You sit in the vacant library and stare blankly at the script in front of you, it is merely a swirl of ink. You think it is devnagari, you blink, it is now gurmukhi, you blink again, and the void stares back at you. You have made a grave mistake, you hurry out of the library hoping the gods do not notice you today.
You stare at the syllable in front of you, it is an aspirated consonant, your throat catches pronouncing it. They find you dead in the morning, your death caused by the evasive retroflex aspirated re, they do not know you have ascended to nasal retroflexes now.
A girl in front of you murmurs in hindi, no– it is oriya, she switches mid-sentence to rajisthani. Her head move 360 degrees around to face you. Her eyes are red. The gods have sent for you. You hope the retribution will be swift.
A European language learner talks to how about how interesting the grammar of his target language is, you smile, remembering simpler times. Now, there is only asspirated consonants. There have always been asspirated consonants.
Your eyes glaze over your grammar book, your lips dry. You do not know what the oblique case is. You do not know what language you are studying. You see tones, perhaps it is Punjabi. You look up the oblique case in Punjabi. There has never been an oblique case in Punjabi. Punjabi does not exist. The land of Punjab is a myth by the government.
Your white classmate asks you how the learning Hindu is going. You fall down and beg the gods forgiveness for his crime. They do not listen. You look up and see ash where he once stood. None shall blight the gods like this.