The Bandit Queen

For Phoolan Devi (1968 –2001)
Activitist, murderer, Member of Parliament

I am thirteen, but I look small for my age.
Not too small to be married.
Even though he didn’t force the issue,
the air smelled of it.

I ran for home, but home turned me away,
toward the desert and the unsheltering sky.

The days that followed were days of rocks and monsters,
of hot sand and midnight massacres.
My friends were beasts and birds of prey,
I took from simple, white-clad passers by
what should have been mine anyway.

And they began to tell a story
over cigarette smoke, at dusk,
of a woman Robin Hood,
whose path it was terrifying to cross.

If there was ever going to be a chance of surrender,
it would have been because I found a lover.
He was like silver stars, and each night we sang for hours,
by the light of the campfire.

But they found him first
and in a dark and barred up room,
dull men dealt lonely blows.

September 13th, 1976. The sun would set
on the bloodiest day yet – it was predicted and
expected that I would avenge his death.

And in a second passing – mine - I watched myself
paraded in front of a thousand eyes,
glowing with the hunger of the underworld.

***

I am riding a commuter train with a copy of Harper’s
reading an interview with her as an older woman.
The title of the article, “Bandit Queen” seems awkward.
In the picture, she sits large and serene,
with a diminutive husband in attendance.

I want to ask her, “How did you leave it all behind?
Does your former self follow you into the bathroom,
showing up as you wipe the mist off the mirror,
your rough curls escaping from under an orange bandana,
the color of saffron, of marigolds, of warriors?

How do you stroll through the aisles of your local market
picking up plastic bags and airtight cartons,
when the smell of fresh killed meat
once rose from an open desert fire?”