became nothing more than

porous flesh, blood pouring from

monstrously gaping wounds. The

two others had nothing more

than mean scratches. They each

skipped to the sides of a door.

Jake and Noah erupted through

that very door, rifles ready,

searching the smoky hall for any

signs of life. Unfortunately, each

surviving sign of life grabbed

their rifles and kicked the

brothers back down the

basement stairs. The outsiders

pointed their own rifles down

and got ready to shoot, but

Charles moved first. He

showered them with bullets, the

sound of which was like thunder

reverberating through the short

flight of stairs, like a crackling

fireplace that brought no warmth

inside his mind. One hid in time,

whilst the other had his shoulder

and chest shredded off.

The only outsider left must’ve

figured there wasn’t much use in

running and trying to survive by

himself. No, that wouldn’t be any

fun for his kind. He unsheathed

his long knife and jumped down

the stairs. Charles got ready to

fire again, but the outsider was

faster this time. His shoulder met

Charles’s chest, throwing him

back, air rasping out of him. The

knife rose high, and Charles saw

the rest of his time on that rusty

blade. He closed his eyes and

waited for the—

Noah tackled the outsider and

pinned him down—but one of

them knew how to fight. The

other didn’t. The outsider swiftly

moved his feet to Noah’s chest

and kicked hard. Noah made a

sly arc and fell next to Charles,

something that shouldn’t crack

cracking.

Time slowed in Charles’s mind.

He watched the grey light oozing

in from upstairs, blocking an

Orion he’d never see again. He

had had time, and he had let it

slip away from his fingers. The

best option now would be to

trade the little he had left for

someone worthy of it, for

someone who could, one day,

meet his father’s bird.

Charles took a deep, painful

breath, and jumped to his feet in

one last desperate move of

defiance. He set himself in front


of Jake, knocked unconscious

from the fall down the stairs.

The outsider’s knife dug deep

into his chest. It was as if the

blade was made of ice, freezing

his skin from the inside out.

As Noah screamed and opened

fire on the outsider, Charles

remembered the charred remains

of his wife, the Apollo 11 poster

yellowing next to old packs of

potassium nitrate, his two sons

left alone in a mantled world, and

his own father, pointing his big

hands across the sky, to a little

bird somewhere in an imagined

constellation. His heart stopped,

and so did his time—the time he

had wasted waiting to see the

constellation from up close.

As his brain shut down, he

wondered what it all meant. To

have time? To see Orion?

He closed his eyes over the image

of Noah and Jake trying to stanch

the bleeding, then wondered no

more.



The Sculptor’s

Daughter

L.A. Nolan

I

t came again—the pounding.

Vani’s dorm room filled with

the menace of approaching war

drums.

“I know you’re in there, Vani.

Babe, let’s talk about this.”

It was Jackson. She didn’t

respond.

Another volley of knocks echoed

around her room, matching the

rhythmic pulse in her temples.

“Please, Vani. Just speak to me.”

He’s not angry. Not yet. More…

desperate.

Vani screwed her eyes shut and,

on the back of her lids, watched

the imprinted glow of her laptop

screen fade to black. She

reopened them, blinked away the

tears, and hoping she had

misread, studied the monitor

again. She hadn't. Her transcript

was dismal. Her grades had

slipped dangerously close to

where she would be called in by

the academic support staff to

discuss probation.

“Alright, I understand. I’ll give

you space, but at some point…”

His voice was soft, muffled,

defeated. Vani listened to

Jackson’s footfalls fade down the

hallway outside and released a

breath. Her eyes flicked to the

crumpled pregnancy test package

on her desk, and her tears

returned. Vani stood, grabbed the

box, and moved to the window.

She watched the slate-grey New

York sky weep snowflakes for a

moment, then turned and tossed

the container in the wastepaper

basket.

“It’s all too much,” she breathed.

“I have to go home.”

S

everal days later, the village

of Kovalam, nestled along

the Malabar Coast, woke to a

breeze of salty brine. A sculptor,

Raghavan, sat at his workbench

and inhaled the bouquet while

massaging the arthritic knuckles

on his right hand. He pressed his

thumb into the flesh between his

fingers while temple bells rang

softly in the distance.


In front of him, a block of

morchana marble was standing

on the workstation, the halfformed

face of King Mahabali

emerging from the rough stone.

Behind it, a soiled white FedEx

envelope was lying on the bench.

He picked it up and examined the

envelope, then dropped it back

onto the bench. Raghavan drew a

breath, and before the dust had

even settled, snatched it up again

and tore off the end of the

envelope. He unsheathed the

single sheaf of paper from within

and scanned the delicate scrawl.

The few written lines confirmed

what he had already guessed:

Vani was coming home.

His daughter had not bothered to

visit him during the last summer

break, saying she would stay on

campus and work at a small

gallery in the city. A networking

opportunity, she had said. It had

been almost two years since Vani

left Kerala for New York, leaving

his tutelage for studies of an art

form that Raghavan didn’t

understand.

During her first semester, Vani

had sent him photographs of her

lessons: abstract monochrome

drawings, bizarre wooden

shapes, and multicoloured oil

paint splotches on canvas. To

Raghavan, the images were a

foreign language, and worse, a

mockery of the sacred purpose of

art. A betrayal of his work and his

heritage. After responding to her

as such, their communication

had dwindled, and now, after

months of silence, this letter

arrived. Raghavan squirmed in

his seat.

W

hy didn't you text?

The WhatsApp message

had come while she was

sleeping last night and was

waiting for her when she woke.

The question was simple, yet

answering proved difficult, so she

ignored it until now.

Why didn’t I text?

Vani lifted her eyes from her

phone and watched as Brooklyn,

eclectic and familiar and

provincial and urban, slid past

the taxi’s window. Huddled in the

shadow of elevated train tracks,


Christmas lights on snow-dusted

brownstones twinkled, and she

smiled. Vani didn’t just like New

York; she adored it. From the

quiet parks to the bustling

avenues, from the goose-pimple

winters to the sweat-soaked

summers, from the smell of

greasy street food mingling with

car exhaust to the perfume of red

and yellow carnations in flower

boxes… and why didn’t I text?

Because I’m flunking out of

school, because I am pregnant

with a foreigner’s baby, because

I couldn’t have that

conversation. I couldn't explain

why I was coming home and

couldn't face your questions.

“I’m a desperate girl, doing

desperate things,” she whispered

at the phone screen.

In the isolation of her dorm

room, Vani’s hastily concocted

plan had seemed plausible

enough. But here, now, on the

way to the airport, it was

crumbling under the weight of

serious scrutiny.

When Vani was four, her mother

died, and a year after that, so did

her grandfather. In his love for

her, he left Vani a sizeable parcel

of land on the outskirts of

Kovalam. It wasn't enough to

build an empire with, but large

enough that its sale would set

Vani up to begin life comfortably.

A portion of it had already

funded her art school tuition.

She needed the rest of, or at least

another substantial chunk of,

that money now. With it, she

could hire a tutor and pay for the

materials she would need to take

extracurricular lessons. That

would get her grades, and future,

back on track. The problem was

the deed, of course, was under

her father’s control.

It would also cover the cost of an

abor—

“No,” she whispered, shaking her

head and dropping her hand to

her belly.

I’ve not decided anything about

that yet. I need to figure out

what I want to do… talk to

Jackson about it. Yes… the land

is the key. If I can get him to sell

it… if he will give me the

money… before the bump begins

to show… I’ll come back to New

York, then I’ll decide what to do


about the baby… and Jackson…

and school… before they toss me

out…

Vani looked back down at her

father’s message and shivered

despite the driver having the heat

cranked to London Broil. She felt

the cold sweat of an impending

reckoning dampen her forehead.

Sorry Appa.

Her father’s response came

almost immediately, as if he was

hunched over his phone,

watching, waiting.

“So late,” she whispered. “Why is

he up?”

She knew why.

Send me your train details. I’ll

pick you up at the station.

Vani gave the message a thumbs

up and huddled against the icy

synthetic leather of the bench

seat. She sent a short text to

Jackson saying she had left to

visit her father, then shut her

phone off as he would

undoubtedly call. Now, she had

to figure out how to explain to

her father why she had come

home and a way to manoeuvre

him into signing off on the

property.

T

hirty minutes after

Raghavan arrived at the

Thiruvananthapuram Central

Railway Station, the Nagercoil

Express groaned to a halt, hissed,

and the car doors opened.

Leaning against a pillar by the

ticket counter, he watched as, in

a flash of colour, the platform

flooded with travellers

clambering hither and thither, all

on a quest to be the first through

the exit gate. During December,

the peak tourist season, families,

young couples, and groups of

college boys swarmed Kerala’s

pristine beaches to enjoy their

holiday.

Caught in the wash, Vani was

being swept along the platform.

Her midriff, exposed between her

cream-coloured crop top and

matching yoga pants, was on full

display for all to ogle as she

tumbled through the crowd,

oblivious to the lecherous eyes

tracking her movements.

Dragging a suitcase behind her

and with a laptop bag slung over


her shoulder, a coolie

approached Vani, who she waved

off with a flick of her wrist.

Raghavan was watching but

made no effort to signal his

presence.

“So brash,” he muttered. “Makeup,

purple streaks in her hair—all

New York influences.”

Vani didn’t notice him until she

was only a few steps away. When

their eyes met, she stopped so

abruptly a little boy trailing her

tripped over her suitcase and fell

to the ground. She helped him up

and, after a scathing look from

his mother, apologised, sending

him on his way.

“Hello, Appa,” she said. “Thank

you for coming.”

Vani had always cherished their

ability to communicate without

speaking. She considered it a

sublime gift, only understood by

those who are privy to it—fathers

and daughters. Yet, as Vani

looked into his eyes, she felt that

somehow, over these last two

years, their connection had been

severed. Gone were the loving

eyes that gazed upon her as they

read her stories of Akbar and

Birbal. They were now empty.

They embraced quickly, he

grunted a hello, and then went

for her suitcase. Vani pulled it

away.

“I’ve got it,” she said. Raghavan

sighed.

“Are you hungry?” he asked. Vani

shook her head.

He again reached for the case,

and this time, after a slight

hesitation, she gave it up.

“Come,” he said. “I’ve got a taxi

waiting.”

Vani was starving, but after

eyeing the stall on the platform

serving up appam with milky

coconut stew, she realised she

was desperately craving a hot

dog. Maybe the little shop by her

father’s studio that served an

exquisite meen curry and

steaming parotta would chase

away her frankfurter blues.

As her father loaded her case into

the battered Suzuki Dzire, Vani

switched on her phone. She had

recharged her Airtel SIM before

at the airport, and her cell burst

to life with a rapid series of


buzzes and pings. Five missed

calls and a dozen WhatsApp

messages from Jackson. Vani

groaned, dropped it into her

laptop bag, and followed her

father into the taxi.

After a few twists and turns, they

were humming along the

highway, marinating in the scent

of previous passengers’ sweat

and lingering bidi smoke. Both

hung thick in the cramped back

seat, causing Vani’s stomach to

roll. She cracked open the

window, longing for the

comparatively sterile interior of a

NYC yellow cab.

“Why have you come?” her

father asked.

That’s Appa, she thought. No

‘How was your journey?’ Just

straight to the point.

Aware he was staring at her, Vani

smiled.

“Because I miss you! It’s

Christmastime in the States.

Everyone is talking about loved

ones and the Christmas spirit. It's

in the street decorations and

shop windows, floating in the air,

jingles and jangles, you know?

Inescapable, really. TV

commercials are all showing

family dinners and brothers and

sisters and parents gathered

around a roaring fire. And it’s

winter there, Appa, so cold,

and—”

“Vani,” he said.

She stopped, mouth hanging

open. His gaze was fixed on hers.

She almost couldn’t stand the

sincerity in it.

“Why have you come?”

She didn’t answer. Her smile

faded, and she turned her eyes to

the passing traffic, her fingers

pulling at an errant thread

dangling from the strap of her

bag. She waited until her

heartbeat slowed, exhaled

sharply, and twisted in her seat to

face him.

“Okay, I’ve been thinking,” she

began, her voice soft, cautious. “I

may have made a mistake.”

Raghavan’s eyebrows knitted,

and he shook his head.

“What kind of mistake?”

“School, New York, leaving you.

All of it.”


Her father puffed out a breath—

almost a scoff, but not quite.

“You’re struggling, hmm? That’s

what’s happened. You are failing

your classes?”

Damn him! she thought. He

reads me like yesterday’s

newspaper. I can’t lie to him.

Should I just tell him everything?

Come clean here and now?

The very notion set loose a wave

of fear that rolled in her stomach.

Vani kept her face reticent, took a

breath, and forced a small smile.

“No, Appa. No. I’m doing well.

It’s just that recently, I’ve been

feeling I haven’t been getting

what I need at school. I’m not

learning anything, at least not

anything that interests me.”

This time he did scoff, loud and

gruff.

“How can that be? ‘New York is

where I will grow,’ you said. ‘I

don’t know what I don’t know.

Art school will remedy that,’ you

said. Where have those

convictions gone?”

He was almost shouting. Startled,

Vani shrank back from him. Her

eyes glassed, and she shivered.

Raghavan took a deep breath and

softened his voice.

“I was teaching you, Vani. You

showed no interest. You were

certain that college was the only

way to go. That our heritage and

traditions weren’t enough. That

what I do, what your grandfather

did, isn’t good enough for you.”

“Oh, no! No. That was never my

intention, to hurt you. I just

wanted to become a successful

artist. That’s why I—”

With a wince, Raghavan recoiled

as if her words had slapped him

across the cheek.

“Oh God, Appa,” she whispered,

reaching out to place her

fingertips on his swollen

knuckles. “You are a talented

sculptor. I never doubted that. It

was only that, at the time,

sculpting gods and goddesses

didn’t interest me much. It

wasn’t important. That’s all I

meant. And that’s what I am

rethinking now.”

Raghavan nodded after she

spoke, then slipped his hand out

from under her touch. They sat

awkwardly for a moment,

avoiding each other’s gaze.


“Okay,” he said. “Okay. So, what’s

your plan now, Vani?”

“Well.” She retook her father’s

hands. “I want to work with you.”

Raghavan’s eyebrows shot up,

and a grin tugged at the corners

of his mouth.

“You mean begin an

apprenticeship?” he said with a

chuckle.

“Of sorts,” she said, shifting in

her seat. “My hope, Appa, was to

take the next semester off and

study with you. Then, if it takes

root, if I am progressing well in

your eyes, I will go back to New

York, finish school, and open a

studio there. Sculpting deities…

like you.”

“You expect me to pass down the

techniques for breathing detail

and spiritual symbolism into a

sculpture in two or three

months? I studied under your

grandfather for years.”

“Of course not, I get that. But it

will be enough time to see if I

have the aptitude, no? To see if

there’s a future for me.”

“Hmm. Alright, but even if you

do and there is, why New York?

Why not just continue with me

here? Why a studio in the US?

Would you be able to sell your art

at all?”

“What? There are no Indians in

America?” she asked with a

chuckle. “Two reasons. One,

we’ve paid for this schooling, so I

want to finish it and learn

everything I can, and two, I love

New York. I see a future there for

me. Anyway, that’s what I was

thinking. It’s not set in stone.”

“Hmm… You want me to sell the

land and give you the money for

this studio.”

Like yesterday’s newspaper.

“Well, yes. That’s what Appachan

wanted, no? He left it for me to

set up my life.”

Raghavan dropped his head and

started picking at a piece of dried

skin on his thumb.

“Let me think on this, Vani. It is

not a small thing. The money, not

the tutoring. I’m happy you are

showing interest, and I’m glad

you are home. Let’s enjoy that for

a while, and we can discuss the

land more after some time.


T

he next morning, jetlagged,

Vani stumbled from room to

room, her hazy eyes panning over

the familiar landscape of her

childhood home. The dining

nook, entrance foyer, and living

room she noted were all

suspiciously absent of the potted

plants she had cared for while

she lived here. Also missing were

the candles, random books, and

figurines. There was no trace of

humanity. In fact, the entire

space was more utilitarian now.

She entered the kitchen, checked

the cupboards, and cursed the

absence of coffee.

Can’t just slip out to Starbucks

for a sugar cookie almond milk

latte now, can I?

She put on a pot to make some

tea, sat at the small kitchen table,

and spied the note: Out for

morning walk. Apprenticeship

starts today. Clean studio.

Vani chuckled and tossed the

piece of paper back on the table.

After her tea and some dry toast,

she washed up, put on her

grubby jeans and an old t-shirt to

start cleaning.

Inside the studio—a freestanding

structure just outside the kitchen

door—it looked as if a bomb had

gone off. Marble and sandstone

lumps littered the workbench;

larger granite slabs lay strewn

across the floor, and smaller ones

were stacked haphazardly on a

small shelf. Dust-coated

toolboxes and wooden containers

were cluttering every available

surface. Vani, after a deep sigh,

dug into the task. She organised

the materials, swept the floor,

and hung up the tools on the

pegboard. She cleaned the

windows, broke down the empty

cardboard boxes, and piled them

in a corner. She even lit some

incense, so that by the time her

father returned, somewhere

around noon, the studio had

transformed into a more workfriendly

environment.

“That was some walk,” she

commented as he made his

appearance.

Raghavan only grunted in

response, but Vani saw the traces

of a smile. He sat at his bench,

picked up the idol of King

Mahabali, and looked about for

his tools, then, after pulling a


chisel and hammer off the

pegboard, asked her to sit next to

him.

“Watch, learn,” he said.

She did, in silence, and marvelled

as the king’s rotund belly began

to emerge from the block.

He truly is an artist. Each strike

perfectly placed. No wasted

movements; every chip of stone

removed with purpose.

Vani’s admiration of her father’s

skill warmed her, and she smiled

as the figure took shape. Yet, as

she continued to watch, her

thoughts drifted to the tiny

sculpture forming in her own

belly and then to Jackson.

Her cheeks flushed with regret as

she recalled how she’d told him

she was pregnant over

WhatsApp, and then her face

outright burned with

disappointment at how she had

shut all communication with him

after.

Last night, curled in her bed,

Vani read each of his texts, the

original twelve she had seen at

the train station, and the dozen

more that followed. They moved

her to tears. He was pleading

with her like a child, begging for

any response, any assurance that

she was alright. They were long,

flowery messages professing his

intentions were true, that he

loved her dearly, and even hinted

at doing the honourable thing

despite only knowing her for

little over a year. Heart

throbbing, she texted him: she

was okay and would do nothing

before speaking with him and to

please just give her some time.

He called after, but Vani didn’t

pick up, so he responded to her

messages with a heart emoji: he

adored her and it would all work

out. Her father’s voice snapped

her back to reality.

“Enough for today,” he said,

massaging his knuckles. “Clean

up the bench and take a rest.

Tonight, we’ll go for fish curry on

the beach.”

He smiled at her, and Vani felt

his love.

This is all he’s ever wanted. His

little girl, sat by his side,

learning his craft.

She smiled back.


“Okay, Appa.” Vani leaned

forward and kissed his cheek. His

smile broadened.

T

he weeks progressed, and

that was the routine. A solo

breakfast while her father took

his walk, long afternoons in the

studio, and then evenings strolls

along the beach or at the market.

Vani took to pleasure-reading

again, curled up in her bed at

night, devouring romance novels

as quickly as she could.

She chatted with Jackson nearly

every day, and as much as he

begged her for a video or phone

call, she restricted their

communication to texting. Their

relationship—now free from the

distractions of college parties or

going to the movies or dinner or

sex—deepened to where Vani

believed he was serious about

wanting to marry her. Despite

the improbability of it all, she

fantasised about a life with him

and their child. Fuelled by the

skilful prose of the romance

writers, her daydreams were

flawless and seductive and felt

attainable.

Yet deep down, Vani knew it was

all an illusion, and the monotony

of the routine set in. Her father

afforded her precious little time

actually sculpting, and his

criticisms were harsh when he

did, particularly when Vani

would lay an errant strike and lop

off a head or an arm. It was clear

that stonework was not an area of

strength for her.

By the start of the second month,

Vani was just going through the

motions, moving through the

landscape like a ghost. She

realised with horror she had

inadvertently trapped herself in

another institution, another

scholastic nightmare. The

location had changed, the

professor had changed, but the

struggles had not. Now, getting

the money from her father and

opening her own studio seemed

not only improbable but

impossible until, late one

afternoon, inspiration struck—a

wave of inspiration that led to a

revelation, and that revelation

changed everything.


A

trickle of sweat rolled down

Vani’s brow, and she wiped

it away with the back of her hand.

Her father’s knuckles had been

paining him today, so he had

knocked off early to get some

rest, and Vani had begun her

cleaning. She leaned the broom

against the wall and, hands on

hips, surveyed the studio.

“I’ve swept it so many times, you

could eat off the floor now.”

Vani chuckled and slumped

against the storage rack. It

wobbled, and she heard a faint

clunk from behind it. More from

wanting to stem the approaching

boredom of the afternoon than

curiosity, she got down on her

hands and knees, pressed her

cheek to the ground, and peered

under the bottom shelf. A small

block nestled against the rear

partition.

Using the broom, Vani reached

under the rack and, after a couple

of tries, swept it out. She sat on

the floor, leaning against the

wall, and turned the piece over

and over within her fingers.

“Hello, you,” she whispered.

“Where did you come from?”

It was a chunk of Indian

rosewood. Its surface was dry

and splintering from neglect. No

surprise, as her father worked

exclusively in stone, yet the

romance of the grain was still

visible. Vani knew that with a

little love and some oil soap, the

dark, sinuous veins weaving

through its auburn flesh would

come back to life.

She was viewing the chunk of

wood with an artist’s eye,

something she hadn't done in

weeks, and it felt good. Vani

glanced up at the highest shelf.

“Oh, yes,” she said.

She stood and all but sprinted to

the kitchen to retrieve the step

stool. But even on that, on her

tiptoes, she couldn’t poke her

nose over the top of the rack.

Vani rummaged around outside

the studio and found, lying in the

weeds among the empty delivery

crates, a bamboo ladder.

The shelf was a treasure trove of

Indian rosewood, mahogany,

deodar cedar, black walnut, and

many others. Vani was amazed


by the variety of materials and

couldn’t remember her father

ever carving statues from wood.

Her inspiration blossomed into

an idea, then the idea into a

concept, and Vani rummaged

through the forgotten blocks for

just the right pieces.

She kept the original piece of

rosewood, then settled on a block

of teak and one of black oak to

complement it. At the

workbench, she rough-sanded

two faces of each, then, after

liberating a bottle of wood glue

from the rear of the supply

cabinet and, thankful it hadn't

hardened, coated the smoothed

surfaces and clamped them

together. She hid it away behind

a slab of granite at the back of the

studio and grinned to herself,

then set about searching for

wood chisels and carving tools.

There had been a tin box on the

top shelf. She scaled the ladder,

grabbed it, then sat at the

workbench. The latch was rusty

and stiff. She pried at it with a

claw hammer, and the lid

moaned as it opened. Instead of

tools there were a dozen letters

bound by a red hair tie.

Vani pulled the stack of

envelopes from the container and

opened the first one. As she read,

her heart thudded in her chest.

She opened the next, and the

next, and the next.

“What the…”

They were love letters, explicit

love letters. All of them. To her

father. Each was signed off by a

woman named Bhavya and dated

after her mother’s death. Vani’s

hands trembled, and in her mind,

she tried to make sense of it all.

She glanced at the dates again

and did the math.

I would have been ten or eleven.

Who is this woman? Why didn’t I

know about this?

Her insides dried, and she felt an

all-consuming rage well up and

course through her body.

“No, no, no.”

She slammed the tin box shut,

hid it with her wood pieces, and

took the letters back to her room.

Sleep came late that night, and

even when it did, Vani tossed and

turned in a cold sweat.


The next morning, her father

emerged from his room long

enough to say he wouldn’t be

working today, as his hands were

still bad, so Vani could practice

on her own. Vani, yet trying to

attain some level of acceptance

for his affair, said she would,

without making eye contact.

She settled at the workbench

with her three blocks of wood,

now secured together, and

planned the carve. She had

decided to mimic her father’s

most recent sculpture of King

Mahabali.

So what if he had a fling? Mom

had been gone a long time. He’s

a man; he has needs.

Even as the thought formed, her

stomach churned.

Stop being a child! It’s no more

vile than you rolling around

with Jackson out of wedlock!

Reason with herself as she may,

the sting of betrayal against her

mother lashed at her heart and

soul, and the tears came. After a

silent cry, Vani wiped her eyes

and set about carving her

sculpture. Somehow, she felt she

had even more to prove to him

now, and as she began, her

artist’s mind took control, and

she focused on her work.

Slowly, the king emerged. Vani

worked with a passion and fever

she hadn’t felt in months, and

several hours later, with

cramping fingers, she sat

admiring the rough cut of her

piece.

“After proper sanding and a coat

of lacquer, you will be a true

prize,” she said with a smile.

“Who will be?” Raghavan’s voice

asked from behind her.

Vani tried to conceal the statue,

but it was too late. He had seen

it.

“Show me,” he said, holding out

his hand.

Vani gave it to him, and her

father’s eyes narrowed to slits. He

turned it over in his hands and

shook his head.

“A tricolour king. And in wood no

less, how unique. Is it a child’s

toy?”

His mocking sarcasm nipped at

her flesh like rat’s teeth, and Vani

swallowed a scream. She stood,


pushed past him, and stormed

towards the door.

“Vani!”

She whirled on him, eyes alight,

and had it been a wintry

morning, steam would have burst

from her nostrils.

“I’ve met a boy in New York, you

know. Yes, I have a boyfriend. He

admires my work and encourages

me. He loves me!”

She spat the last sentence at him,

spun on her heel, and left the

studio. Back in her room, she

packed her bags and looked for

the next available flight to New

York.

I’ll go back… get a part-time

job… work my ass off and pay

for my own tutoring… Hell,

maybe I’ll even marry Jackson…

that solves everything.

R

ays of buttery sunlight

streamed through the

kitchen window, and over the top

of her coffee mug, Vani scowled.

Last night, her decisions had

been easy to make, but as was

usually the case once her blood

had cooled, the blank spots in her

logic became clear.

Does Jackson even love me?

Enough to marry me? He says

he does… Do I love him? Maybe

a little… enough to marry him?

Vani stood and paced around the

kitchen.

What if I marry him and it

doesn’t work? What if ten years

from now I meet someone… and

I have a child… alone, a single

parent… just like Appa.

She stopped pacing. The thought

that she was somehow mirroring

her father—

No! This is different. Mama died,

and Appa just… just what? What

did he do that was so horrible,

Vani?

The carving… my carving. Appa

hated it…

The feeling she had while turning

it over in her hands was

undeniable. That little wooden

king had revived her passion and

the desire to create art that had

lain dormant for so long. The

feeling that she had tapped into

her family’s legacy, that maybe


she finally understood what her

father had been teaching, was

nagging at her. Vani heard her

father clunking about in his

room.

I have to sort this… I have to…

With no clue as to what she was

going to say to him, Vani

wandered from the kitchen and

knocked on her father’s door.

There was no response, so she

opened it. Raghavan was sitting

on the end of his bed, staring out

of the window. She crossed the

room and sat beside him. Her

sculpture was in his hands. He

had sanded it smooth and

applied some lacquer so it

gleamed like a star in the night.

He was caressing it.

“I’m sorry for what I said… It’s

lovely. Truly, I like it very much. I

was more upset... My fingers... It

was the wood I was angry with,

not you. Please forgive me.”

“Oh, Appa,” she said and placed

her hand on his back.

And who am I angry at? Him?

For being lonely, for having an

affair? At myself? For leaving

him? For failing my classes? For

being pregnant?

“You can make these. Lots of

them. We can sell them. People

are going to buy them. They are…

they are lovely…” His words

caught in his throat. He took a

breath before continuing. “I

would like to meet this boy, Vani.

Do you think I could do that?”

“Yes, Appa. His name is

Jackson.”

“Jackson… a nice name…”

For a moment, Vani sat quietly,

lost in the love that had always

been there. She felt secure,

protected, and all thoughts of

selling land, returning to school,

and deceiving her father

vanished like smoke. Vani

realised there was nowhere else

on earth she would feel this way.

“I’m sure he will come visit. I’m

going to stay with you for a while

longer, Appa, if that’s okay.”

Raghavan turned his head, his

face tired but full of love. He

nodded as their eyes locked.

“Appa,” Vani said, her hand

dropping to her belly. “There’s

just one more thing I need to tell

you.”


“Appa,” Vani said, her hand

dropping to her belly. “There’s

just one more thing I need to tell

you.”



Self-portrait

as three

existentialists

at the end of

the world

Dr Raluca David

0| Prelude

Merely thirty-five years after the

advent of a—wholly—free

Europe, my generation devours

ultra-processed existential angst:

we think we are witnessing the

end of the world, and we think

there is hardly anything we can

do about it.

Almost a century ago, Virginia

Woolf was writing about the deep

impact human consciousness had

on the outside world. I was born

too far from Virginia Woolf. She

wrote the waves of the sea

moving with the rhythm of

consciousness, the world taking

on the sadness and the richness

of inner life. Virginia’s waves

might have reached my country,

at the speed that cultural change

travels. But it was never to be:

immediately after the war, my

country was seized by an

authoritarian Regime

which, from the start, installed

itself through doubling-up voting

boxes. The Romanian people’s

consciousness had been hijacked.

Until just before my birth, my

country belonged to the Regime,

and the Regime curated redacted

what it wanted a self to be. I was

born in an inverted Woolf world,

where the self was now the

projection of the Regime. It

remains so for generations to

come.

The Regime projected onto this

self a fist. The woman was the

vessel of The Regime’s fist. The

woman was obliged to produce

children to populate the Regime.

The demographic politics was

this: Ceaușescu gave the Decree

no. 770 on the 1 st of October

1966, by which it made abortions

illegal in Romania. Thereafter,

children born under the decree

were nicknamed ‘decretees’,

children born under the fear of

death. My mother was born too

early for that, and I was born too

62 ESSAYS NOMADOLOGY, AUTUMN ISSUE 2025

late. But our culture formed in

this image: a culture where to be

born was, often, an act of fear.

It was predictable that many of

us would leave this culture.

Especially us, women. Even if the

Revolution ended the Decree,

along with the whole Regime. We

all know that rupture: the Berlin

Wall falls on November 9 th and it

is followed closely by aftershock

revolutions in Eastern Bloc

countries, the bloodiest of which

happens in Romania. On

Christmas Day 1989, when I was

the size of a pearl in my mother’s

belly-shell, the Romanian people

shot our dictator live on TV.

I was born into a free world. But

it takes generations to change a

culture. I grew up during a time

when going abroad was all the

dopamine, whether for a holiday

or forever. I moved to Britain to

study, thinking there is only

freedom ahead.

Only a few years into my

academic migration, Europe

began to crumble at its edges. I

remember sitting at my desk in

my Psychology research lab in

Oxford and instead of working, I

and my two female German labmates

(one from East Germany,

one from West Germany) read

out loud the news on the new war

in Crimea. We could not believe

it. This should have all been a

story of the past.

Fast-forward one decade and the

whole Western World is now in

the grip of democratic regression.

As an individual, in a silo, there

is nothing I can do about it. The

Western World (and Eastern

Europe is, we believed, included

in this package) is descending

back into Decrees and Regimes

before my eyes. All I can do is use

my academic lens to examine

what my mind is going through.

What the minds of my generation

are going through. And for this, I

need to go back to an earlier

intellectual love: Philosophy.

Existentialism, a philosophical

tradition born around 1913 in

Germany and which peaked just

after WWII in France, is

sprouting again in our minds in

both its good and bad versions. It

is the philosophy of paying closer

attention to the minute and the

physicality of one’s life, exactly

what we are seeing as a backlash

to social media – and ironically


promoted on social media. It is

also the philosophy of angst, of

existential dread, of questioning

our place in the world, seeing our

insignificance. In 2025, we feel

insignificant. But it is also,

tragically, the philosophical

tradition that was hijacked to

justify the darkest hours of

Europe’s history.

To not be tiresome, I’ll do this as

an algorithm. What do we swipe

right for? What do we swipe left

for? What of these existentialist

men’s ideas of last century

resonates today with me as a

woman, in a time when notions

of womanhood and gender are

themselves up for unknotting,

like everything else.

Let the philosophical matching

algorithm begin.

1| Self-portrait

as Husserl

Edmund Husserl is snapped into

eternity as an older philosopher

with a forehead the shape and

shine of a Weihnachten globe, a

frown, and a pointy beard-plusmoustache

that could pass him

for a member of a Nordic

symphonic metal band. He was

the inventor of phenomenology,

the philosophical precursor to

existentialism.

Here is what I love about

Husserl: as a German

philosopher, he built a good part

of his career promoting a French

word, at a time when such

symbiosis between the two

nations was unthinkable. The

French word was Epoché. It

means bracketing. It’s supposed

to make you ditch your biases

and assumptions. You explain a

word, a notion, through its

system of meanings. You describe

the thing itself through anything

but the thing itself.

Let me consider an example, in a

narrative form: a few nights ago,

I was reading to my two small

children a picture book from the

series Meine Freundin Conni, a

popular German series that

originated in the 90s and is still

running. The precise book we

were reading was Conni Learns

How to Ski. A few pages in,

Conni is learning different


movements on her skis: the walk

of the dwarf, the walk of the

giant, and the walk of the

hunched Indian… My five-yearold

boy quickly stops me:

‘Mama, but Indians walk

normally, look. Just like us!’ he

says and shows me a large-step,

slow-motion version of his

normal walk. We had only just

lived in Berlin for six months as

nomad academics, and one of my

son’s best friends was Avi, a boy

from India.

‘You’re right. They don’t know

what they’re saying,’ I told my

son. I checked the book’s first

publication date: 2005. I didn’t

explain to my son that ‘Indian’ in

this book probably meant Native

American, and that it was trying

to be funny, but in the process, it

was infantilising.

I also didn’t tell him that his

kindergarten teacher in Berlin

said that my son (half-Romanian,

half-Russian, born British) was

shy, and that he only interacted

with other shy kids, namely the

two out of three other

immigrants: the Indian and the

Israeli. The kindergarten teacher

did not see any connection

between shyness and… well…

whatever word we are trying to

Epoché in this story.

As a woman, as a nomad, I think

Epoché is brilliant. In

Psychology, we have long talked

about how exposure to the real

‘other’ can help dismantle

discrimination and stereotyping.

Epoché does exactly this, through

unearthing real details beyond a

label.

End of self-portrait as Husserl.

2| Self-portrait

as Heidegger.

Martin Heidegger: rectangular

face, deep chin, receding hairline.

Heidegger was the academic

child of Husserl and was meant

to take forward the ideas of his

mentor. He ended up doing quite

the opposite.

From Heidegger’s biography, I

linger on one detail: how the path

in the woods enfolds the child

Heidegger. As he ages, he will

take to wearing a Black Forest

dress to celebrate his roots, and


he will retreat to write his

philosophy in a cabin in the

Black Forest. I share Heidegger’s

love of nature, and I too have had

bouts of nostalgic wearing of

traditional dress, when I missed

my native Transylvania.

In his philosophy, Heidegger sets

about stripping metaphysics of

metaphysics. He coins—or recoins,

for it is an ancient

concern—the famous question of

‘Why is there something instead

of nothing?’ So far, so good. The

answer, Heidegger proposes, is

that nothingness, death, is

precisely what gives meaning to

life. So far, so good. And so, he

argues, we need to be

authentically something while we

live. This is where I begin to

frown in the self-portrait.

So much of Heidegger is infused

with nostalgia. Not just for the

Black Forest, but for growing up

with his father, who worked as a

sexton for a Catholic Church. The

bells of that church ring in

Heidegger’s ears throughout his

life, at the core of his authentic

self. He hears the hammer of

craftsmen from his childhood

town. Yet a craftsman, Heidegger

says, when holding a hammer,

sees not the hammer but the

action of hammering a nail. The

craftsman is blind to the hammer

as a thing-itself. True being, true

Dasein, would be experiencing

the hammer as a thing-itself.

As a woman, I am quite sure I

can never experience the ring of

the Orthodox Church bells of my

childhood as a thing-itself. To

me, especially after becoming a

mother, the Church bells are

intrinsically tied to power. At the

insistence of my family, I

reluctantly agreed to christen my

first baby in the Orthodox

Church in Romania. However, I

asked the priest to not strip my

child naked and dip him entirely

into water. I also asked that no

services be performed on myself.

Once inside the Church, with

around fifty guests present, the

priest asked me to kneel by his

feet. He covered my head with

his golden robe, so that my head

was essentially fully inside his

clothes.

‘Do you repent your sins?’ he

asked, and I did not answer.

He performed a prayer that

would absolve my sin of having


given birth. Without this prayer,

he explained, I was deemed as

‘Confined’: I was dirty and was

not allowed to enter Church.

The priest then proceeded to

strip my baby down entirely, and

to my horror, dipped him

completely, covering his mouth,

into the golden bucket of water.

‘Stop being agitated,’ the priest

told me after, ‘Of course we had

to promise we won’t dip his head

in. How else would you have

consented?’

Was consent, them, to be a

matter of manipulation?

I love Philosophy, but I am a

Psychologist. To a human,

nothing ca be a mere thing-itself.

Everything sits within a

relationship, usually one that

involves power. Women and

immigrants are sadly quite likely

to find out about the infantilising

power of things-itself.

Heidegger wanted to be an

‘authentic’ Black Forest German.

As an immigrant, I wonder what

I could be ‘authentic’ as: I don’t

think I can be authentically

Romanian anymore, nor British

yet, or ever. Perhaps

authentically immigrant. I am

not sure about authentically

woman, either. What would that

be, a ‘trad wife’? A ‘career

woman’?

Why is there something rather

than nothing? This is a question

that humans have asked

themselves for as long as

philosophy has existed, and

surely longer. But to respond to

this question with the answer

‘authenticity’ is rather atypical.

This response is not just a

peculiar feature of Heidegger’s

philosophy. It is also our 21 st

century’s zeitgeist, perhaps the

core rationale of existence of

social media: a competition in

well-curated authenticity.

Since we are reflecting a lot on

German philosophy, I want to

draw a short bracket (a usual

bracket, not an Epoché) around

the notion of zeitgeist. We

understand this word in common

speech to mean something like

hype or buzz of the

contemporary. The word

originates in 18 th and 19 th

century German philosophy

when it meant an invisible agent

or daemon dominating an epoch


of world history. Hegel, an earlier

German philosopher, famously

contrasted the word zeitgeist

with Volksgeist (‘national spirit’)

and Weltgeist (‘world spirit’), the

latter of which he believed drove

history forward towards the

achievement of human freedom.

Hegel is also credited with saying

that history repeats itself—a

statement that Karl Marx picked

up, and re-stated along the lines

of, ‘History repeats itself, first as

a tragedy, second as a farce.’ I

think about Heidegger’s

‘authenticity’, reflected in his

term Dasein: the

human condition as being firmly

rooted in a certain time and a

certain place. I think about my

own ‘authenticity’, my Dasein as

a Romanian in the UK.

When I was heavily pregnant

with my first baby, in 2019,

before the Church episode, me

and my partner employed a

Romanian cleaner to help with

our little flat in Oxford. She had a

strong accent in English and an

even stronger accent in

Romanian. We paid her in cash,

and she told me she was sending

money home to her daughter,

who had two children and little

income. Our cleaner came every

week. The second time she came,

we had just received our new

carpets, ordered by me in terror

of how my baby would crawl on

the frozen floor of the

uninsulated English ground-floor

flat. The cleaner told me she will

put up my carpet. I said she

didn’t need to, since my partner

could do it later that day. ‘You

shouldn’t lift that double bed,’ I

said. She insisted; asked me

where I wanted the carpet. I

declined. ‘Don’t lift that double

bed.’ She lifted that double bed

and held it with her shoulder

while I stood speechless, round,

in the doorframe. She put up my

white silver-streaked carpet

squarely in the middle of our

bedroom. On the side, she left

room for the white cot.

Two weeks later, my parents back

in Romania received a phone call

from the Romanian manager of

the hotel in north Oxford where

our cleaner worked her day job.

The manager apologised for

recommending the cleaner to us.

She said the cleaner was

suspected of stealing towels. I

cancelled the next clean. I didn’t


believe she was a thief, but what

chances could I take, alone at

home with my big bump?

Four years later, I cannot

remember her name. In my

mind, she is suspended in place

and time. What did it mean to be

an ‘authentic’ Romanian in the

UK? I had our own communities

too. Authenticity is, like things

themselves, for the powerful.

Heidegger’s ‘authentic’ Dasein

was used in the 1930s to frame

the need for a pure race.

In 2025, less than a century later,

the extreme right movement was

on the rise in Germany while my

son was in kindergarten in Berlin

and told he was sensitive for

hanging out with the other

migrants. And it was because of

this sensitivity, the teacher

explained to us in front of the

children, that a German-

American kid was bullying my

son and hitting him every day.

Authenticity, Dasein, things-inthemselves,

none of these are

what I’m looking for.

End of self-portrait as

Heidegger.

3| Self-portrait

as Sartre.

We cross the border into France,

accompanying a young

philosopher called Jean-Paul

Sartre who, in 1933, during the

time of Hitler’s ascension, has

just completed a year of studying

in Berlin and is returning to

Paris. He is about to establish

existentialism, while the world

unfolds. But for now, I share a

mirror with him. His skin tends

to crease like laundry kept for too

long on the drying cycle, behind a

pair of thick black glasses.

Despite his imperfect looks, he is

everyone’s darling. It feels a bit

unfair to me, as a woman in my

thirties with a skin prone to

wrinkling. He wears a white suit

and a tie, but we imagine him in

a black turtleneck, as we like to

imagine existentialists. Sartre is

commonly acknowledged as the

founder of existentialism.

He too, like Heidegger,

questioned why we exist in the

first place. Yet for Sartre the

answer could not be more


different: there is no higher

purpose to our existence – hence,

it is our responsibility to create

ourselves, to make what we want

of our lives. Sartre and his longterm

partner, Simone de

Beauvoir, took this seriously on a

personal level, and lived their

lives the way they liked, not the

way the bourgeois society of Paris

of their times required. Sartre

and Beauvoir’s relationship was

what we would call an ‘open

relationship’ whereby both had

other lovers. Beauvoir would be

today classed as LGBTQ, since

she slept with women too.

Questionably, some of these

women were her students, young

lovers that she shared with

Sartre.

Today’s social media mixes up

‘authenticity’ with ‘reinventing

oneself’. At times, they both

appear to mean ‘finding oneself’

in the face of social norms.

However, if taken to mean what

Heidegger vs. Sartre meant, these

two notions contradict each

other: one cannot be

authentically Parisian bourgeois

of the early 20 th century while

also opposing the time’s norms.

Today’s social media blurs the

meaning of ‘authenticity’ in a way

that it shape-shifts between

Heideggerian authenticity and

Sartrean individuality. And, like

all shapeshifters, if becomes

dangerous in doing so.

Apart from highlighting people’s

agency to make their own

decisions and stand by their own

principles, Sartre was also

opinionated about what some of

these principles ought to be,

morally. One important principle

was that, given a conflictual

situation, we should always stand

with the vulnerable, the

disenfranchised, the

marginalised. In his time, that

often meant the Jews.

In 2024, I read an article in a

Romanian magazine about a new

immigrant in my hometown.

While I grew up, there was hardly

any new migration in my town;

there was diversity, but it was

historical diversity, or so we were

led to believe. There was a

momentarily peaceful

cohabitation of Romanians,

Hungarians, Jews, Italians and

other people who had ended up

in Transylvania over the

centuries. The article I read


talked about a newly arrived Sri

Lankan called Prageeth.

Prageeth had arrived in Romania

a few months prior. He first

worked in Bucharest, but did not

like the fast-paced, unforgiving

capital. That is how he ended up

in my small provincial hometown

of Oradea, in Transylvania,

instead. He worked two shifts:

hotel reception and room service.

On the free days he met other Sri

Lankans, but there were few. The

town didn’t know what to make

of them, but it did not reject

them either. One nongovernmental

organisation

(NGO) offered them assistance

with documents and language,

until the NGO’s funding ran out.

Prageeth shared a flat with other

new arrivals. It was alright, even

if the city’s central heating only

started when the temperature

dropped below ten degrees for

three nights in a row. For a while,

he ordered Sri Lankan spices

from Bucharest, but they became

too costly.

As the journalist watched,

Prageeth video-called his wife

and daughters from the park; he

promised they could come and

join him soon. That was all that

mattered. He had found a good

school and managed to sign up

his daughters for it. After the call,

he lay down on a bench to watch

the stars and to listen to Greek

composer Yanni. The stars were

the same everywhere, for

everyone. So was the music.

I was touched by Prageeth’s

optimism, and the way he was,

against all difficulties, enacting

agency in his own life and rebuilding

his own destiny. The

best thing about Sartre’s

existentialism is that it

encourages us to choose who we

want to be. To choose ourselves

every moment.

I stop, while I share a selfportrait

with Jean-Paul Sartre, to

watch Simone de Beauvoir. I see

her at her desk, with a view to the

café below. I see her writing the

most famous tome of feminism,

The Second Sex. To do so, she is

choosing the life of a male writer:

isolation, rigid routine, caffeine,

alcohol, freedom. No children.

I zoom out of Sartre’s portrait

and return to my living room,

this time in Norway, not in

Berlin. My toddler has woken up


from her nap and climbs on my

lap.

My desk is abandoned for now,

my consciousness reflecting onto

a child, rather than

a page.

End of philosophy processing

algorithm.

4| Denouement

There is one portrait I wish to

return to: that of Virginia Woolf.

There is a clear parallel between

Woolf’s consciousness spilling

onto the waves, onto the world –

and Sartre’s type of

existentialism: in the face of

nothingness, choosing who one

is, questioning one’s the biases,

taking responsibility over one’s

actions.

thing would be to fear the East

less: us, as Westerners, have had

brilliant ideas and devastating

ideas too. We are not morally

superior in any way. The second

thing would be to examine our

minds, work on our minds like

Philosophers. In our existential

angst, can we continue to Epoché

out of our biases? Do we really

want ‘authenticity’?

Perhaps most importantly, can

we build the selves we want, and

not for social media? It is

fascinating to think about how

our consciousness shapes the

world around us, as it did for

Woolf’s waves. That agency may

give us meaning in our existence,

in our community, even if

something in our world is,

indeed, ending.

As a woman, I choose to be a

thinker, but one avec des

enfants.

And the world? They say that

Western civilisation is nearing its

end, but maybe there is

something we can do. The first


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