Could that really be true? But now was not the time to fact-check the past, you were in immediate existential crisis. I reminded her of how impressionable you were, how sensitive. I was practically weeping. I told her that you were under the influence of a Muslim fanatic; granted he was cute, terrorists can be super cute and super sexy, you were in love and therefore irrational. Had she been with me today and seen you in that classroom, she would have gotten the picture. You were talking about shahids, jihad, surrender, your face was covered with some kind of schmatte, all you needed was a pair of dark sunglasses, and not one inch of skin would have been visible, like wearing a burqa. I felt I was suffocating when I saw you in that classroom, I told Charlotte. I had to get out of there, I simply could not breathe.

“Ah, burqas,” Charlotte mused. “I consider them the ultimate feminist fashion statement. It’s like walking around in a room of your own.” She had just hired a team to design and market variations on the burqa for the contemporary woman. Perfect for when you’re feeling a little fat, or your face breaks out in zits, the burqa could become the mumu of the new millennium.

“Meena darling, relax. I do believe you are overreacting.” Charlotte was focusing; she was making an effort. “Maybe Maya’s going through a minor adolescent romantic Muslim stage, but it will pass. If it makes you feel any better, the variety of Islamic religious experience she’s involved with happens to be really quite liberal and gender-friendly from what I can tell. She’s planning to go tonight with a group of friends to Haji Ali, she told me—you know, the Sufi saint, his tomb? Sufis are the good Muslims, everybody loves the Sufis—right? They’re the Muslim hippies, the mystics, the poets, the cuddly Muslims. I mean, didn’t you ever go through a Rumi phase? Anyway, she was telling me how it’s really so fun to walk to Haji Ali at night during the monsoon singing a malhar raga with the waves crashing against the long concrete causeway leading to the mosque on its little island. But there’s always the possibility of flooding, or high tide and the causeway getting submerged. So she wanted me to tell you when you called that there’s a very good chance she might not be able to get back right away, she might have to stay there overnight or even longer, she doesn’t want you to worry or call the Mumbai lost and found or the cops or the missing persons squad or something. But the real reason they’re going to Haji Ali, you’ll be so proud to hear, is not just for the scenic walk, or for the view of that lovely little white mosque in the middle of the Arabian Sea as if floating detached in mist. No, she and her friends are going for the express purpose of occupying Haji Ali, to protest the recent ban against women entering the inner sanctum of the saint’s tomb. The Dargah trust likes to boast that they’re open to all races, religions and creeds—so hey, what about gender? I am so proud of Maya! She and her pals are not just taking it—no. They’re planning an action, speaking truth to power. They’re going to walk right through the barricade blocking the women and stage a sit-in at the tomb, she told me, which is just so cool—Girls at the Grave. Now doesn’t that make you feel better, Meena?”