The Bandit Queens (115)
As with any flesh and blood person, there are inconsistencies and contradictions in what was seen, what was heard, what was done. I’ve attempted to adhere to her autobiography and researched accounts, but there are some events that Phoolan was understandably reticent to discuss. In fact, I’m grateful she shared as much as she did with us in her autobiography, I, Phoolan Devi: The Autobiography of India’s Bandit Queen. I was also fortunate to access sources such as India’s Bandit Queen: The True Story of Phoolan Devi by Mala Sen and the beautifully rendered graphic novel Phoolan Devi Rebel Queen by Claire Fauvel. That said, any mistakes made are mine alone.
I invoke Phoolan’s name and story many times throughout this novel, and while writing and rewriting those passages, I asked myself: Is this honoring Phoolan or exploiting her? The former was my intent, the latter my nightmare. I strove to draw readers’ curiosity to the remarkable person Phoolan was, not use her as a one-dimensional tool to further my agency while robbing hers. She’s lionized by the novel’s protagonists; however, in paying homage, I was cognizant of the fact that none of us are inspired by a person’s entire story. Phoolan is an example of an unlikely alternative, an inspiration to any woman seeking to make her own choices in a world where she is told—and her circumstances consistently confirm—that men will make her choices for her. In this way, she is a source of inspiration to this novel’s characters, a group of women making their own choices.
The characters of Geeta and Farah bloomed in my mind a decade ago, when I was visiting my father and brother in India and we drove to Samadra, Gujarat, to attend a meeting of a microloan group my father was involved in financing. The women’s stories of empowerment and financial agency were, of course, heartening. But I kept wondering what, in a rural area of a patriarchal country, could stop any of their husbands should they choose to exert their dominance? Loans alone did not, could not eradicate female vulnerability. Which led me to an uncomfortable observation: These women were mobile, but only within ambits delineated by men. Thus, this book began, but as a short story with no murder, no mayhem, and minimal mystery.
During 2020’s quarantine, I returned to its brief pages and a larger world unfolded, and Saloni, Preity, and Priya joined this ragtag cadre of vengeful women. As I buried myself in fiction, I found myself craving what countless others also craved during the pandemic: joy. I found humor, albeit dark humor, creeping into the pages. While I sought to respectfully and accurately address the scourges of domestic abuse, gender/religious/caste ostracization, and patriarchy, I believed humor could act as a bolster and prevent the book from collapsing under the weight of these timely and troubling topics. What made such gallows humor possible, I think, was the resilience of women and the power of sisterhood.
The unfortunate status quo is that it is tough for women everywhere, and female friendships are what will carry us through the darkness and absurdity of life. Such connections, however, are not always easily forged in a world keen to divide, mark, and label as “other.” I sought to address the pernicious construct of caste with the irrepressible character of Khushi. Given the book’s running motif of Phoolan Devi, exploring the ramifications of being a Dalit woman in rural India felt not only organic, but fated.
Though the details and nuances differ, there are centuries of oppression and abuse in every society. Not enough is written about these struggles and deaths, and it was and is my fervent hope that this book sparks a curiosity that draws readers to narratives of the historically marginalized and creates a clamoring for more.
For me, fiction is when research meets compassion; I believe this is often why facts don’t change people’s minds, but stories do.
To Arthur, my navigator: Nevada-1-2-1-Papa-Papa
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am grateful to and for:
My mother, Anjana Shroff; my father, Pratul K. Shroff; my brother, Advait P. Shroff; and the rest of my wonderful, wild family, who let me constantly pester them with “just one more question.” Thank you, all.
Téa Obreht, whose love keeps lifting me higher.
My wonderful champion of an agent, Samantha Shea, and my brilliant editors, Hilary Rubin Teeman and Caroline Weishuhn; Rahul Soni at HarperCollins India; and Kate Ballard at Allen & Unwin: each of you made this journey fabulous and this book better.
My friends and teachers spread near and far, for being generous with their time, support, laughter, and insight: Elizabeth McCracken, Scott Guild, Cassandra Powers, Lucas Schaefer, Christine Vines, Teresa DiGiorgio, Dan Sheehan, Roxane de Rouen, Freya Parekh, Aashni Shah, Muskan Srivastava, Mohan Kachgal, Sara Ferrier, Ren Geisick, Serena W. Lin, Alex Chee, and Mark S. Edwards. You are all my bonobos.
The various art residencies that were kind enough to give me the gift of time and space: The MacDowell Colony, Djerassi, Jentel, The Studios of Key West, Kimmel Harding Nelson Center for Arts, and Sangam House. And the women of Samadra, Gujarat, who let this interloper observe.
Arthur T. Javier, first and best reader, dear friend and kindred spirit. This book belongs to us both.
And Devin, who had faith to spare when I couldn’t manage any.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Parini Shroff received her MFA from the University of Texas at Austin, where she studied under Elizabeth McCracken, Alexander Chee, and Cristina García. She is a practicing attorney and currently lives in the Bay Area. The Bandit Queens is her debut novel.