Growing up, Kali Yuga was my favorite… Well, once the comics and her publicity got a lot less racist, and my former-hippie mother finally let me read them, then she was my favorite. The so-called “golden” heroes of the Fifties and Sixties that never sold out, never compromised, were on their way out when Amaza and then Kali Yuga appeared. Amaza strived to act in the old style, but never quite met their standards. She was silver to their gold – beautiful, powerful, but able to be tarnished.
Kali Yuga didn’t even try to be golden. She was dark without being grim, full of Eastern mystery and Victorian refinement. Willing to kill if she had to, unlike her predecessors. An avenging spirit out of Hindu myth who affected the visual style of her people’s former conquerors, a postcolonial abduction and perversion of an imperialist fashion sense, fetishizing the sexually repressive garments of a politically repressive nation. Or so her apologists and publicist put it whenever someone expressed outrage about an Indian woman who seemed to have adopted the modes of dress and speech of
Honestly, all that went over my head at the time. To me, she was just interestingly different from the “normal” crop of powered people promoted here in the