The three stepped into the room and they knew what they had to do. It was obvious. One after the other, they climbed the pulpit. They sat, they did not stand up. They did not need paper or book. The words were in them, memorised and often practised. Each one recited as much as she could recite. If she made a mistake, the others corrected her; if she stumbled, they nudged her memory. Each one of them had her own way of remembering. Moni kept her eyes shut. Salma looked down as if she could see the pages in her hands. Iman recited in a melodious way, unhurried and rhythmic, less of a reading than a chant. Between them, they managed whole suras and hundreds of verses. They did what they could, and they did better than they ever thought they would be able to. The walls heard them, the building heard them, the grounds too had been waiting to hear them. They were adding to what was already there, supplementing what had already been granted. There was nothing radical in what they were doing, nothing contrary. It was a continuation. A flow meandering but not changing direction, because the direction had always been the same. The paths might be infinite, but the destination one.

When they finished, it was time to go home, but the door of the refectory would not open for Salma. Iman tried the window and it would not budge. They were stuck without the Hoopoe to ask for advice. They had come this far and now here was another obstacle. They were locked in.

They conferred and even shouted for help. Moni rattled the door, Salma banged on the window. It was no use. But suddenly when Iman turned the handle of the door, it opened. They rushed to get out, but it closed again. Only Iman could open it, only Iman was allowed to pass through.

‘I will not leave you,’ she said to the other two. ‘We came together, we leave together.’

‘No,’ said Salma. ‘Go and our turn will come.’

Moni hugged Iman goodbye. She could do that now, the tenderness in her, the spontaneous gestures of affection coming out.

The door closed behind Iman and the others paced the room in silence. When Moni tried the window, it opened for her. She understood straight away that she would have to leave alone. She would not be able to take Salma through with her. It was futile to protest. All she could do was hug her friend and then climb out with a joke, ‘I would never have imagined being able to do this.’

Salma was alone. She tried the door, she tried the window, but neither were to be her exits. Was she the one destined to stay here on her own?