Moonlight poured in through the broken doors of the empty classrooms. Champa arrived at the madrasa to find extremists had vandalized their premises, torn down book shelves, destroyed a map of Persia, stomped on their flower beds and killed their geese.
‘Again?’ she asked Guru Ma, choking on tears. ‘Is this about the dance classes?’
‘They were upset. Their meeting with the Subedar went poorly this morning,’ explained Guru Ma, trying to restore order to the ransacked room.
‘Am I wrong, Guru Ma, to teach the girls to dance?’
‘There are as many paths to God as there are people in this world,’ said Guru Ma. ‘They are fighting for power. The ulema want to control our thoughts so they can control our resources.’
‘What’s the solution?’
‘Dialogue, love, prayer,’ said the headmistress.
‘Can we really fight violence with love?’ asked Champa.
‘No but we can fight power with knowledge. The pen is mightier than the sword.’
Champa hugged Guru Ma. The woman who had been her pillar of strength looked fatigued and despondent. Champa couldn’t help but feel guilty. Her own father was involved in these heinous acts of vandalism. The mullahs were bigoted and violent, a dangerous combination. She wished she could summon the djinn to frighten them off.