Page 7

Malala sits upright on a hard stone bench, the rough texture of it scratching through the light fabric of Prahlāda’s robes. Hours seem to have passed since the failed execution, and now she is confined in a torch-lit antechamber of the demon king’s palace. The air is thick with acrid smoke from the torches and the lingering scent of sulfur. In front of her loom Prahlāda’s stern instructors, Ṣaṇḍa and Amarka, their arms folded and faces twisted with frustration. “Ungrateful boy!” one snarls, pacing before Prahlāda’s small form. “How dare you defy your father and us, your teachers? Who has filled your head with this poison of Vishnu-bhakti?”

Malala remains silent, her hands resting calmly in her lap. Inside, her nerves are taut. The adrenaline of the earlier attack still hummed in her veins. She again summons Prahlāda’s innate poise to the forefront. She remembers how this boy stayed composed even under threats. I must do the same, she tells herself.

The other teacher, Amarka, leans down, bringing his grotesque, tusked face level with Malala’s. “Listen here, Prahlāda,” he hisses through fangs, “you will abandon these crazy ideas. We will make you abandon them.”

He lists the punishments awaiting if the child does not comply: solitary confinement in the dark for days, incantations to “cure” his madness, even potions brewed by dark sorcery… All meant to break his will. Malala’s stomach tightens at each suggestion of torment, but outwardly she keeps Prahlāda’s tranquil expression. She recalls nights in her own life when militants’ threats rang out on the radio; how her father would respond with dignified resolve. Channeling that same resilience, Malala meets Amarka’s glowing eyes steadily. “I understand, Teacher,” she replies softly. “You want what you think is best for me.”

Her gentle, fearless tone unsettles the two demons. They expected crying or pleas for mercy, but Prahlāda’s body, guided by Malala’s compassionate spirit, offered only calm respect. This disarms them momentarily. Ṣaṇḍa’s clawed hand, which had been raised as if to strike, now falters in mid-air.

Their threats escalate, words growing more desperate. “If you continue praising Viṣṇu, we will have no choice but to punish you in ways you cannot imagine!” Ṣaṇḍa barks.

Malala can sense the teachers’ fear behind their anger. She sees fear of Hiraṇyakaśipu’s wrath and perhaps fear of the divine power that protected Prahlāda. She almost pities them. Keeping her voice even, she responds, “I will try to be a good student. But I cannot say anything against the Lord… it would be like denying the truth in my heart.”

Her statement is simple, without bravado, yet firm. The teachers’ faces flush a deep maroon. They threaten to report his obstinance directly to the king again.

At that, Malala offers a slight nod. “You must do what you feel is right,” she says, surprising herself with the serenity of the words.

Inside, Malala marvels at the equanimity coursing through her; it’s as if Prahlāda’s soul has lent her its shield of faith. The demon instructors are at a loss. Their many fearsome warnings and lectures have not drawn a single tear or plea from this child. In fact, Prahlāda sits as peacefully as a young sage, eyes downcast and lips gently moving. Malala is quietly chanting Om namo Nārāyaṇāya, offering each worry up to the divine. The teachers exchange defeated glances.

“Stay here and reflect on your disobedience,” Amarka snaps, his voice weaker than before. With a swish of their black robes, the two depart, locking the heavy wooden door behind them.

As their footsteps fade, Malala exhales a shaky breath she had been holding. In the sudden solitude, her composure quivers; tears that she suppressed now prick at her eyes. Everything that has happened crashes over her in a wave. She was nearly killed, miraculously saved, and threatened by monstrous teachers. But she forces herself not to collapse. Instead, Malala slowly slides off the bench and kneels on the stone floor. The quiet cell offers a brief sanctuary. She bows her head and prays in earnest, merging her own Islamic faith with Prahlāda’s Hindu devotion in a heartfelt plea: “O God, give me and Prahlāda strength.”

Hot tears land on the dusty floor by her knees, and she lets them fall. They are not tears of despair, but of release. When she rises again, her mind is clear. In the corner of the cell lies a small piece of charcoal from a burnt-out torch. Malala picks it up, its surface staining Prahlāda’s fingertips black. On the inner side of the wooden door, at child’s height, she writes in a language that her body remembers, as if opening a diary, “Today I was afraid, but I stayed true. I am here. –Malala”

The act of writing her name feels grounding. A promise that she was here and that her voice mattered. As she finishes the last letter, the charcoal nub crumbles. Malala steps back and quietly blows on the inscription, drying the soot. In the silence, a faint chant echoes through the stone wall… Perhaps temple prayers or simply her imagination. She places her hand over the letters she’s left, almost as a signature of her soul. Malala closes her eyes, leans her head back against the cold wall, and releases a long, steady breath.