Champa walked to the madrasa feeling jubilant, jingling coins in her purse. She couldn’t wait to see Guru Ma’s face light up. She had a new song to teach the girls. She felt light as a kite. As she neared the premise, Champa heard shouting.
The mullahs had returned. ‘Are you dancing in the madrasa?’ she heard one of them yell. Why were they poking their prayer caps in her business?
‘We teach dance, science, philosophy, art,’ she heard Guru Ma reply.
‘Idol-worshipper, your head shall be dancing its way off your body if you do not desist,’ yelled a mullah.
Champa could not believe her ears. This is what the mullahs were shouting about? Her dance class?
‘These books,’ bellowed a mullah, pointing to the library. ‘Will fill their minds with rubbish! You need only the Holy Quran!’
They were condemning books? Words were what separated man from beast. The social experience of reality was possible only because of words. To destroy books was akin to an attack on the collective conscience, a war on knowledge, an impingement on progress. What sort of nation could they be without poets to nurture the expanse of the imagination and philosophers to challenge the borderlines of thought? Champa shuddered.
‘Women must be veiled,’ said a mullah. ‘So they do not tempt men.’
‘Why don’t you wear a patch on your eyes if you find the sight of women so irresistible?’ Guru Ma retorted.
The mullah slapped Guru Ma across the cheek with his sandal. The blow was so forceful it knocked her to the ground. Another mullah followed up with a kick to her stomach. Yet another man grabbed her by a fistful of hair and yanked out a chunk.
Champa pushed through the crowd. ‘Stop!’ she shouted. ‘Stop, you monsters!’
The mullahs turned to face her.
‘Baba, I teach at this school!’ she yelled, addressing the leader.
Alim Al-Ali fidgeted uncomfortably with his walking stick. The mullahs stared at him in undisguised shock, waiting for an explanation.
‘You are leading the girls astray,’ he said, his voice stern and nasal.
‘By educating them?’
‘Women should stay home.’ Alim scowled. A film of sweat gathered on his brow. His kurta was stained with gravy.
‘Will you not discipline your own daughter?’ demanded his associate.
Pressured to take a stand, Alim cleared his throat. ‘What pagan idols do you worship? Have you lost all sense of propriety? I forbid you from teaching here!’
‘Why should I listen to you?’ said Champa.
‘Because I am your father!’ he thundered.
‘So? You abandoned your father!’ she yelled.
Alim looked hurt. ‘I had to leave, Champa. Your Dada was obsessed with his search for Kalinoor. His mission lured him away from the only Black Stone that matters, the Kabaa of Mecca. Kalinoor is a symbol of the flawed human condition: the lust for Duniya! How could I stay with him after that?’
‘You abandoned me too,’ she said softly.
‘You were under his wing. I had no choice. Join me now. I will find you a husband. God is merciful. Renounce this blasphemous sin.’
‘No,’ said Champa.
‘Close your madrasa,’ he urged. ‘Don’t pollute the minds of innocent girls with the dirt of worldly knowledge. The public sphere is a man’s space. I’m only trying to protect you. Women are emotional, easily perturbed, weak of constitution. This is how Allah made us. Accept it.’
‘No!’ shouted Champa. ‘Your boundaries are not for me!’
Alim Al-Ali raised his hand to hit her but she saw it coming. She grabbed his wrist and brought it down with sufficient pressure to cause his eyes to bulge out.
Bewildered, he began to scream. ‘Stop it! Stop it right now!’
Champa stood tall and strong, dishevelled hair, eyes enraged.
A dust tornado blew at the mullahs, knocking off their prayer caps. They shouted, running to catch their caps, rubbing their sand attacked eyes. Suddenly the geese and crows were incensed, flapping their wings, swooping vengeance down upon the mullahs with their beaks. The bearded men scattered, afraid now of Champa. Only Alim held his ground, swatting at the birds with his walking stick.
‘I have learned a lot from Dada,’ said Champa. ‘Should I show you my powers?’
Alim’s eyes were wide with fright. He turned to make a hasty retreat but called over his shoulder, ‘This is not over, Champa. Power corrupts. You have invited the wrath of Allah into your life.’
Champa watched as the billowing robes of the ulema flapped around their skinny ankles as they ran. She allowed a triumphant smile to spread across her face. They would think twice before calling a woman weak again.