The Bandit Queens

by Parini Shroff

But little was monochromatic in marriage and even in abuse, because there were other parts, too, parts she’d loved, parts that, when she wasn’t vigilant, still drew drops of unwilling tenderness from her.

She had, Geeta noticed, a rather uncharming habit of finding amusement in everything, even premeditated murder.

Sure, she had a few wrinkles congregating near her eyes, didn’t everyone who’d wasted their youth smiling?

Years later, Geeta knew that she hadn’t joined the chant out of any acute hate, but neither had she possessed enough compassion to abstain.

“Why aren’t we ever the oppressing assholes? Why is everything a reaction for us?”

The amount of bullshit that fell from that fucker’s mouth could fertilize half of India.

“We’re happy to be accessories. Like jewelry, but way more dangerous,”

For me, fiction is when research meets compassion; I believe this is often why facts don’t change people’s minds, but stories do.