What was the genesis of The Bandit Queens, which explores the themes of poverty, domestic violence, and the caste system in rural India?
In 2013, while visiting my family in Gujarat, my father, my brother and I drove to the village of Samadra to attend a meeting of a micro loan group that 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.
The protagonist, Geeta, is a “self-made widow”, isolated from her community due to rumours that she murdered her husband. She finds inspiration in the story of Phoolan Devi, the bandit queen. What drew you to Phoolan Devi’s story and how did it influence Geeta’s character arc?
Like many people of Indian descent, I’ve known the story of Phoolan Devi for decades — she’s referenced throughout popular culture and recent history. But when I developed Geeta as the protagonist of a short story versus a novel, it became clear that Geeta’s isolation would compel her to draw from a power source larger than her, a larger-than-life legend, yes, but also a woman mired in bleak circumstances and focusing on survival.
Invoking Phoolan Devi’s name became an opportunity to pay homage to her, and make her known to Western audiences unfamiliar with her life story. Her history was also another lens through which to examine patriarchy, casteism and revenge.
Geeta, along with Farah, was part of your short story. How did you transform the original story into a longer narrative?
{{/usCountry}}Geeta, along with Farah, was part of your short story. How did you transform the original story into a longer narrative?
{{/usCountry}}Back in 2013, Geeta and Farah were born within a 12 page short story where they forged an economic alliance to “get rid” of Farah’s money-siphoning husband. They were unsuccessful back then, and the story ended with a quiet fizzle. Years later, two beautiful words popped up in my mind: What if? What if they actually did it? Not only that, what if other women wanted in on the action?
I struggled with the literary mechanics of this plot turn because it naturally affected character likeability. I was afraid no one would root for a murderess because, well, didn’t psychopaths murder? And that became an opportunity to examine just what circumstances would have a reader cheering for the criminals.
The novel highlights the power of female friendship as the antidote to bleak circumstances, and the importance of camaraderie. How did this theme emerge in your writing process and how important was it for you to weave it into the novel’s fabric?
“The women were arguing” has always been the first sentence of this manuscript, from its very first iteration as a short story. That line encapsulates the suspicion and distrust among them at the starting point. Initially, Geeta’s shunned status, her mutual antagonism with Saloni, the others’ opportunistic blackmailing — these elements bred isolation and resentment.
As the cast of female characters grew wider, so did the dynamics between them. Once I realized that Saloni (previously a minor character) had a deep history with Geeta, their estrangement marked a second chance, as well as opportunities for these characters’ growth. That fed directly into the theme of friendship between women and platonic love. I think a large part of the characters’ redemption hinge on their mentality shifting from: “You have this, therefore I do not” to: “We have this, and therefore we can.” Then, what begins as begrudging alliances turns into fiercely loyal friendships.
The themes of abuse, misogyny, and class are also interwoven into the novel, which is interlaced with slapstick humour and melodrama. How did you balance these different elements in your storytelling?
To be honest, I still cannot pinpoint the exact “how”. The humour insisted its way in through irony and dialogue and, after a brief, unproductive stint of editing before I’d even written, I stopped resisting and let that tone reign. To my surprise, I found that rather than undercutting my point, or minimizing these important, dark issues, the humour was highlighting the satire and urgency of these characters’ situations.
The novel shows how middle-aged housewives in the hinterland remain largely invisible. Do you see the same thing in the urban landscapes as well?
I think there is a male gaze directed link between a woman’s youth/sexual viability and her visibility in spaces. That feeling of “disappearing” as women get older is ubiquitous; I even recently learned it has a name: Invisible Woman Syndrome. I wanted to address this issue as much as I wanted to be irreverent toward it. As an initial matter, these characters aren’t even that advanced in age: most are approaching 40. So the running joke of certain male characters’ condescending comments toward the women’s ages was intended to be pointed but ludicrous.
Further, much of this novel seeks to grasp seeming disadvantages and turn them on their head. The women use their alleged “dotage” to seem incapable of murder; Saloni manipulates the assumptions people make about her beauty to her advantage; Khushi uses the stigma of caste to her economical benefit. These women are taking stereotypes and upending them for their own gain.
The novel has an uplifting story despite its the dark subject matter. Was it a conscious decision to balance the dark themes with a lightness of touch?
Looking back, two things were happening in tandem: one was that I was realizing proselytizing in my fiction was not working, and the second was that there was a pandemic raging outside my door and I was desperate for some levity. My manuscripts prior to The Bandit Queens had a more serious tone toward the institutions of patriarchy and caste because they are dark and dangerous. This remains true. However, these institutions are also stupid and absurd and based on false assumptions that are, in turn, stupid and absurd. Satire is effective, I think, because it teaches while allowing an audience some relief. I’ve always loved reading and watching dark comedy and with this novel, I think all those influences crept in when I needed it the most for my own sanity during quarantine.
How did you research and approach writing about the cultural and social dynamics of rural India, including the caste system and micro-loan groups?
The village in the novel is a composite of many Gujarati villages, so I drew on my own experiences and memories to fill in the world and give the book a sense of place. As travel was not feasible in 2020, I also relied, funnily enough, on random YouTube videos uploaded from people’s mobiles. Simply seeing landscapes triggered all sorts of sense memory, specifically smell, and I was able to incorporate these details into the book.
I’ve conducted a lot of research into Dalit history and Dalit rights for other works, and that research served me well here, too. While I’d known of Phoolan Devi for decades, I re-read various biographical sources while writing. I also watched documentaries and read books, such as Stalin K’s India Untouched: Stories of a People Apart and The Gender of Caste by Charu Gupta, respectively. I’ve also just begun The Trauma of Caste by Thenmozhi Soundararajan as I research for my next project.
And on a cheekier note, the running joke about the gourds passed around the village is a nod to the wonderful television series Panchayat.
The novel stands out for its quick pacing and use of dialogues. How did you work on these two elements?
Because first and foremost I worked on fleshing out the characters, the rest fell into place. Their voices were so clear in my mind that by the time the first murder took place, there was no stopping these women. Anytime they were on the page together, I couldn’t write their exchanges fast enough. I recall many times, with Saloni and Geeta especially, that I’d frantically type out typo-riddled banter -- just bare, naked dialogue because they wouldn’t slow down. Once they quieted, I could go back and fill in prose and descriptors. But the women became so realized in my mind that they knew where they wanted to go, even when I did not.
In the novel, Geeta becomes a murder consultant for women seeking to get rid of abusive husbands. Do you see it as a commentary on the justice system and its limitations in addressing domestic violence?
This novel has a lot of hyperbolic extremes, often for comedic effect, but also because, as a reader, you find yourself rooting for murder. These alliances hopefully make one examine the sliding scale of one’s morality and ask what drives a woman, a person, to such extremes simply to survive — and why aren’t we doing more about it?
These women become, in effect, each other’s insurance policies. They protect each other because they realize what men have known for a while: that they’re stronger together, and vulnerable alone. Isolated, they’re often powerless; but together, the impossible is suddenly achievable.
As one character in the novel says, “They don’t get to make all choices, we get to make some too.”
The novel features a mostly female cast of characters. Was it a deliberate choice to centre on women’s experiences and perspectives?
Absolutely. Given the nature of the micro-loan group and the social politics at the forefront, this novel was always going to centre around women. I wanted to showcase these women committing acts of protest about their culture while still being a part of it. I’m a longstanding fan of Saadat Hasan Manto and one of my favourite quotes of his is: “A man remains a man no matter how poor his conduct. A woman, even if she were to deviate for one instance, from the role given to her by men, is branded a whore. She is viewed with lust and contempt.”
While this novel’s setting is very specific, the issues discussed and Manto’s keen observation are ubiquitous and present in other countries and cultures. The unfortunate status quo is that it is tough for women everywhere, and 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 the “other.”
How do you look at the story of Phoolan Devi, a “gangster” who was accused of killing her perpetrators but always denied firing a single bullet? Khushwant Singh, who included her in the Book of Unforgettable Women, believed she was forced as an icon to fight against oppression despite her lack of vision.
Phoolan Devi was forced into countless impossible situations, and perhaps yet another one is that of being dubbed an icon, a legend. I think when a person reaches such a level of fame and notoriety, it is easy to gloss over their humanity. Phoolan Devi was a woman hellbent on survival in a world consistently stripping her of voice, choice, and agency.
She’s lionized by my novel’s protagonists; however, in paying homage, I was cognizant of the fact that none of us is inspired by a person’s entire story. She 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.
The story of Phoolan Devi was immortalised on the celluloid in Shekhar Kapur’s The Bandit Queen (1996). Are you looking at the novel’s cinematic adaptation? Do you have any director or cast on mind?
It would be lovely to see these characters come to life, but I’m very aware of how much work it takes for an adaptation to come to fruition, and of just how many wonderful stories are out there. That said, my fingers are crossed. To paraphrase the author Taylor Jenkins Reid: “If my novel is my baby, the screen adaptation is my grandbaby.” Well, I’d be honoured to be a grandmother.
Are you currently working on another book? Would you like to talk about it?
Since I don’t outline, I’m not sure where my next project is taking me, but right now it is another dark comedy following a married couple as they grapple with aging and each other. And there are peacocks.
Shireen Quadri is the editor of The Punch Magazine Anthology of New Writing by Women Writers. She tweets at @shireenquadri.