“But what about the other 50 percent?” a pretty blond feminist called out, right on cue. “Good question, Pipi.” Sunny replied. Was I the only one not given a name tag? He flashed an irresistible smile, and promptly led the way to the women’s workplaces set up by Slum Power—embroidery shops, children’s nurseries, bakeries, and the like, as well as self-improvement programs ranging from basic literacy to computer literacy, women’s healthcare and hygiene, and yes, even family planning, or more to the point, sex education. Slum Power had fought a mighty battle against the prevailing conservative mindset to get that sex-ed class up and running, Sunny told us, but the need was undeniable. The last stop on our tour would be a rare glimpse of the fruits of Slum Power’s progressive victory in one of the most reactionary communities of all, though in deference to the sensitivity of the subject and the modesty of the young ladies, it would be only a very brief stop, yet even so, highly informative. Yes! One of the kids leading the way pumped his fist. Even better than the shit lake.

It was on the fringe of the basti, in what you had called the Muslim ghetto. We clustered in the doorway of the classroom, not quite entering, the women of our group in front and the men and boys screened behind us, craning their necks for a view over our heads. It was a traditional schoolroom setup—rows of student desks, blackboard, the teacher’s desk in front facing the class and us. The students ranged in age from approximately nine to somewhere in their midteens, according to Sunny, the prime age for marriage, every head covered in a hijab. You sat at the teacher’s desk, your face veiled in a niqab, only your eyes were visible. Spread out on the surface in front of you were packets of Nirodhs and a bunch of bananas. One of the Nirodhs had already been unrolled in a demonstration on a banana. In a Skype audio conversation we had had over the past year, one in which you had been a bit less guarded, you mentioned that the sex-ed instructor in your fancy girls school in Washington, DC, had also used bananas to demonstrate protection with a selection of pleasure-enhancement condoms—flavored, fluorescent, ribbed, and so on—to enlighten you at the same time on the joy of sex. Recalling this you had laughed so girlishly, it had been so sweet to hear your laugh. But the condoms you were demonstrating for your students were just ordinary, no-frills Nirodhs. “Condoms are permissible in special situations after marriage,” you said, “such as during jihad, to prevent the birth of orphans. For even then, the excess energy of the faithful must find release in order to carry on the work of the shahid.”