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.

But there were other things Ramesh had taught Geeta, too: how not to interrupt him, how not to oversalt his food, how to correctly apologize in the event she failed at the aforementioned (You’re right, I’m wrong, I’m sorry), how to be slapped and not cry out. How to feed them on half a typical budget because he’d siphon their money to Karem and still demand a proper dinner.

“I didn’t know you two were friends.” “Like sisters,” Geeta said. “That’s why I call her ben.” Saloni’s brow folded like an accordion. “You call every woman ben.” “Not every woman, Saloni.”

Saloni tried to correct him: the groom’s family pays to take the bride, after all, they’re gaining a whole entire person to help the household. The teacher laughed: no, the groom is paid to take the bride because she’s a liability, another mouth to feed. And, naturally, you can’t buy a person, that’s slavery. But, Saloni snapped back, if you sell one, that’s tradition?

Saloni realized back while Geeta was still struggling with basic sums from the third row of their shared school bench, that a head start made all the difference. You could be smart—like her father, like her—and still have no means to get even half a step further in life. You could be smart and still break your back for coins that disappeared directly into your children’s bellies as they scratched their plates.

His fingers were soft against her skin, which rose with goosebumps despite his and the sun’s warmth. “Tell me. Say ‘You’re right, I’m wrong, I’m sorry.’ ” Because they were just words, because it was easier than fighting, because she’d already lost so much that day, she said, “You’re right. I’m wrong. I’m sorry.”

Conditioning, not actual desire, had informed her that she wanted children; and Ramesh—cruel as he’d been about the matter—had at least released her from its constraints.

She identified with the Bandit Queen’s disappointing revelation about marriage: the necklace men tied to them, it was no prettier than the rope tying a goat to a tree, depriving it of freedom.

After greeting his friend, Karem hopped in the back bed, which was lined with bales of hay. He offered a hand to Geeta, who ignored it and, gathering her sari skirts in a fist, scrabbled onto the hay, righting herself with a great deal of satisfaction but only half her dignity.

“That’s the best defense you have? That you don’t tie up and poison children? And to think, they nominated Gandhi for a Nobel instead of you.”

Despite Karem’s prior diplomacy, Geeta braced herself: people thought the saddest thing was a childless woman. Anyone could sympathize with that scenario—a woman who couldn’t be, in their view, a woman. It was easier to throw pity than to wrap their minds around a woman who preferred it that way. But to Geeta, the actual saddest thing, the real waste, was a woman with children she didn’t want.

“Yeah, sure, parental love is primitive, but the love that commits to the sacrifices, that puts their happiness and needs over mine, that does it daily on repeat—that’s a choice.”

Enough time passed and touch became a hollow parody of itself. It was, however, a basic human need. Now, she found she could not bear to be touched, all the while craving it with a dipsomaniacal desperation that drove alcoholics to eat their vomit or addicts to snort or smoke dead scorpions.

That girl’s achievement mattered little; she—as Geeta herself would feel later in life—was only as successful as those around her allowed her to be.

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. Bystanders shoulder their own blame, and Geeta was now shamefully puzzled as to why a tiny act of bravery had been so beyond her.

Geeta coughed and Saloni thumped her back, continuing, Geeta noticed, long after she stopped hacking. “You can,” she wheezed. “You can stop hitting me now.” “It’s okay,” Saloni assured her pleasantly. “I don’t mind it.”

“What?” she snapped at the boy after opening her door. Wary, he took a step back. “Please don’t make my bowels boil and fall outta my butt!” She would’ve rolled her eyes, but she hadn’t heard that one before. She could appreciate imagination. “Fine. Your bowels will remain as is.”

Preity smiled. “Isn’t it such a relief, Geetaben? You didn’t kill him!” Geeta squinted at her. “You know I knew that already, right?”

“You eat, too, Mama.” “Mama can’t, Pihu. Mama’s fasting for Papa’s long life, remember? Run along.” She turned to Geeta. “Well? You gonna kill him or what?”

Geeta had never fasted for Ramesh; the Karva Chauth festival only gained popularity after he’d left. It was primarily a North Indian custom, but she knew bits and pieces of the rituals from films. A silly hullabaloo, she scoffed, to wish long lives upon the men who shortened theirs.

“How are you not? When did everyone in this village get so casual about murder?” “They do a million things worse than murder to us every day all over the world, and no one blinks.”

“Don’t you get it? It’s too soon after Samir. We can’t kill him any way without it looking suspicious.” “The man treats butter like a vegetable. He could easily have a heart attack.” “Okay, so tell Preity to ghee him to death then.”

There were, of course, times in Geeta’s married life when she hadn’t wanted sex, but Ramesh did. Those times, Ramesh usually prevailed. Not by brute force, but by censure—at times silent, at other times not—as though by obstructing access, she was failing. But that was simply a part of marriage—everyone knew the law: it wasn’t rape when it was marital.

“I’m not saying I did this! The whole point was to keep me out of it! What would my defense even be, Geeta? ‘My husband tried to have relations, so I killed him?’ Everyone knows you can’t . . . rape”—her voice lowered on the word like everyone’s did when they said balatkara—“your wife unless she’s under eighteen.

“Listen to me. Darshan killed himself. No, listen to me. I’m serious. Sure, you’re not supposed to kill, but you’re not supposed to rape either, okay? He broke the contract first. Gandhiji had it wrong about some things. When someone threatens your body, you have every right to protect yourself. Satyagraha or passive resistance or whatever may be fine for freedom and salt marches, but not when someone’s trying to rape you. You don’t have to love the assholes oppressing you, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

“Who says you’re marrying the guy? Have some fun. Chakkar chal.” “Fun? Everyone is up everyone’s butt here. If you fart in one corner of town, they smell what you had for dinner in the other.”

“So I’ll also be straightforward. I said we’re friends, Geeta, which is true, but we’re adults, too; and it’s obvious I have motives that go beyond friendship. It’d be childish to deny it, not to mention a waste of time, and I have so little of that as it is. But nothing has to go beyond friendship—I just like your company.”

“Did you fight?” “Of course.” But he knew Geeta’s mind, he must have, because he added, “Never physical, though.” “Don’t you all hit once in a while? It’s not beating, not really.” Karem paused. “Yes, it is. Don’t get me wrong, Sarita and I —it wasn’t perfect, nothing is. And there were times we hurt each other plenty with words, but no, Geeta, no. I don’t hit.”

She resented being put in a position where those were her choices: violence or violation. She didn’t want to be built to endure, a long-suffering saint tossed by the whims of men. She wanted, for once, not to be handed the short end of the stick by a system that expected gratitude in return.

Darshan killed himself. He broke the contract first. When someone threatens your body, you have every right to protect yourself.

“Alone? That’s unfortunate. You know what they say about women living alone—they’re like unlocked treasure chests, just inviting looting.” “Er—” “Now, it’s true you’re no longer in the height of your jawani, but you can’t be too careful. Even in your diminishing years, men can be dangerous creatures.”

She supposed she was agitated. Karem’s words floated to her, about kids not questioning injustices. But what about when adults didn’t either? If the women were able to help each other commit murder because they felt it was morally right, then why couldn’t they help others being wronged, too?

Over the years, loneliness had become a dead arm, useless and heavy but nonetheless hers, so she’d lugged it around, her other appendages pumping harder to compensate for the burden.

“Easier to be a blind man than a dropped woman. You can’t just show up and ruin everything I’ve worked for.” “I don’t want to ruin it.” “But you will, that’s just what you do.” “But I’m your husband.” It was a long time before she was finished laughing. “You’d think it’d be less funny the second time,” she said, “but no.”

“I thought you only had sons.” “I do, thank the One Above. Girls are impossible to protect. Any daughter is a burden, but a Dalit one? Forget it. Your upper-caste men think our shadows pollute them, but they see no problem with invading our cunts.”

Geeta shook her head at Karem. “Qualify it however you’d like, but you know you should’ve told me. Otherwise you wouldn’t need qualifiers in the first place.”

“You don’t have to. But forgiveness is a gift you give yourself. Which is why I’m forgiving you for your little trick, whether or not you ask for it.” Despite his words, a question, a request, a demand bloomed in the space between them. She felt certain about the words that fell, but as an automaton, blank and mechanical. She was performing a memorized task, one born of survival, buried upon freedom, resurrected now: “You’re right. I’m wrong. I’m sorry.”

Saloni pointed at Farah. “You in?” Farah refused primly, with ample judgment. “I don’t drink. Plus, we have to meet Varunbhai soon, na?” “It’s not tharra, it’s actual rum.” “Ooh.” Farah perked up. “Okay then.”

For so long she had categorized Ramesh’s love as ragged and defective, too late she realized it was no kind of love at all.

Desperate for a reprieve, she suggested he visit his family; Diwali was, after all, a time to release resentment and forgive wrongs. Ramesh demurred, citing her forgiveness as an embarrassment of undeserved riches already. The amount of bullshit that fell from that fucker’s mouth could fertilize half of India.

Though Phoolan Devi stabbed her first husband, the one who’d raped her as a child bride, she hadn’t killed him. But at some point, her attitude changed and she began executing her rapists, others’ rapists. With each man Phoolan killed, the bounty for her head increased. As her crimes piled, so did her lore, until she was revered and reviled in equal measure. Previously Geeta had equated Phoolan’s lack of regret with stalwart courage. But now Geeta saw that her theories were based upon corrupt data. If Phoolan Devi didn’t feel regret for her crimes, perhaps it was because, to her, they weren’t crimes at all, simply justice.

As she neared the festooned tea stall, she paused, allowing herself a moment before she once again had to pretend that she did not wish to flense Ramesh’s face like halal meat on a spit.

Their list was ample, but the only option for girls—lecherous vamps and old crones aside—was Sita. Beautiful, patient, silent, longsuffering Sita. A stick used to beat other women, their heads hanging in shame when they dared express unideal emotions, like indignance or self-respect.

Ravana then fell deeply in love with Sita but wanted her love in kind (meaning he did not rape her). Geeta supposed it was a dark day in this world when a man received kudos for not raping, but Ravana acted with honor.

Ram (with a lot of simian help from Hanuman) ultimately rescued Sita, but to her chagrin, he rebuffed her affection with icy apathy. Apparently, Ram had some trouble believing his wife had remained “pure,” what with her “living” with another man for so long. The roots of slut-shaming, Geeta surmised, ran deep. Only, back in 7292 BCE, it’d been called “dharma.”

What odd damage, Geeta wondered with sudden alarm as she watched costumed children play throughout the village, were they perpetuating with these stories? Sita was admittedly a top-notch lady: levelheaded, bright, kind and loyal. But in idealizing her suffering, people justified Ram’s punitiveness. An apology, for fuck’s sake, would have gone a long way. But from the get-go, they trained boys not to apologize and women to not expect it of them, to instead mutate pain into an art form.

Whatever the churel tale’s source, the bitter point was that the story simply didn’t work. It hadn’t stayed Ramesh’s hand, nor Samir’s, nor Bada-Bhai’s. Men could wield the churel label to rob a woman of her femininity, and they could dismiss it to rob her of power. But, like everything else, it was their choice.

A rabid buffoonery pervaded the situation: Ramesh picked his nose in boredom, Bada-Bhai vacillated between waggling his gun with menace and completely forgetting what it was and using the barrel to scratch his chin or tap his temple. His carelessness was almost more terrifying than if he’d been competent.

“Who the fuck’re you?” “Who the fuck am I? Who the fuck are you? Never mind, I don’t care. Get in here before someone sees you.” Farah finally registered the bound women and the gun and grew alert. “Er—no, that’s okay. You lot carry on. Happy New Year.”

“Why are you here?” Geeta asked. “It hit me that Ramesh might not be blind. And I figured I should warn you.” Her eyes tracked the revolver, which moved back and forth across the room as BB anxiously paced. “A choice I now deeply regret.”