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The theme reveal and submissions for paid subscribers opened last week and free submissions are now open to all! Tidal Wave explores major change, new beginnings, uncertainty, and resilience. The magazine itself exists in a dreamy, liminal nighttime space.

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Please see the mood board here. Below are some prompts to get you started:

Poetry: 2-5 Poems. Max 10 pages.

Write a poem that includes the word “saltwater” or “waterlogged.”

Write a poem about a ripple effect.

Write poem with an unreliable narrator.

Fiction: Max 3,000 words

Write a story about something you've done 100 times.

Write about a character that hesitates to get in the water.

Write about characters with a yin-yang dynamic.

Personal Essay: Max 3,000 words

A time you were a fish out of water.

Your earliest memory, and why you think that is.

A time you rose from the ashes.

Write about a the rise and fall of an achievement.

Prompts for Visual Art: 1-5 works relating to the theme

Visual art may include illustration, photography, film, or other digital work.

Spiral.

The beginning, middle and end.

A new day.

Rainfall.

A week in my life.

Exploring major change, new beginnings, uncertainty, and resilience. The interpretation of Tidal Wave can be as fixed or open as you like: a natural disaster, a major life event, endurance in daily life, or a fresh start.

Raat Ki Rani Magazine itself exists in a dreamy, liminal nighttime space. Carry this with you to guide your as you craft your piece or search your catalogue for a fitting piece.

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Below is the moodboard that guides the inspiration behind this issue. Return to it and allow it to guide you. Thank you for being this close to the process.

The work we’re gathering:

Poetry: 2-5 Poems, Max 10 Pages

Short Story & Essay: Max 3,000 words

Visual Art: 1-5 works relating to the theme. Visual Art can be drawings, paintings, photography, films etc as long as you are able to share it digitally!

Submissions are now open for paid subscribers and open to everyone August 24th - October 18th.

Submit to Raat Ki Rani Magazine

A product of collective filmmaking, ‘songs from our room’ emerges from shared meals, late-night conversations and the intimacies of friendship. At its center is Vanshika, a queer individual who reflects on living in a city that neither glorifies nor erases their identity, but instead carves out quiet spaces of belonging. Shaped in chapters—‘fight or flight,’ ‘(can we be friends?)’ and ‘comfort crowd’—the film traces the journey of a friendship, marked by queerness and becoming. Rooted in Mumbai yet reaching beyond, the film speaks of chosen families, everyday coexistence and the fragile, yet radical politics of dreaming.

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Anjani Chadha (she/her) is a writer and filmmaker whose work explores gender, memory, and the city through the lens of everyday life. Interested in the politics of the mundane, she works across fiction and nonfiction to examine how personal lives intersect with larger social and cultural structures. Her debut short film, City of Mirage, premiered at the Jio MAMI Mumbai Film Festival in 2023 and has since screened at the KASHISH Pride Film Festival, the Bangalore Queer Film Festival, and other festivals. Alongside her independent practice, she has worked on commissioned fiction, nonfiction, and commercial films. She has also written on art, culture, and cinema for The New Indian Express, Indulge Express, and The Rolling Tape.

Niv (they/them) is a visual artist and filmmaker based in Mumbai. Their work spans documentary, digital media, and research, and is grounded in feminist and social justice frameworks. They have worked across journalism and grassroots media where they have engaged in storytelling, social media production, and multimedia content creation. Their film ‘City of Mirage’ (2023) emerged from conversations around migration, queerness, and everyday life, and was shortlisted for Dimensions Mumbai at the Jio MAMI Mumbai Film Festival. They also directed ‘On the Right Track’ (2024), a short film exploring the rhythms of Mumbai’s railway system alongside broader socio-political shifts, and was involved in all aspects of its production.

Vanshika Gupta is a researcher and multimedia storyteller working at the intersection of gender, space and informality. Their work is a pursuit of reimagining development practice as a living, breathing practice, one that listens, evolves and includes. Moving between journalism, visual media and academic research, they are interested in questions of belonging, memory and everyday life across social and digital spaces.

it’s frigid. though i suppose it’s nothing new; the air has been permeated with frost for as long as i can remember. i run my hand over the soft wool of the blanket in my lap and feel each perfect stitch under my fingertips. it’s a soft yellow color, knitted by my mother as she sat next to the once roaring hearth that now lies cold and desolate in the corner of the cabin. the blanket looks pale without the warm light of the fire, and i can’t seem to tell whether it has faded with age or if the color left along with her.

she would always hum songs i had no hope of recognizing, but i lay entranced at her feet by the melodies she spun along with her yarn. her third trimester stomach kept it well out of her reach, so she relied on me to delicately feed her a steady stream from the tangled nest that lay in a wicker basket by her creaky old rocking chair. each move, each stitch brought on another creak or whine, the chair seeming to syphonize with her soft voice. the fire crackled and hissed, punctuating her recital. it seemed as if every sound would harmonize with her, each hoping to play their part in a symphony i had never heard before or since. the blanket has long been finished and the symphony has trailed off, only serving to remind me of what is lost. on the bottom right corner, just above the lace border is an embroidered inscription: for my little blossom

it was her nickname for the baby, as none of us could think of anything better. we of course had much more pressing matters on our minds as the winter had started early and left us with barren fields and empty cupboards. so my mother called it her blossom, convinced that with his birth our luck would change.

he succumbed to the cold soon after my mother brought him into the world. she died without holding him, her hair plastered to her face with perspiration. her last words were too faint for me to make out but i thought i heard her call out for her blossom one final time. i was left trembling at her bedside with a thrashing blanket-swaddled mass shrieking in my arms. i laid him upon his mother, but all i could do was watch as he flailed and cried in her increasingly cold arms. i buried her by the garden she used to tend to, which the winter had turned it into a more suitable resting place. the flowers and fruit she had so carefully cultivated were replaced by cold black earth, scorched with frost. i did what i could to return it to it’s former glory but i was not my mother. this much was readily apparent. all i managed was a large stone dragged from the frozen riverbed and hastily carved before the cold took the use of my fingers.

months pass. the ward and i did not get along. with the last of the goats butchered long ago, any hope of milk was laughable. this, coupled with the mere dregs of the last pitiful harvest before the desiccated ground was covered in snow, did not bode well for my new responsibility. i would plead with him to eat what little dried fruit and seeds i could scrounge up. he would have none of it, of course, opting instead to wail at a deafening volume. eventually his wails dropped to a whisper, his face still contorted in a silent caterwaul. i would spend hours ransacking every inch of the cabin, hoping to find even a drop of milk or a crumb of grain. no matter how many times i would rip the cabinets apart their hollowness remained unchanged in the face of my desperation. there were times i thought of slitting my wrists only to put them to his mouth and let him drink his fill. perhaps in death i could be of use to him.

i was not much better off. as the time passed, the winter only grew more settled in its rage, trapping us in the only refuge from the cold for miles. slowly, i notice the hunger. it is enough to stave off at first, enough that i can satiate myself with a few cups of water from melted snow. but it does not stay quiet for long. my stomach growls and shrieks as i try to drown it with as much water as i can take. but my stomach is not alone in its crusade. my hair thins and my hands start to shake. i could ignore it for as long as i pleased, but my hunger had started to eat away at my very existence. but i knew my own hunger was incomparable to my brothers. i could not bear to watch as his whispers faded to silence, his throat torn from his cries, his lips parched and cracked. i instead did what little i could, tearing the cabin apart piece by piece and plank by plank, praying for something to materialize. perhaps a family of squirrels had died in the walls, perhaps an abandoned birds nest still held an egg or two. anything. the floorboards near the old rocking chair were the last to go.

i could not seem to bring myself to rip apart what few memories gave me solace, but that luxury had long been taken from me. i slowly dropped to my knees, the cold and malnutrition sapping my dwindling strength, my already cracked fingers bleeding profusely as i pryed up the rotting wood. it did not come up without it’s price, taking three of my fingernails with it. i shakily dropped the plank as i fell on my side, mocked once more by the emptiness beneath. my breath came out in puffs of condensation, shallow and rapid from even that much exertion. that was it. a last chance at survival had given way to the final verdict.

i figured in these last moments neither of us wished to be alone, my only motivation as i tried to get to my feet. but there it was. out of the very corner of my eye, tucked neatly far behind where the baseboards ended, nearly inside the wall. something stood out amongst the cobwebs and accumulated dust, a color that had no earthly business being in this wasteland. with new resolution i reached as far as my arm would go, past the support beams and long abandoned spiderwebs, the winter had left my arms bony and slender, allowing me to contort much farther than any person should. my shoulder pressed against the inside of the floorboards, and my exposed ribcage lay against the freezing ground. every joint in my body and every cell in my anatomy strained reaching for the last sliver of hope i had left.

just when it felt like my flesh was about to tear, i felt the cool skin of a leather-bound book brush against the tips of my fingers. i slowly removed my now scraped and bleeding arm out of the hollow, at the end of which was a neatly bound and somewhat faded but vibrant as ever red leather journal. it was held together by a rough woven twine, unmistakebly the same kind my father would use all those years ago. it bound our firewood, stitched our clothes, and tied our laces. my mother had razed the cabin of every trace of him citing her hatred for anything that remotely connected us to him. it took quite a while, and at times it seemed like it was only that twine which held our family together. i hadn’t seen it in years. i unwrapped the book only for it to fall open in my hands, to a page near the beginning. i quickly stopped the enclosed objects from slipping out, clutching them close to my chest. upon further inspection, i could identify a faded film photograph and something else i did not quite recognize. on the left side of the page was my fathers messy handwriting, lines and passages surrounding various diagrams. it detailed the genus and species of various plants, most of which i did not recognize. some of the basic entries were plants i knew, crops and grain we grew before the land became barren. the others had no such purpose listed, only their color, scent, and a surprisingly detailed sketch. they were like no plants i had ever seen. instead of the monochrome thistles of wheat i knew, they had delicate stems and brushstrokes of colors highlighting the swooping curves. some had tall blooming whorls, crescendoing out into small cups of nectar. others had petals upon petals, overlapping over and over to form a blossom. i could not help but wonder if these were merely drawings, a hopeful fiction my father had conjured up to save himself from the winter’s damnation. this was quickly dispelled as i examined the enclosed objects. the photograph was of my mother; or a version of her i suppose. she did not have the lines of worry scoring her forehead, or the dark bags that had settled under her eyes. she was… happy. even in the faded old film photo her eyes had a shine to them, coalesced into a glow with the toothy smile on her face. behind her ear, tucked neatly amongst the locks of hair was identical to the other enclosed object. it had long since dried out, pressed neatly into a diagram of itself. it was a deep crimson, almost black. the center was a cluster of velvety petals, with spirals of them stacked upon one another surrounding it. the pattern seemed to disappear into itself, finding a new place to start and end every single time. it had not lost an atom of detail, its hypnotizing pattern preserved in between the sheets of yellowing paper. it seemed weightless in my hand, yet i could not fathom an object of such beauty being confined to the bounds of my palm. i looked back at the photo, the same flower brushing softly against my mothers cheek. behind the photo was an inscription that had long since been rubbed off, but i knew exactly what it said. my blossom.

a faint cry roused me from my thoughts. the journal fell from my hands as i scrambled to the little woven basket my brother lay in. the very same basket from all those years ago, the yarn now tangled and forgotten under the blankets i had laid for him. his face was pale, and the cries that once echoed around the cabin were replaced with a labored gurgle. scooping him up as gently as my shaking arms could, i pressed him against my chest for whatever sliver of warmth i could provide, while i frantically searched for something, anything i could give him. the flower. it had to be something. it had to do something. i crawled over to the dropped specimen and scooped it into my hand, crushing it with what little strength remained in my withering body. i turned my head away as the once eternalized beauty crumbled to dust under my fingers. i could not look at what i had to destroy, could not bear to see the only shred of life for miles around meet its end within my fist. i had not time to mourn however, with the baby’s cries growing fainter and my own body on the verge of collapse. i held my fist to his mouth, praying that i could trickle just a few crumbs of sustenance past his lips. but his expression had turned far too peaceful. once more i let the mangled remains of the flower fall across his mouth, praying with every fiber of my being that he would resume the cries that had plagued me for so long. but like so many others, my prayers fell on deaf ears. the contorted wail that normally resided on his face was replaced with an eerie calm as i felt his body slow then stiffen. my head fell back and my shoulders went slack, barely managing to keep him in my arms. there was no solace from above though, nothing up there but rotting wooden beams and seemingly endless darkness. but i still dared not to look down, hoping to tilt my head back far enough to stop the precious water from streaming down my face.

it wasn’t long before the cabin was once again deafeningly silent, save for the howling wind. It screeched and clawed at every crack it could find in the dilapidated cabin, like some sort of beast intent on my demise. it stalked outside, back and forth around the perimeter, waiting patiently until I fell victim to it’s icy grip as well. it seemed to call out to me, whispers carried ever so faintly alongside the zephyr. there was a sort of comfort out there, a comfort that nothing in this cabin could provide me any longer. the cold offered relief, a respite from my pitiful damnation. perhaps i could be reunited with everything it has taken from me. but i could not seem to move myself from my position, my knees nearly frozen to the floor. his body grew colder and colder in my arms, no matter how close i held him to me. my own waning warmth could do nothing for him; in fact no part of me could do anything for him now. the whispers seem to grow louder the longer i stayed limp on the floor, soothing my anguish, offering to quell my agony in the wintery bliss that lay beyond the cabin walls. i tear myself free from the floor’s hold, shakily rising to my feet. though my muscles feel as if they are ripping themselves off of my bones i dare not make the slightest movement to jostle the baby. i gingerly make every move necessary, as if the smallest disturbance will wake him, as if he is simply sleeping without a care. however, each step i take threatens my collapse as i stumble towards the door.

it seems like an eternity of one laborious footfall after another before i finally raise my head to look at the scarred plank of wood that lay between me and my freedom. the entrance has long since been firmly nailed shut, eternally struggling to keep the elements at bay. i extend my unencumbered hand and scratch at the various fixtures scattered across the door frame. the cold metal remains unchanged save for my blood smearing across and staining the wood. i step back and breathe deep, letting the air stab my lungs with its frosty needles. it escapes in a swirling puff that quickly dissipates back into the air. i fall, letting my body slam against the door with an audible crack. weathered and brittle from the unrelenting winter, it shatters under my weight, but i cannot seem to attribute the sound to the door or my now mangled shoulder. my injury is quickly tended to by the sheet of snow i fall into. it sucks the heat from my very bones, leaving me indistinguishable from my surroundings. but not yet. not yet. the cold, or perhaps shock has managed to numb me from the sensation of my fragmented bones grinding against each other as i rise to my feet once more, and perhaps the final time. raising myself up, i feel the wind unleash its wrath upon my face. taking what little feeling i had left and leaving me with pins and needles dancing across my cheeks. my head falls, to look at the baby is what i tell myself, but more likely i simply cannot support its weight anymore. he looks as peaceful as ever, unbothered by the cold. the rosy hue of his cheeks is gone, swept away by the wind, and in its place is a dull sheen matching his glassy eyes. i run my hand across his forehead, sweeping the few wispy hairs he had managed to grow off his face. but even in this tundra and bone chilling wind, the only thing i feel is the bite of iciness radiating from his flesh.

my odyssey through the permafrost continues, the path obscured both by the storm and the black spots that now wander through my vision. my newly lame arm swings with every step, the other wrapped around my brother, nestling him as close to me as i possibly can. one after the other my feet drag through the heavy snow, accumulated to well above my knee. my path is carved through the terrain, and the echoes of my footsteps etched into the very earth. it isn’t long before my knee slams against something much too solid and unforgiving to be snow or ice. even buried under a mountain of snow i know exactly what rests here, or rather who. i sweep the layers of precipitation off the small boulder i had used to mark her grave, revealing the roughly carved letters. mom. i sway slowly and fall. for the last time, i know it. my knees hit the ground under me with another audible crack. shakily, i lift the bundled blanket, the soft yellow now thoroughly stained with red, and lay it upon the stone, as if in offering to some twisted god. but i cannot stop just yet. i cannot leave him in the cold with nothing but my broken corpse. not when his mothers embrace is so near. i claw at the frozen earth beneath, the jagged crystals of ice tearing at my skin. once the earth deems my offering worthy, the steaming blood melts the snow and gives way to the soil. it is just as hard and barren as i remember, not fit for anything to call home other than the veins of ice that have dug into the earth. one after the other i tear fistfuls of dirt from the ground, leaving my remaining fingernails embedded in the soil. but it craves more. no matter how much i give, it never seems enough to satiate its hunger. the tips of my fingers wear away with every scratch i make against the earth, letting me feel the icy air against my exposed bone. but still it remains ravenous, tearing the flesh from my arms and letting a new wave of crimson quench its thirst. it seems as if i have nothing left to give just before a flash of color reveals itself, a swatch of cloth. my mothers dress. i had buried her in the only one she had preserved from the mothballs, a faded yellow gown. it had the same ethereal hue as the blanket that lay on the gravestone above, as if the remnants of the sunlight that had once graced it clung for dear life.

i didn’t need to dig any deeper. my arms shake, now barely able to support their own weight, and raise themselves up to retrieve the offering i had left upon the stone. i lower him down to reunite mother and son, finally allowing them rest. my fingers had long since stopped responding to my commands, the hand of my mangled arm still frozen in a clenched fist i cannot seem to release. i use what little feeling i had left to sweep the earth back into its rightful place. it still has just a bit of warmth from the flesh it had taken from me, allowing me to mold it into a solid ground once more. nothing remains of my work other than a slightly warm patch of bare earth amongst the layers of snow. done. finally done. as if knowing my purpose had been fulfilled, i lose all control and feel my body fall forward. my head slams against the stone with a final resounding crack and leaves its smeared crimson mark on the rock. with a final breath i turn my broken body, allowing my back to rest against the stone. its cold, a feeling that manages to break through the numbness encasing my body. with each labored beat, the flow of blood goes from torrential to a rhythmic dripping.

the snow around me has been permeated with my filth, and i can see the flakes of ice fall from the heavens only to disintegrate in the face of my disgrace. it blooms out around me, following the crystalline patterns replacing the purest white with the deepest crimson. finally free from my reign, my limbs refuse my commands, opting instead to settle into their final rest. as each muscle relaxed, the shattered bones in my arm are released from their post, forcing my clenched fist to finally loosen its grip. fractured petals and granules spill from my palm. had i not known what it was, i might have mistaken it for dust. i watch as it mixes with my blood and trickles off my fingertips, seeping into the earth. nothing happened for quite a while after that. or nothing out of the ordinary, i suppose. my heart stopped in a timely manner, my body freezing in place, though from the cold or the from the rigor i cannot seem to determine. months after my demise it is apparent that the winter was not everlasting, and with the new age comes my reckoning. the flesh peels from my bones, helped every so often by animals that have returned to their once forgotten homes. a wolf with a dirty brown coat, changing for the seasons, no doubt, is the first to lay his claim. he nuzzles around my neck, where the scent of blood has been released from the frost that bound it. his nose is wet and cold, though in a way i am not entirely familiar with. whiskers scratch against my skin as muscle and sinew tear against his teeth. he enjoys his meal, wasting nothing before licking my exposed ribcage clean and taking his leave. time passes. the next is a sparrow, gliding down from branches way above into the rats nest i used to call hair. she takes her time, combing through the locks until she finds the perfect one to pluck from my scalp. she makes the journey a few times, picking only the finest strands to build her nest. gracing my face with a gentle gust, she returns to her young now safely ensconced in their newly constructed home. time passes. the following visitor is a family of mice. they scout the area thoroughly before settling into my ribcage. it is not long before the squealing of little pink pups radiates out of my chest. they scamper in between the remains of my abdomen, gnawing at my calcified bones. time passes. there is a final settler that now calls my body home. though i cannot fathom how much time has passed, there is no doubt in my mind of what pokes up from beneath the earth, clawing it’s way to the light. just as i begin to crumble, the smallest red blossoms have just began to bloom.

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I didn’t send word to my mother
that I was sick and hospitalized:
Why worry her?
No, that’s not it
Why give her the chance
to blame it all
on my decision to leave?

Better she go about her life
without knowing.
Why burden her concerns
with the truth?
The woman in the next bed died.
We talked a little.
I’ve been lying here
with a drip connected to my arm.
The nurse took it out
just as some men
removed the body.
Why burden the ones I love
with, that kind of detail?

I always thought I’d go first.
But I only felt bad.
She was bad.
Bad inside that is.
Outside, she spent all day
working on her smile.
I burst into tears mostly.
Tears for her.
Tears for me.
Mostly tears
for what I know
and the ones I love
do not.
And then the doctor tells me
I’ll be going home soon.
No, I’ll be returning
to my apartment.
There’s a difference.

Juanita Rey is a Dominican poet, US resident. Her work has been published in Mixed Mag, The Mantle, The Lincoln Review, Lion and Lilac amongst others.

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your eyes hurt, obsidian eyes. 
silence.                                                                                       

sorry. 
silence. but noiSE NOiSE NOISE.
You've reached your headphone weekly audio levels.

what is health anyway?

data? calculate

meaning. made? created? found? needed?
why?
                                                      why?
                                                                                                          why? 
                                                                                                                            and again why?
your car: your eyes want. syrup eyes. 
hesitate to— 
terrifying, yes. 
watch the road, syrup can stick. 
we can forget. or 
I can let go. while 
you hide. until 
it’s not scary? take 
your time. 



***
silencesilENCESILENCE. 
You've reached your headphone weekly audio levels. 




I know, me too.
no joke— but
breathe

You've reached your headphone weekly audio levels.
it works, funny enough.
see
you're still here
with syrup eyes. 
so am I. 
lift your finger off the keyboard.

Aneekah is a writer/performer looking for the truth. If you find it, do let her know.

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1. The Night-Blooming Hour

there are flowers which shun the daylight sight.
They wait instead
to make the world unstrain its voice.

At midnight,
when even the traffic leaves the spleen behind,
the smell of them starts its tender rebellion-
invisible, unstoppable.

You would miss it
in case you thought that beauty had to be viewed.
to be believed.

Tonight I walked home slowly
just to witness it --
white petals opening
like careful secrets.

No applause greeted them.
No crowd gathered.

Still, they bloomed
with the confidence
of things that understand
it is not dependent upon their aim
on witnesses.

I wondered then
that there are how many life-histories like this!
quietly,
and when all are asleep.

Perhaps we are more faithful
to ourselves in the dark,
less afraid of becoming
who we were meant to be.

And the perfumed night was filled with,
and for a moment
the whole breathing earth
felt tender.


2. City of Sleepless Windows

From my balcony
the city glittered --
not with celebration,
but with persistence.

So many lit windows
at a time when should have been yielded.

Behind one,
some one wrapped up tomorrow troubles
into neat stacks.

Behind another,
a child, a child barred with dreams.

Somewhere,
two people were ending a love
they had rehearsed saving.

Archaivists are insomniacs
We catalogue regrets,
play back and complete dialogues,
polish old grief
until it shines again.

Yet there is companionship
in this shared wakefulness --
a silent agreement
among strangers
that rest will come later.

Near dawn,
one by one,
the windows dimmed.

Not defeat --
just the body remembering
it belongs to morning.

I stayed a while longer,
watching the darkness thin,
reflecting what a wonderful thing it is.
that all the anxious nights should end in,

the world still chooses
to begin again.

Abraham Aondoana is a writer, poet and novelist. He is a recipient of Idembeka Creative Writing Workshop 2026. Follow Aondoana’s work on Instagram.

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“I didn’t know a lotus could bloom outside this time of year.”

The garden is small, but well-kept: clusters of peonies; wisterias growing off vines; bushes of hydrangeas in lilac, periwinkle, and pink. And there, in a small pond, a lotus in full bloom at the dwindling end of winter. There isn’t a hint of ice on the surface of the water despite puffs of foggy breath swirling together between the two women standing under starlight.

The owner of the garden smiles, even and polite. She’s tall and willowy, with pin-straight hair that brushes against the backs of her knees; a conspicuous figure amongst the gently curving grasses and leaves. “I haven’t seen you here before.”

The village is small. It always has been—even after the narrow, dirt roads were paved; even after horses were traded in for metal boxes; even after the villagers decided they preferred staring at an image of a flower on a screen the size of their palm over feeling the softness of a petal under their fingertips. Even if the villagers have little interest in herbs and bouquets now, the gardener knows every face that resides in this village.

The outsider’s mouth—full, like a blooming rose—quirks up into a smile. “I was just passing by.”

“I don’t get many visitors these days.” Especially not this late into the evening, especially not from someone out of town.

“Could I have a tour?” The visitor steps closer, cold dirt crunching under her shoes. “My name is Nitya.”

It doesn’t take long to walk through the serpentine path, but the gardener stops to point out each flower with care: tulips, marigolds, and daisies. And her care shines through; not a single flower wilts under her watch. Each one of them is in perfect bloom, even if the flower is months away from when it should be thriving. No two flowers are the same, delineated by a label with a single letter and a year. The latest addition—a burgundy dahlia—was brought in twelve years ago.

Minutes pass by as though clock hands have been caught in sap. Nitya’s movements are slow too, like a fawn taking her first steps into the vast world before her. Maybe this is her first time in a garden like this; the world has changed so much, after all. Maybe she lives in one of those towns where the buildings reach towards the clouds and artificial lights glitter brighter than the stars.

But Nitya’s hands are gentle when they brush over the rounded leaves of a money plant. And in turn, the stems almost seem to surge towards her touch, as if asking for more.

The moon finally peeks out from behind a cloud when Nitya leaves. But before she can take the last two steps over the threshold, she turns back, loose curls fluttering around her heart-shaped face. “I didn’t catch your name.”

When the owner of the garden smiles this time, it’s a slow rearrangement of sharp features settling into something softer. “Pallavi.”

“Where did you find all these flowers?” If Nitya was beautiful under the gentle light of the moon, then she’s radiant under the warmth of the sun. “I’ve seen photos of many of these, but some I’ve never heard of at all.”

Nitya returns to the garden again and again, each visit longer than the last. Sometimes Nitya wanders in silence as Pallavi watches. And sometimes, like today, she talks up a storm.

Pallavi traces her fingers over the ridges of the trunk of the tree they sit under: the only cherry blossom in her possession. “A visitor like you gifted this to me.”

“A visitor like me?” Nitya looks up at Pallavi through her long, long eyelashes.

A few petals flutter down between them from the branches above. “Years ago, back when the borders of this land were open.”

“And they gifted it to you personally?”

“I invited her to dinner, and she gave me this in return.” Pallavi’s eyes soften at the memory.

“An entire tree?” Nitya laughs, a chime in the wind. “But cherry blossoms don’t grow here, I know that much. And if this was from before the barriers—well, that would make you at least eighty years old.”

“Maybe I am.” Pallavi offers a wry smile. There isn’t a single wrinkle on her face. “Maybe I’ve been around for even longer.”

Time passes differently in this garden. Pallavi can’t recall exactly how long she’s been here, how many seasons have passed by. But she doesn’t forget a single visitor, no matter how fleeting their time may have been.

The trunk of the tree is thick. The bark is rough under Pallavi’s skin. When Nitya doesn’t reply, she draws her hand back. “Are you frightened?”

“Should I be?”

A fair question, but not one that’s often asked. Pallavi tilts her head back. She’s seen peace and war, she’s seen humans reach the furthest depths of the sea and heights beyond what should be possible. She’s seen societies curl back into themselves, shunning the world around them that they had worked so hard to amalgamate. But the sky is the same blue it’s always been since the first time she opened her eyes. “I believe fear is born from misunderstanding.”

Gentle fingers curl around Pallavi’s wrist, Nitya’s palm hot where Pallavi’s skin is cool. “I’m not afraid.”

It’s a rainy afternoon when Nitya reaches for her hand again, her skin warm and slick after refusing any sort of cover. Mud spatters across her feet with each step, soft soles unused to earth beneath them. Her fingers trail over a chrysanthemum. “You’re surrounded by reminders of your lovers, then.”

Droplets of rain cling to Pallavi’s eyelashes, momentarily blurring the image of Nitya when she blinks. But she refuses to miss a single second and fights to keep her eyes open. The woman before her no longer feels like a mere visitor. No—she looks like she belongs here, like she’s been a part of this little garden all along. “You aren’t jealous?”

“How could I be when they gave you company?” It isn’t the first time Nitya has brought up her concerns: It must be lonely to exist in this world for as long as you have. She worries, perhaps too much, about every being around her—from her elderly neighbors to her peers, as undeserving as they are; from the smallest dandelion to the undying woman who has tended to a humble garden for centuries. Nitya is kind, perhaps to a fault.

This chrysanthemum was planted seventy-six years ago: the sprout bursted through the soil long before Nitya’s soul touched the earth. “Then, do you want to know who this was from?”

The garden is an archive, a book bound with yellowed pages and petals carefully pressed within.

She tells Nitya about Sanjana, the priest’s daughter. Aisha, the governor’s wife. Chandni, the sister of the crown prince. She tells Nitya about Bhavana, the spinster. Farah, the maiden, promised to the merchant’s son in the next village over. Jyoti, who was like Nitya in some regard, brimming with possibilities, yet—in quieter moments, when shadows would envelop her face—listless.

“But they didn’t have to be all those things with you, did they?” Nitya wraps her arms around Pallavi’s waist, pulling her closer, raindrops dancing over her cheeks.

Back then, ensnared in the storm of politics, Aisha would call the garden an oasis and Chandi likened it to the grounds she’d gallivant as a child. Sanjana said it was a reprieve from witnessing her father’s dealings behind drawn curtains, where paper and coins were stronger than a sermon.

This whole town thinks there is something wrong with me, is what Bhavana said, mouth set in a grim line that came to soften with time.

I hope they find something wrong with me, is what Farah lamented, adamant on freeing herself from her impending marriage.

And Jyoti whispered before giving Pallavi a bluebell with drooping indigo petals: I wish I knew what was wrong with me.

“Here, they only had to be Sanjana, Aisha, and Chandni.” The back of Nitya’s hand brushes over a lily. It sways closer in return. “They didn’t have to be more than Bhavana, Farah, and Jyoti.”

Pallavi dips her chin, her hair forming a curtain around their faces. “What makes you so sure of that?”

“When I’m with you, I only ever have to be me.”

Nitya stays for years.

She stays through sweltering summers and frigid winters. She stays through weeks of dry when most flowers would cry, and weeks of rain when most flowers would sing. And the flowers never changed, always perfectly in bloom.

But Nitya changes. It starts with a single hair turned gray in a head full of inky black. Then, a wrinkle between her brows, at first only visible when she frowns. And then, lines on either side of her mouth, a vestige of her laugh. She’d complain of a chill and her joints would ache if she sat on soil for too long to tend to the bush of roses she’d grown partial to.

“It’s lonely, you know, to live as long as I have.”

It’s late winter again. Nitya is cold, so she insisted on draping both of them with a shawl while they stare out at the garden, admiring how the moon paints every surface it can reach silver.

“I can only imagine.” Nitya keeps her voice low. She’s always quiet at night, not wanting to disturb the flowers. She would always say they’ve felt alive in a way that went beyond simple grasses, ferns, and shrubs. She claimed they breathed the way that she does, moved the way that she does. And at first, she paid it no mind. But then, her gaze would linger on the fluttering petals even when Pallavi insisted it was just a breeze passing by.

“What if you didn’t have to imagine?” An offer to her Nitya, who has always been so kind. What if I didn’t have to be alone?

“What do you mean?”

“What if you stayed here with me?” Pallavi smiles, century-seasoned to keep her voice even. “Just you and me, in our garden.”

“Stay with you…Forever?”

Pallavi cups Nitya’s cheek delicately, though every muscle fights to clutch her lover’s face instead, to hold onto this moment in time. Because each inhale is another second less that they have together.

She brushes her thumb next to the corner of Nitya’s eye where fine lines are starting to appear too. No, that wouldn’t do at all. “You wouldn’t age. You wouldn’t grow ill. You wouldn’t have to worry about a single thing. You could stay with me, just like this.”

“Just like this…?” Nitya tilts her head to the side, her words even slower than her movements, like they’ve been caught in sap.

Pallavi’s smile grows. She doesn’t have a heart anymore. Maybe she never had one to begin with, a hollow creature from the moment she opened her eyes and found a bright blue sky, everpresent yet just out of reach. If she did have a heart, would the even rhythm quicken? Would it skip a beat?

Nitya leans into her touch, her cheek softer than a poppy petal.

Yes—just like this, free from constraints of time and the world around them.

After all, only Pallavi could see her lovers when the rest of society cast them away. Only she treasured their beauty where everyone else found faults. Only she could provide peace in chaos, freedom in subjugation, happiness in a sorrow-filled world. Only she could grant eternity.

Wouldn’t Nitya love that? Why spend hours, days, years of her life here if she didn’t want to stay? Together in this garden. There’s no greater gift Pallavi could grant.

“Darling, close your eyes for me, won’t you?”

Pallavi doesn’t like her lovers seeing her like this, after all.

It’s rather unsightly: the way her jaw unhinges with a wet pop and a second, then third row of jagged teeth burst through her gums. Her dark eyes fade to pale, the warmth they once held hardening into something cold, sharper than the spikes of thistles and barberries.

Some of her lovers cry; perhaps the potential of longevity becoming a reality surprises them.

Some of her lovers scream; perhaps in shock that a beauty such as Pallavi could conceal a side like this.

Some of them lose control of their bodily senses, fluids leaking from between trembling legs.

Some of them think they’ll change their minds, and think it better to run. But Pallavi does not take the curation of her garden lightly. They rarely get far.

She tastes Nitya’s rose lips first.

It takes exactly seven days for a seed to form in the pit of Pallavi’s stomach.

She knows when she lurches out of bed, overcome with the urge to vomit. Sweat beads at her temples, and there’s a tiredness deep in her bones that weighs her down, begging her to stay in place—but she mustn’t. Over seven days, her stomach has swollen to three times its normal size, her skin stretching to accommodate. Another wave of nausea crashes into her. She’s ready now.

Even with staggered steps and ragged breaths, she carries herself up the flight of stairs with as much poise as she can muster. It’s unusually cold for a spring morning; winter doesn’t want to leave just yet. Crisp air seeps into the house through the cracks in the windows and gaps in the doors, but Pallavi doesn’t feel it.

The nursery is barren for the most part. It’s the most important and the least used room in this little house at the edge of the garden. Hand-crafted flower pots line the walls, no two like the other. Most were sculpted by Pallavi’s practiced hands, but a few were molded by Nitya, uneven and charming.

Pallavi settles on the hard floor in the center of the room. She’s used to it. She’s done this time and time again for hundreds of years. But it’s her least favorite part.

She lets her jaw fall open until her chin bumps against her swollen belly, copper hitting her tongue as rows of teeth emerge in her mouth. Alone in her home, she lifts a willowy hand and reaches into her mouth—past her teeth, knuckles rubbing against her palate. She doesn’t gag anymore when her hand plunges down her throat. Her esophagus pulses around her wrist, but it doesn’t resist the intrusion.

The inside of her stomach is hot, juices sloshing as she gropes around, searching, searching, searching, until—there. A seed, tiny and smooth between her fingers.

Tears spring to her eyes. All of Nitya’s love, her youth, preserved in this little seed, left behind for Pallavi to nurture until the end of time.

She retches and yanks her arm out, falling back onto the floor with the force of it. Goosebumps rise to her skin where cool air meets the mess of liquids on her arm.

“Oh, pretty darling.” Pallavi cradles the seed in her palm and brings it close to her chest. “I wonder what you’ll be.”

R. S. Thakur (they/them) is a queer South Asian-American writer based in New Jersey.

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Read the full Pressed Petals Collection in this flipbook or use the links below for individual pieces.

R. S. Thakur

Read their Pressed Petals Short Story here, Crocus here.

R.S. Thakur (they/them) is a queer South Asian-American writer based in New Jersey.

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Abraham Aondoana

Read his Pressed Petals poetry collection, Midnight Flowers in Electric Cities, here.

Abraham Aondoana is a writer, poet and novelist. He is a recipient of Idembeka Creative Writing Workshop 2026. Follow his work on Instagram.

Aneeka

Read her Pressed Petals poem, ctrl, here.

Aneekah is a writer/performer looking for the truth. If you find it, do let her know.

Juanita Rey

Read her Pressed Petals poem, SUFFER IN MY SILENCE, here.

Juanita Rey is a Dominican poet, US resident. Her work has been published in Mixed Mag, The Mantle, The Lincoln Review, Lion and Lilac amongst others.

K. H. Shaan

Read their Pressed Petals short story, fragmentation, here.

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Read It Here

Pressed Petals grew from...The delicate moments we press into permanence…

Hi everyone! I hope this reaches you at the right time ✨🌙

I’m Nain, editor of Raat Ki Rani Magazine, and I am beyond excited to share Issue #1 Pressed Petals with you. Below are the rollout dates for the short stories, poetry, and short film.

For those who don’t know, Raat Ki Rani carries two meanings. The first is “Queen of the Night,” a nickname my parents gave me for my night-owl tendencies. The second is a night-blooming jasmine.

Its scent holds so many childhood memories for me, and a flower that blooms quietly in the dark feels like a fitting metaphor for this magazine…

Memory becomes our only souvenir

Pressed Petals grew from an interest in the things we choose to keep. The delicate moments we press into permanence. There’s something about a pressed flower. How it captures both the ending and the everlasting.

The things that proved beautiful even when no one was watching. A way of saying: this mattered. This was lovely. Let it stay. Memory becomes our only souvenir.

My best writing happens at night, but Raat Ki Rani is for everyone. Early birds, night owls, and siesta scribes alike are always welcome here.

Thank you endlessly to our writers, readers, and subscribers for supporting this passion project. This magazine exists because of you!

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Pressed Petals, Issue #1 Rollout

July, 6th - Crocus, A Short Story by R. S. Thakur

July 13th - Midnight Flowers in Electric Cities, a Poetry Collection by Abraham Aondoana

July, 20th - SUFFER IN MY SILENCE by Juanita Rey

July 27th - ctrl by Aneeka

August 3rd - fragmentation, a Short Story by K. H. Shaan

August 10th - Songs from our Room

Warmly,

Nain F. Ladak,

Founder & Editor, Raat Ki Rani Magazine

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Insiya Abbas

Read her Midnight Confessions Poetry Collection, Among the Hopeful Beggars here.

Insiya Abbas is a New Jersey–based writer, avid daydreamer and is currently completing her Master’s degree in Clinical and Counseling Psychology. Her poetry has been performed at local open mics and the New Jersey District Tournament for Speech and Debate. Abbas' work explores emotional truth and falsehoods and the intersection between identity, healing, and imagination. You can find her writing on Medium and Substack at bbas.

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Aisha Ommaya

Read her Midnight Confessions Personal Essay, Feeling lost? Good, me too. here.

Aisha Ommaya hosts The Unemployment Diaries, a podcast exploring what happens “when the work isn’t working.” After nearly 15 years in corporate communications, she shifted her focus to chronicling stories of navigating change, reinvention, and the search for what comes next. Keep up with Ommaya on Substack.

R. Rizvi

Read her Midnight Confessions Poem, We Were Actors here.

R. Rizvi is an aspiring freelance writer and award-winning poet. She was a finalist in the New York Times 2017 Found Poetry contest and competed nationally in the 2018 Muslim Interscholastic Student Tournament for spoken word. When she is not writing, she can be found listening to jazz, reading, and making matcha.

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A Thousand Stories, And I’m Listening

People were drawn to our booth like moths to moonlight, their eyes lighting up with recognition.

“Raat Ki Rani…” I watched people pause as they read the name, their lips forming the syllables like a half-remembered lullaby. The night-blooming jasmine. That flower that saves its sweetest perfume for the darkness, when the world slows down and dreamers emerge.

It’s also the nickname my family gave me as a child, whispered with gentle exasperation as they found me awake long past bedtime, lost in my own universe.

“Where can I submit?” they’d ask eagerly, or “My sister would love this!”

Submit to Raat Ki Rani Magazine

In those moments, I felt the invisible threads connecting all of us Raat Ki Rani’s, story collectors, keepers of dreams.

Between Pages You’ll Find, Not a Bookmark, But a Flower

We gave away pressed flower stickers and Raat Ki Rani stickers that people could carry into their own stories.

There’s something deeply nostalgic about pressed flowers, isn’t there? Little pieces of time, preserved and beautiful, just like the stories we hold close.

Both designs have found their way into our Raat Ki Rani merch collection, waiting to be adopted.

The Universe Has a Sense of Humor

But the true magic of the day? Our tote bag giveaway.

We invited Rania Rizvi, one of our poets, to pull the first winner’s name. Her hand reached in, fate held its breath, and then…

Rania pulled out her own name!

The room dissolved into laughter and disbelief. The kind of moment that feels like the universe winking at you. I couldn’t help but think about how a tote, born from a poet’s vision, ended up in poets’ hands.

You’re Invited

If you haven’t yet wandered through the gardens of our Issue #0, I invite you to lose yourself in them

Submissions for Issue #1: Pressed Petals close 2/15. If you’ve ever pressed a moment between pages and hoped it would last, we want to hear from you.

Thank you to every soul who stopped by, paused, who asked questions, and who saw themselves reflected in this little corner of creation.

Submit to Raat Ki Rani Magazine

You reminded me why we do this.

Why we gather petals and press them between pages, why we stay up too late chasing the perfect words, why we dream at night.

Here’s to more gardens grown in the dark, more stories shared under stars, more beautiful coincidences that feel like fate. 🌸🌙

With all my heart,

Nain F. Ladak

Founder & Editor, Raat Ki Rani Magazine

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In my imagination
there is no key I know of
under your doormat,
no white sheets we hang together
on the dry line.  
The veil never meets my scalp,
vows fail to form at our lips; 
death need not do us part.

Instead, we are actors
performing what real lovers do:
hands grazing, eyes locked,
sitting shoulder to shoulder 
on the shaky wooden stools 
in a Manhattan sports bar. 
Tuesdays is our ritual: 
we rendez-vous  
on the green benches
in Washington Square Park. 
You, my confidante,
I, your vault.

But when the curtains close
and the lights come back on
we step out of our costumes
and go our separate ways.
All the world’s a stage 
and us, merely are the players.
 
After all, I do not know you—
your coffee order 
your mother’s name
the incident from childhood
that left a scar on your right eye; 
I do not feel you in the ways 
drunk poets write of 
and asylum goers describe.
In between us remains 
the infinite chasm 
(between likeness and love) 
drawn by a single thread line. 
 
But in my imagination,
every so often 
we veer off script 
and blur the lines.
All the world’s a stage
but when I step off
you remain on my mind.
After all, I know you—
the shift of your voice when you anger 
what makes you laugh, 
the ways you lie. 

In my imagination
I feel you in the ways 
electricity runs through 
fluorescents screens, 
and the neon signs 
flashing in a taxi cab, 
as if norepinephrine and ambien
were running through my veins
as if we never left the play
and kept pressing rewind.

But when I awaken 
from my foolish day dream 
I face reality’s sobering cruelness: 
Your blonde from a Good Home, 
awaits you in your living room 
adorned in a cotton summer dress.
She cooks like your mother
and reminds you of the seas. 
She loves you like a lover does 
She knows nothing of me.

As the curtains close once more
and we go about our separate days
I think of you as just a stranger; 
perhaps we were always better off that way.

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R. Rizvi is an aspiring freelance writer and award-winning poet. She was a finalist in the New York Times 2017 Found Poetry contest and competed nationally in the 2018 Muslim Interscholastic Student Tournament for spoken word. When she is not writing, she can be found listening to jazz, reading, and making matcha.

On learning to tell your story, from Winnie the Pooh to The Unemployment Diaries.

Not sure what to do with your life? Me neither. Author Robert Greene suggests your childhood “early fascinations” can point you toward the work or niche that might excite you today. The problem for me is that at first glance, mine seem all over the place.

The stories that shape us

First, around age six, I wanted to be a veterinarian. Being around animals all day felt like my chance at a real-life reenactment of Winnie the Pooh. I’d be Christopher Robin, living out my idyllic, forest-dwelling dreams. That is, until I learned that being a vet also meant giving Piglet shots, operating on Eeyore, and, worst of all, sending Pooh to that big honeypot in the sky. Not so idyllic after all.

Later, in fourth grade, my love for animals resurfaced when I discovered Shark Lady — the true story of fearless scientist Eugenie Clark, whose research on shark behavior dismantled the most image-damaging myths about their intelligence. Inspired by her dedication and bravery, I confidently announced to my father that I wanted to be a marine biologist when I grew up. I was a decent swimmer AND and big Free Willy fan. Solid 9-year-old logic.

Well, that is… until I made the mistake of watching Jaws. In one viewing, all of Dr. Clark’s positive PR for those misunderstood toothy fish was undone — courtesy of an animatronic shark, some red food coloring, and two ominous notes. Swim with great whites? Misunderstood or not, that was a hard pass.

I turned my attention to humans in my teens, spending hours writing poems and playing music. At the time, I didn’t see my Shakira obsession or the resulting urge to learn Spanish, play guitar, and dye my hair red as anything more than my current fixation. Side note: If you haven’t seen her MTV Unplugged set, run (don’t walk) to YouTube right now. Or, right after you’re done reading this article.

Looking back at these formative years, it was the stories that captivated me. Living in the forest with my talkative stuffed-animal friends. Becoming a courageous female scientist exploring the depths of the ocean. Stepping into an emotional landscape, experiencing hopes and dreams through music.

I didn’t realize it then, but stories became an anchor in my life.

The stories we tell ourselves

Ever since I can remember, I never felt a strong pull toward any one subject or career path. I always loved writing, and if old home videos are any indication, I was a bit of a chatterbox. The energy was pure “I will entertain you with my looping rendition of Incy Wincy Spider and you will enjoy it.

Words became the only common thread running through my otherwise seemingly unrelated academic and professional ventures. Even before I recognized it as such, I was using phrasing, cadence, tone, and context to change a mood, convey a message, or shift a perspective — whether it was convincing a teacher I deserved an extension on an assignment or mediating a disagreement between colleagues.

But there was still no eureka moment, no “this is it” realization of what I was meant to do with my life. And the older I got, the more that unsettled me.

That unsettled feeling was still with me during the pandemic when I caught up with an old friend. I’d just returned from grad school in the UK and was thinking about next steps. When he asked what I planned to do, I didn’t overthink my answer. “Not totally sure,” I said. “My new degree is in a slightly different field than my previous job, so I guess I’m still figuring it out.”

“Ha. You’re always figuring out what you want to do, aren’t you?” he replied.

The judgement was thinly veiled. He might as well have said: You’ve never known what you want so what are the chances you’ll figure it out now?

I left the conversation doubting not only my own indecisiveness but the friendship itself. I’d like to say I caught myself before spiraling, but the critical inner dialogue came rushing in. It went something like:

He’s right. I’m over 30 with an expensive graduate degree I’m still paying off. I should know what I want to do by now. My dad knew he wanted to be a doctor when he only was 8. Something must be wrong with me. I’m so behind.

The stories we should tell ourselves

I wish I could tell my younger self that passion and purpose aren’t printed on your birth certificate in invisible ink that only some people can read. You can evolve, let go of what no longer serves you, and explore new paths.

What’s wrong with figuring things out as you go, anyways? Think about your favorite stories. Are they the ones with predictable plot lines? Do they have one-dimensional characters incapable of error?

I doubt it.

The best stories have twists and turns. They have complex, and often deeply flawed, characters with imperfect lives who make even less perfect decisions. They also have unexpected endings.

So why do we want to have life all figured out by [insert arbitrarily chosen cut-off age here]? Well, a couple reasons.

First, because it makes us feel safe. From a neuroscience perspective, the brain’s primary job is to keep us alive by maintaining homeostasis (i.e., maintaining our internal balance). Predictable decisions feel good because, evolutionarily, safety means survival.

And safety is great. I love seatbelts. I love knowing where my next meal is coming from. I love staying alive. But I don’t want to live a life wrapped in proverbial bubble wrap. At some point, we need to go beyond the neurochemistry of our survival instincts to optimize for growth, expansion, and ultimately — a good story.

Another reason we crave having it all figured out is that we often glorify conviction in a singular purpose. Movies like October Sky — where a young, small-town Homer Hickam dreams of becoming a rocket scientist after seeing Sputnik and eventually works for NASA — perfectly illustrate how inspiring that narrative can be.

But Good Will Hunting is equally, if not more, inspiring. It’s not about Matt Damon’s character having a lightbulb moment that sends him on a straight path from working as a janitor at MIT in South Boston to a life of dreams. It’s about the chaos of his relationships, emotional roadblocks, and his hesitation to take unknown paths with no guarantee of a happy ending. In fact, the movie isn’t about where he ends up at all. It’s about the very relatable decisions, mistakes, growth, and missed opportunities along the way.

So think of your favorite movie: the journey isn’t filler — it is the story. Without it, there’s nothing worth watching. Mine began in the Hundred Acre Wood, detoured through my parents’ living room for Thanksgiving plays, stopped in London twice for school, and stretched from Islamabad to New York for a career in communications.

I now recognize that communication (in various forms) has been the tool I’ve used to craft stories, including my own story. And that tool took time to perfect. In fact, I’m practicing. Right now. Mid-keystroke.

So maybe I was never lost at all. Maybe I was and still am exactly where I need to be — honing my craft and learning how to tell my story.

And maybe you’re not lost either. Maybe you’re just deep in the twists, detours, and surprises of your own unfolding narrative. So lean in, reflect on the chapters you’ve already written, and keep telling your story as it unfolds.

Trust me, it’s already a good one.

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Aisha Ommaya hosts The Unemployment Diaries, a podcast exploring what happens “when the work isn’t working.” After nearly 15 years in corporate communications, she shifted her focus to chronicling stories of navigating change, reinvention, and the search for what comes next. Keep up with Ommaya on Substack.

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You can view the flipbook for our first issue, Pressed Petals, here.

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Archive:

This morning, we’re sharing the heart of our Spring issue.

The theme is Pressed Petals. Scroll for the moodboard (paid subscribers only)

Pressed Petals grew from an interest in the things we choose to keep. The delicate moments we press into permanence. There’s something about a pressed flower. How it captures both the ending and the everlasting.

Submit to Raat Ki Rani

The things that proved beautiful even when no one was watching.

How it holds the softest colors, the most fragile blooms, the things too precious to let go. A way of saying: this mattered. This was lovely. Let it stay.

Memory becomes our only souvenir.

Below is the moodboard that guides the inspiration behind this issue.

The moodboard is a paid subscriber benefit. Your paid subscription directly supports our writers. 

The emotional and visual world we returned to while shaping it.

Thank you for being close to the process.

Leave a comment

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The Midnight Confessions collection is available to read now:

Among the Hopeful Beggars by Insiya Abbas

Feeling lost? Good, me too: A personal essay by Aisha Ommaya

We Were Actors: A poem by R. Rizvi

Archive:

My confession: I couldn’t wait.

Issue #0 was never supposed to exist, but the sun was setting, the night was young, and I couldn’t wait to get started.

I’m Nain, editor of Raat Ki Rani Magazine, and I am beyond excited to share Issue #0 with you.

For those who don’t know, Raat Ki Rani carries two meanings. The first is “Queen of the Night,” a nickname my parents gave me for my night-owl tendencies. The second is a night-blooming jasmine.

Its scent holds so many childhood memories for me, and a flower that blooms quietly in the dark feels like a fitting metaphor for this magazine—and for this month’s theme, Midnight Confessions.

Thank you endlessly to our writers, readers, and subscribers for supporting this passion project. This magazine exists because of you!

Our first collection of poems is written by Insiya Abbas.

1. no more apologies


set the table at midnight
 
sorry for burnt dinner

I wasn’t paying attention
was I?

caught between
Suns and 
Moons

sorry, 
              sorry

Twice 
because 
it’s not enough

wrong 
horse

scratching
                  the paint

she sees me so clearly

just a little 
                off center

sometimes 
but always 
true

Click to continue reading

Here’s what else is blooming in Issue #0:

1/14 Feeling lost? Good, me too: A personal essay by Aisha Ommaya

1/17 We Were Actors: A poem by R. Rizvi

Pieces bloom throughout the month. Start with what's here, and come back for what's to come 🌙✨

With love,
Nain F. Ladak
Editor, Raat Ki Rani Magazine

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1. no more apologies


set the table at midnight
 
sorry for burnt dinner

I wasn’t paying attention
was I?

caught between
Suns and 
Moons

sorry, 
              sorry

Twice 
because 
it’s not enough

wrong 
horse

scratching
                  the paint

she sees me so clearly

just a little 
                off center

sometimes 
but always 
true

there is no time
for anything else

                but so much time
to change and 
                change again

or 
                stand still.

I can’t always tell
if we should
stop. 
         or keep going

what I 
never 
always 
do is rest.

but we’re
frozen 

or at least I am.

fawn for love

farm from what’s
given to you

this dirt will thaw

and Mother will
                                 bloom again

trains of thought
                                 leave the station

too early
                  too late

I’ll see you in 
tomorrow 
today’s 
Sun

       
                           I love you,
                                                12:01



2. When The Hopeful Hypocrite Dreams of Today


my head hurts
                             and I’ve wasted
  		                                            another day
Time 
             I can’t crawl back to

my ship sails,
    	                   forward,
                     	                   through
but the anchor 
                              drags,

“do as I say”
                        I say
not as I do.

hopeful 
              hypocrite

promising 
Warmth
to the cold

as if I hadn’t 
                        stretched 
                                             these corners
a blanket
that wouldn’t 
grow to be
enough

“I know it is heavy”
                                        I say 
“I know how dark,
                                     how cold 
                                                       it can get.”

and it can always get
Colder

Fear grips at me
                               just as I witness its latching

get away from them!
			                   I say

But sometimes it’s not enough

this active healing
that takes place
                                  it’s a scary thing, don’t you understand?
Of course, I do.
 
                                  do you think apologies are enough?
Of course, I don’t.

even-toned placations

Little one, 
I wonder what it would be like to
                                                                meet you now
Worried and worried
Wondering if tomorrow would be easier

then easy comes
I promise it does

but first, we must sail
                                           through treacherous waters 
                                                                                                 of the beaten spirit

I will be our captain, 
help me sail for 
                              fortunately, 
         
                                                      my destiny is hope.



3. just wait for dawn


in the middle
                           of the night
I collect

My sticks
My stones

and the bark of the tree
that fell
                  no sound
                  no witness

except the bird that 
                                      fluttered away,

losing her children
in the heavy 
thump 

of her home

I walk
             and walk

with a nest 
in my arms

I gather,
sobbing, 
                  heaving 

the emptiness
inside of me

mourning for more than my pain

finally, 
Warmth
                  beside me

somehow,
in the dead of the night

I had forgotten

the sun would
                              rise again

We wouldn’t be 
                              alone anymore

lay down these burdens

I welcome the 
End 
        and the Beginning

Mother comes back
                                         tittering along
a quiet murmuring
                                    a soulful grievance

there is no consolation
except to ask

if you can let 
                          the light
	                  the warmth
                                                 touch your wings

knowing it never
                                 got to touch
                                                        your heartstrings

can we lay down
in the soil
                    and let
Mother 
take us back?

can we wait
                        for dawn?

can I wait 
                        with you?

I have all of the time 
                                       in the world.

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Insiya Abbas is a New Jersey–based writer, avid daydreamer and is currently completing her Master’s degree in Clinical and Counseling Psychology. Her poetry has been performed at local open mics and the New Jersey District Tournament for Speech and Debate. Abbas' work explores emotional truth and falsehoods and the intersection between identity, healing, and imagination. You can find her writing on Medium and Substack at @insiyabbas.

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