DigitalCommons@KCU (Kansas City Univ.)

A mystical, cold, and icy world suspended in the beauty of the cosmos.
Medium: Spray paint on posterboard

Loera, Meshach, COM 28

Blue Ice Space

Kumar, Rashmi, COM 28

Side Effects II

Asif, Danish, COM 27

Daylight 1

Konopka, Katherine, CDM 28

Freedom 1

Freedom 3

Clark, April, COM 26

Handsewn Lampshade: Green 2

Camera: Yashica FX-3
Film stock: Cinestill 800

Palaad, Sean William, COM 28

Home in Color 3

Bell, Christian, COM 26

Radiant Iridescence 2

Alete, Harshith, COM 28

The Endless Skies 2

Braunsteiner, Thomas, COM 27

1 
 
Costume for a Foreigner  
 
Vivid colours of blue, pink, and gold are stacked in neat piles, filling ceiling-high shelves. Rhinestones 
and crinkly plastic refract the bright fluorescent lights, creating a disorienting kaleidoscope. I wander 
around the mall, adrift in the colours and sounds of people talking. My hands trail absentmindedly 
across the beaded lehengas, feeling the cool bumpy texture underneath.  
The salesman speaks with a typical Andhra Pradesh accent. “Akka, this colour will suit your skin 
complexion. It comes in yellow too.”  
My mother turns her head to call me. “Manju, come here.”  
I turn around, pulling my outstretched hand away from the cream-coloured wedding sari on the 
mannequin. My mother looks at me, expectantly. On the counter in front of her are layers of fabric 
fanned out like a peacock’s tail. “Babu, can you show me that one instead?” my mother points to a 
bottle green fold on the shelf. The salesperson pulls it out carefully, revealing a liquid-soft fabric with 
heavy embroidery. How does she know exactly what she wants from this sea of colours?  
“Does the green one come with a separate pallu, too?”  
“Yes, akka, in a lighter colour, the current fashion these days. Very suitable for your daughter.” 
I had just arrived for a month-long vacation in India, and because I had no Indian clothes, I was being 
dragged along to the city to shop for chudidhars. I wanted to wear my usual pants and shirts, like the 
boys here would, but I’m told that since I’m an Indian girl, I have to dress like one. I couldn’t care less 
about the patterns; they all looked too bright, too garish.  
“Manju, which of these do you like?”  
“Mmm, I don’t know Amma. They both look okay to me. What about the cream one on the 
mannequin?” I knew we wouldn’t buy it, but I was trying to waste time.  
2 
 
“You can’t wear that one, that’s a wedding sari.” Damn, foiled. “Okay, so you want to try the green 
one?” 
“… I guess. I don’t really know.”  
“Well, pay attention and don’t waste time. You need to choose something. If you don’t like it, then 
leave it.”  
I bit my tongue and remained silent. What if I didn’t like any of them?  
It wasn’t uncommon for me to feel lost while visiting clothes shops. While the girls in my family were 
excited to plan their outfits after receiving a wedding invite, I felt dread. I didn’t realize until I was 
much older that it was crucial to learn how to dress, as a woman’s clothing here serves as her armor 
against judgement. So much time is spent on deciding what to buy and wear, and what message it sends 
to other families. A single outfit defines your modesty (are they the good girl who dressed modestly, or 
the bad girl who wears spaghetti strap saris?) and your social status (expensive silk with current trends, 
or cheap cotton with out-of-fashion designs?). Dress sellers, like at this store, tout hundreds of fabric 
styles and colors, to suit the pickiest Indian fashionistas. For me, I grew up in America since I was a 
toddler. None of these clothes made sense to me.  
In the changing room, I shook off the loose top that I was wearing and turned around. A brown-skinned 
girl with messy hair and a training bra stared back, scrawny and ugly. I turned away quickly from the 
mirror and grabbed the first chudidhar, an orange number with little fish on the hem. It was the only 
one that I had chosen myself, because it reminded me of a shirt from home. With some difficulty, I 
pulled it over my head and body. I didn’t mind my reflection too much.  
“Amma?” 
“Yes?”  
I stepped out. “What do you think?”  
3 
 
She surveyed the fit. Her brow wrinkled critically. “Why do you look so stiff? Your arms look weird.” 
“What? I don’t know, I’m being normal!”  
“Well, it looks like you’re holding them stiff on purpose.” 
“I am NOT.” I didn’t care my voice was raising slightly, despite the shopkeepers surely listening in.  
My mother’s eyes flashed. “I don’t know why you’re always so difficult. We’re working so hard to find 
you a dress. Try the next one.” 
“I don’t want to. I don’t like the green one.” 
“You didn’t even try it on! Just try it on, I swear it will look good. Be a good girl and wear it.” 
I could feel an outburst rising. Instead, I gave an angry stare, and turned around wordlessly, shutting the 
curtains with more force than necessary. In the mirror, I saw pearls forming on my lower eyelids. Don’t 
cry, don’t cry. I stared a little longer and noticed how my arms do in fact look awkward at my sides. 
Tears betray me and fall, some catching on the orange fabric.  
“Manju?”  
“Just give me a second Amma, you’re rushing me.” I wondered if she couldn’t hear me crying, or if she 
could and was being cruel and ignoring me.   
I quickly smeared the tears from my eyes with my fists and removed the orange dress to try on the next 
one. I didn’t care anymore.  
We left the shopping center with new clothes to tailor. My mother hailed an auto, and we boarded on, 
squeezing into impossibly small seats holding our poufy bags. I pouted silently, staring outside at the 
busy dirt roads.  
Whether I was at a wedding, or simply relaxing at my Ammamma’s house, my clothing may as well 
have a stamp reading “I AM NOT FROM AROUND HERE”. When I had worn a shirt and leggings on 
4 
 
the plane, people on the street stared at me. Upon greeting my grandfather for the first time after 10 
years, he scolded my mother that I wasn’t dressed more appropriately. My mother had never cared how 
I dressed before that, and neither did I; but now, I was painfully aware of everything I wore. I knew that 
the pointy beads on a lehenga scratch my skin red, and the fabric makes my armpits feel tight and 
sweaty. Trying to explain why I don’t want to wear traditional clothes wrapped me up in a strange 
mixture of shame and guilt. It made me wonder if I wasn’t Indian enough, girly enough; or simply, if I 
wasn’t enough. I couldn’t imagine trying to explain this to my mother, who was glowing in pride when 
she saw me in the green chudidhar.  
We reached home without much talk and I was quiet all throughout dinnertime. My cousins played in 
the front yard, trying to catch minnows in a small pond using a glass jar my Ammamma gave. I wasn’t 
in the mood to join and sat on the front step to watch instead.  
“Manju, go play.” My aunt sat next to me, with a plate and knife to peel a mango. I shook my head, 
afraid that if I speak, I’ll start crying again.  
She could tell. “What’s on your mind, my little parrot?”  
I took some time before I replied, hesitant of judgement. “Pedamma, what if I can’t wear Indian 
clothes?”  
She looked perplexed. “Why can’t you?”  
“I just feel… I don’t like it. It’s not me. Everyone else thinks it looks good, but when I look in the 
mirror, I just see the opposite of who I am. It’s too loud, and I’m too quiet.” 
“But you’re Indian, Manju.” 
“I know,” I rolled my eyes in frustration. “That’s the problem. I feel like I’m a foreigner dressing up in 
costume. Why can’t I just feel normal, like other Indian people? Why can’t I BE normal?”   
5 
 
My aunt looked thoughtfully at me, but I could tell she didn’t fully understand my woes. We sat in 
silence, watching my cousins laughing, bent over the pond. She starts cutting into the skin of the 
mango. 
“Well, at the end of the day, clothing is just clothing.”  She finally said. I look at her. “You wear it for a 
couple hours, and if there are no older people around, just go change into what you like,” she finished, 
peeling open the fruit to reveal bright orange flesh. Nectar dripped down her palms as she carved the 
skin away.  
I considered her words. I didn’t like that I had to change myself to fit this place, where I felt there was 
no space for me. But I didn’t have to change for everyone; my aunt didn’t care what I wore around her, 
and I didn’t have to wear these clothes forever. Her words made me feel less intensely upset.  
I watched the older cousin finally manage to lure a minnow into the glass jar. But he wasn’t quick 
enough, and it escaped the trap in a sudden twist and flash. I may feel like a fish out of water, but 
maybe not for long. Maybe this is what growing up feels like, finding compromise. 
“Okay.” I say, rising from my step, ready to join the others. “Thanks, Pedamma.” 
My aunt looked up with kind eyes and offered her plate.  
“Mango?”  
 


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