The Bandit Queens

by Parini Shroff

Advice was a cousin of caring; apathy was Geeta’s mantra.

It had been so long, she’d grown too accustomed to stooping under the burden of solitude. The relief was immediate. She felt taller, as though seeing the world from a greater height.

Geeta burned, but no one else joined the laughter. Saloni said with a frown, “We went to Karembhai and have gifts. Lo!” “What’s the need?” Saurabh said to his wife as

Her mother hadn’t shown malice, hadn’t abused anyone, but by following the rules, she’d accepted them, taught Geeta the same. But now, all the shibboleths that Geeta had been conditioned to regard as level were revealing themselves to be crooked.

Their ranges, as women, were extreme. Men gravitated toward one side or the other and remained; Ramesh certainly had. Women splayed the far corners, their cruelty and kindness equally capacious.

She wanted Khushi’s approval with the same eager desperation that likely hindered it. Knowledge of this, however, did not equal the power to alter or mask her thirst.

If Phoolan Devi didn’t feel regret for her crimes, perhaps it was because, to her, they weren’t crimes at all, simply justice.

The stories we tell ourselves, Geeta realized, empty pail clanging, the stories we tell each other, are dangerous.

Questioned masculinity, she’d learned, was a dangerous gauntlet. And the resulting destruction was usually borne by her kind, not theirs.

She’d expended so much energy vying for a broken seat at an uneven table. Fuck it, she’d make her own damn table.