The boys stood in a straight line facing her. She held the note she had received from their school and shook it in front of their faces.
“What is this?” she demanded.
Mahroof stared back at her defiantly. The swagger and confidence with which he carried himself, belied his fifteen years of age. He was a handsome boy, with light brown eyes, slick black hair and broad shoulders. She knew about the girls he chased, the constant pranks he played and the violent arguments he had with his elder siblings. But he got back stellar reports from school and for the most part stayed out of any serious trouble. He could be stubborn and hot headed, but those were traits that ran through the family. She turned to Imtiaz, her youngest boy, who looked scared and nervous and fidgeted nervously with some marbles in his pocket. Standing next to him was Saif, the happiest and most extroverted of her children, who had had a profound change in his behavior since moving to Bombay. His grades had plummeted, his confidence had wavered and she couldn’t remember the last time she had seem him smile. Always the center of attention in Murud, he was lost in the big city. It seemed he had decided that acting out in the most outlandish manner was the only way to get himself noticed.
Anjuman-e-Islam, located in the heart of Bombay, a stone’s throw away from Flora Fountain was one of the most prestigious Muslim run schools in the city. As English became the language of government and business, most of the affluent families started sending their children to institutes run by Christian missionaries and convents. The quality of education in the vernacular schools began to deteriorate as teachers left for the higher salaries of the better funded convents. Discipline problems and truancy were rampant among the students, who largely came from poor and uneducated families. Bullying, stealing and school yard fights became the norm. After some initial hazing, the Peshimam boys realized that the only way to survive in this chaotic environment was to band together as a group and make a statement. The bathroom doors were already covered with all kinds of vulgar graffiti, kids smoking in the alleys around the school and harassing girls was common and locking the doors of the teachers’ staff room was something students in the lower grades did. They needed something bolder.
Zaki Alam, an Aligarh Muslim University alumnus, was a proud man. Having graduated with a masters in Applied Mathematics, he had been a math teacher for as long as he could remember. A strict disciplinarian, he conducted his classes with a zero tolerance policy. A student who misbehaved was summoned to the front, asked to bend over and got whipped with a cane. No questions asked, no options offered. Even the toughest kids, sat quietly and obediently in his class. Alam Sir, was not to be messed with, was the clear message, and it was heard loud and clear by the entire school. Having seniority, he no longer had to share space in the cramped staffroom with the other teachers, but had a rather large office of his own. He kept his office clean and organized: a mahogany table occupied the center with stacks of paper on one side, textbooks on the other and a few pens in the middle next to a pair of ink bottles, one blue, one black. Bookcases installed along the walls, went all the way up to the ceiling. A wooden ladder to reach the upper shelves was tucked in a corner. Four folding chairs were laid out in front of the table and a weathered leather chair tucked behind it. The office had a large window that gave him a splendid view of the school grounds lined with tall Ashoka and Eucalyptus trees. To keep the dust and noise out though, he always kept it shut.
As he entered his office one Monday morning, seeing the window open was the first sign that something was amiss. He looked on in shock to see books and papers strewn all over. One of the ink bottles had been tipped over spilling a pool of ink on his desk. The chairs were knocked over and a foul odor permeated through the room. As he got closer to the table he found a note with the words “A gift from Murud!” scribbled on it. There were a few black balls the size of marbles laid out on the note. A few more were lying on the floor in clumps. He noticed a rope tied to his leather chair that disappeared under the table. He leaned over.The frightened little goat on seeing Alam let out a loud bleat, and Alam in turn, not expecting this encounter, took a few hurried steps back, tripped over some books and fell right through the open window shrieking hysterically like someone who had just seen a ghost.
For the first few minutes she nodded her head in agreement as the principal spoke of the importance of rules and need for discipline and expectations of respect that were required from the children attending the school. But as the diatribe continued with the principal and the other bearded men in the room lecturing her about controlling her children and teaching them proper values, she started getting defensive. Alam, in particular, with his arm in a sling and a bandage across his forehead was vociferously attacking not just the behavior of the children but questioning their upbringing and accusing her of cultivating an un-Islamic environment at home. However the last straw was when he looked at the embroidered sari she was wearing and shook his head in disapproval, obviously implying how an honorable muslim woman could leave home without wearing a burkha. She knew her children. She knew how to discipline them. She read the Quran daily. She understood the Prophet’s message. She was done being judged by pompous, self righteous men.
She looked up at him coldly, “It wasn’t my children.”
“What do you mean?” Alam exclaimed.
“It wasn’t them, they were set up” she replied, slowly gaining her composure.
“What? It was obviously them. The note clearly said it was them.” Alam was furious.
“Did you see them do it ?” she asked.
The other men in the room, taken aback, stared at her in shocked silence. The principal, acknowledging the possibility and seizing the rare opportunity to undermine the arrogant Alam, stroked his beard and said, “I guess, we can’t rule it out now, can we?”
Alam, threw his hands up in the air, and with glaring eyes shouted out, ”Surely, you can’t believe this woman. She is lying. Why are we even talking to her. Where is the father?”