Babel

by R.F. Kuang

She turned her gaze on Ramy before he could. ‘And you – Madras? Bombay?’ ‘Calcutta,’ Ramy said pleasantly. ‘My father was stationed in Calcutta,’ she said. ‘Three years, from 1825 to 1828. Could be you saw him around.’ ‘Lovely,’ said Ramy as he slathered jam over his scone. ‘Could be he pointed a gun at my sisters once.’ Robin snorted, but Letty blanched. ‘I’m only saying I’ve met Hindus before—’ ‘I’m Muslim.’ ‘Well, I’m just saying—’ ‘And you know,’ now Ramy was buttering his scone with great vim, ‘it’s very irritating, actually, the way everyone wants to equate India with Hinduism. “Oh, Muslim rule is an aberration, an intrusion; the Mughals just interlopers, but tradition – that’s Sanskrit, that’s the Upanishads.”’ He lifted his scone to his mouth. ‘But you don’t even know what any of those words mean, do you?’

Obsessed