Excerpt from Moth by Melody Razak, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"I am, aren't I?" he said, looking down at himself and laughing. "Too much colour terrifies me."

Alma looks at her sister now, says in a gravelly voice, her plait held across her top lip, "I am a fierce Pathan warrior. Come down from the tallest mountains to save your humble people. See how fine my mustachios are?"

"Are you a Pathan from Kashmir?" says Roop, forgetting the whys of the Sunday dress.

Ma is from Kashmir. That means that they too are half from Kashmir. Although they have never been there, they have heard Ma talk about it. When Ma talks about Kashmir, her pale blue eyes steam as though someone has reached into her face and lit a match behind the irises.

Alma shakes her head, says in the same gravelly voice, "I am a Pathan from the Afghan mountains. I have come to put an end to the fighting in Bengal and Punjab. East and West."

"How will you do that?"

"Jadoo. I will put a spell on the nation, bring the misplaced people to their senses."

"Mis-pl-aced?" says Roop.

"Lost-absent-gone astray."

"Where have they gone?"

"They haven't gone anywhere," Alma concedes, "not yet, but they have lost all their good sense. That's what Bappu said."

"What religion are you?"

"Irrelevant," says Alma with a hand held up in protest.

"Pathans are actually Muslim, which means you can't be one. Fatima Begum's great uncle was a Pathan. She told me herself."

"Pathans are Muslim. It's true," admits Alma, "but a real warrior is brave no matter what. It's the bravery that counts not the colour of the god.

Gandhi-ji says so and so does Bappu. Independence from the British will bring freedom, and with freedom comes equality. Pandit Nehru said it on the radio. I heard him."

Alma touches her heart when she says the Mahatma's name. She tries to imagine the biological diagram of the oval-shaped organ, and the muscles clenched around it. She can't believe her heart would look like that or that it would be there, when it feels like it might be in her brain, her stomach, or even in her throat.

"Equa-li-ty," says Roop, touching her heart in imitation of Alma. "Equality like Kwality?"

"Kwality. Purveyors of Modern Confectionery. Sweet Making for a Free India," says Alma in her best radio announcer's voice. "No. Not like that at all."

"What then?"

"It's very modern. It means that in essence, in our hearts, we are all the same."

"But some are better than others. Does Daadee Ma know about equa-li-ty?"

"No, and you better not tell her. She won't like it. Promise me—cross your heart, hope to die, stick a needle in your eye—and then I'll give you a story."

"I promise," says Roop, making the sign of the cross as she has seen the sisters do. "Tell me the one about the man who was tied to the tramlines. That's my favourite."

"Lie down next to me then. Put your head on the pillow," Alma lowers her voice. "During the riots in August last year ..."

"Direct Action Day," says Roop promptly and sits up. "When the Muslims killed the Hindus. They burnt them alive, didn't they?"

Alma nods solemnly and pushes her back down. "Yes, but the Hindus did exactly the same in return. Lie down, I said."

"Co-py-cat kill-ings. I heard Ma say so. That's what Bappu said, and then Ma said, 'Does fasting count if you kill a man whilst you are doing it?' Because it was Ramadan. That's why."

"Do you want the story or not?"

Roop sucks on her thumb and nods.

"Hush then. In the city of Calcutta, in the East of India, in the middle of all that rioting—"

"And looting, there was looting too."

"Shh. A man was tied to the connector box of the tramlines—"

"Because in Calcutta they have trams, don't they?"

Alma nods. "This man had a small hole drilled right into his skull and he was left to bleed to death, drip by drip."

Excerpted from Moth by Melody Razak. Copyright © 2022 by Melody Razak. Excerpted by permission of Harper. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.