I learned that a woman’s body is a country with no borders. Any man can march across it. Any man can raise his flag.
They called me a river, because you cannot step in the same water twice. First, I was a trickle—a girl in a dry village, my shadow sold for a goat and a sack of grain. They put their hands in me. They called it custom. They put their chains on me. They called it marriage.
Do not weep for me. Weep for the world that made a queen out of a ghost. bandit queen 1994
And when they caught me, when they stripped me and made me walk through the prison yard on my knees, I did not die. That is the part they always forget. You can break a woman’s bones. You cannot break her witness.
So I became the flood.
The first time I held a rifle, it was heavier than any husband. The second time, it sang. The third time, I knew: a gun does not ask your caste. It does not check your hemline. It only asks if you have the courage to pull the trigger.
They say I rode into Behmai like a goddess of ruin. No. I rode in like a wound that learned to bite back. I did not kill for politics. I killed for the girl they drowned in the well. I did not take revenge. I took account. I learned that a woman’s body is a country with no borders
Now they write my name in the same breath as “bandit.” But ask the parched earth: when the rain comes, is it criminal? Ask the fire: when it cleanses the rotten field, is it evil?
