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The Bandit Queens: A Novel
A young Indian woman finds the false rumors that she killed her husband surprisingly useful-until other women in the village start asking for her help getting rid of their own husbands-in this razor-sharp debut.
"Shroff captures the complexity of female friendship with acuity, wit, and a certain kind of magic irreverence. . . . The Bandit Queens is tender, unpredictable, and brimming with laugh-out-loud moments."-Téa Obreht, New York Times bestselling author of The Tiger's Wife
Five years ago, Geeta lost her no-good husband. As in, she actually lost him-he walked out on her and she has no idea where he is. But in her remote village in India, rumor has it that Geeta killed him. And it's a rumor that just won't die.
It turns out that being known as a "self-made" widow comes with some perks. No one messes with her, harasses her, or tries to control (ahem, marry) her. It's even been good for business; no one dares to not buy her jewelry.
Freedom must look good on Geeta, because now other women are asking for her"expertise," making her an unwitting consultant for husband disposal.
And not all of them are asking nicely.
With Geeta's dangerous reputation becoming a double-edged sword, she has to find a way to protect the life she's built-but even the best-laid plans of would-be widows tend to go awry. What happens next sets in motion a chain of events that will change everything, not just for Geeta, but for all the women in their village.
Filled with clever criminals, second chances, and wry and witty women, Parini Shroff's The Bandit Queens is a razor-sharp debut of humor and heart that readers won't soon forget.
"Shroff captures the complexity of female friendship with acuity, wit, and a certain kind of magic irreverence. . . . The Bandit Queens is tender, unpredictable, and brimming with laugh-out-loud moments."-Téa Obreht, New York Times bestselling author of The Tiger's Wife
Five years ago, Geeta lost her no-good husband. As in, she actually lost him-he walked out on her and she has no idea where he is. But in her remote village in India, rumor has it that Geeta killed him. And it's a rumor that just won't die.
It turns out that being known as a "self-made" widow comes with some perks. No one messes with her, harasses her, or tries to control (ahem, marry) her. It's even been good for business; no one dares to not buy her jewelry.
Freedom must look good on Geeta, because now other women are asking for her"expertise," making her an unwitting consultant for husband disposal.
And not all of them are asking nicely.
With Geeta's dangerous reputation becoming a double-edged sword, she has to find a way to protect the life she's built-but even the best-laid plans of would-be widows tend to go awry. What happens next sets in motion a chain of events that will change everything, not just for Geeta, but for all the women in their village.
Filled with clever criminals, second chances, and wry and witty women, Parini Shroff's The Bandit Queens is a razor-sharp debut of humor and heart that readers won't soon forget.
Editorial Reviews
"This book is so much fun! In Parini Shroff's dark comedy, the put-upon women of a small Indian village decide to get rid of their husbands-permanently. Things quickly spiral out of control as the bodies start piling up, the police get curious, and Geeta enters into a second-chance romance with a quiet widower who runs a speakeasy. And there's a dog! What's not to love?"-CrimeReads
"The Bandit Queens is an original, memorable, and endearing story. At times deeply serious, then laugh-out-loud funny, Parini Shroff has written a sobering but hopeful exploration of womanhood, social injustices, and second chances."-Charmaine Wilkerson, New York Times bestselling author of Black Cake
"Parini Shroff's splendid The Bandit Queens is a hilarious romp about serious things-as serious as a novel gets, and as funny, too, with characters who are dear and maddening and indelible and gorgeously drawn. Twisty, compulsive, bold, surprising, moving: It's a wonderful book."-Elizabeth McCracken, bestselling author of The Souvenir Museum and The Hero of This Book
"Parini Shroff's debut novel is a rollicking mash-up of adventure story, thriller, dark revenge, and comedy. Rooted in a rural village in India-and led by the pariah widow Geeta, whom everyone believes to have killed her husband-a handful of women band together to take back their lives, and take down the patriarchy. An immensely enjoyable read!"-Cristina García, New York Times bestselling author of Dreaming in Cuban and The Lady Matador's Hotel
"Shroff's debut is a darkly hilarious take on gossip, caste, truth, village life, and the patriarchy. A perfect match for fans of Oyinkan Braithwaite's My Sister, the Serial Killer and clever, subversive storytelling."-Booklist (starred review)...
"The Bandit Queens is an original, memorable, and endearing story. At times deeply serious, then laugh-out-loud funny, Parini Shroff has written a sobering but hopeful exploration of womanhood, social injustices, and second chances."-Charmaine Wilkerson, New York Times bestselling author of Black Cake
"Parini Shroff's splendid The Bandit Queens is a hilarious romp about serious things-as serious as a novel gets, and as funny, too, with characters who are dear and maddening and indelible and gorgeously drawn. Twisty, compulsive, bold, surprising, moving: It's a wonderful book."-Elizabeth McCracken, bestselling author of The Souvenir Museum and The Hero of This Book
"Parini Shroff's debut novel is a rollicking mash-up of adventure story, thriller, dark revenge, and comedy. Rooted in a rural village in India-and led by the pariah widow Geeta, whom everyone believes to have killed her husband-a handful of women band together to take back their lives, and take down the patriarchy. An immensely enjoyable read!"-Cristina García, New York Times bestselling author of Dreaming in Cuban and The Lady Matador's Hotel
"Shroff's debut is a darkly hilarious take on gossip, caste, truth, village life, and the patriarchy. A perfect match for fans of Oyinkan Braithwaite's My Sister, the Serial Killer and clever, subversive storytelling."-Booklist (starred review)...
Short Excerpt Teaser
One
The women were arguing. The loan officer was due to arrive in a few hours, and they were still missing two hundred rupees. Rather, Farah and her two hundred rupees were missing. The other four women of their loan group had convened, as they did every Tuesday, to aggregate their respective funds.
"Where is she?" Geeta asked.
No one answered. Instead, the women pieced their respective Farah sightings into a jigsaw of gossip that, to Geeta's ears at least, failed to align. Saloni-a woman whose capacity for food was exceeded only by her capacity for venom-goaded most of the conversation.
"This isn't the first time," Priya said.
"And you know it won't be the last," Saloni finished.
When Preity mentioned she was fairly certain she'd seen Farah buying hashish, Geeta felt it best to nudge them to more prosaic matters. "Varunbhai is not going to like this."
"Well, now we know where her money's going," Priya said.
"Some devout Muslim." Saloni sniffed, the gesture dainty for a woman of her size. Lately she'd been attempting to rebrand her weight as evidence of her community status. Compounded with her preternatural talent for bullying, this guise worked on the women. But Geeta had known Saloni and her family since childhood-when she ruled the playground rather than their loan group-and could accurately attribute her heft to genetics betraying her in her thirtieth year rather than any posh mark of affluence. Ironic, considering Saloni had spent her first nineteen years perpetually malnourished, thin as paper, and just as prone to cut. She'd married well, curving into a stunning woman who'd reclaimed her slim figure after her firstborn, but hadn't managed the same after the second.
Geeta listened to their rumors, observed how the women contributed and piled on, with clinical interest. This must've been the way they'd whispered about her after Ramesh left-a fallen woman "mixed with dirt"-then shushing each other when she approached, their lips peeling into sympathetic smiles as sincere as political promises. But now, five years after her husband's disappearance, Geeta found herself within the fold rather than shunned, thanks to Farah's absence. It was a dubious honor.
Her fingers toyed with her ear. When she used to wear earrings, she would often check to make sure the backs were secure. The sharp but benign prick of the stud against her thumb had been reassuring. The habit lingered even after Ramesh vanished and she'd stopped wearing jewelry altogether-no nose ring, no bangles, no earrings.
Tired of the gossip, she interrupted the women's musings on Farah's defection: "If each of us puts in another fifty, we can still give Varunbhai the full amount."
That got their attention. The room quieted. Geeta heard the feeble hum of her fan stirring the air. The flywheel's tight circles oscillated like a tiny hula hoop. The blades were ornamental; the heat remained thick and unforgiving. The fan hung from a strong cord Ramesh had tied in their old house. It'd been early in their marriage, so when he'd stumbled on the ladder, it had been okay to laugh-he'd even joined her. Rage hadn't found Ramesh until their second year together, after her parents passed away. When she'd been forced to move into this smaller home, she'd tied the cord herself.
A lizard darted up the wall in a diagonal before hiding in the lintel's shadow. Geeta's mother used to tell her not to be afraid, that they brought good luck. She itched to see it plop from the dark pocket onto one of the women-preferably Saloni who was terrified of all animals except, inexplicably, spiders. The other two-sisters Priya and Preity-were neither kind nor cruel, but they deferred to their leader. Geeta could sympathize, having herself once served under Saloni.
"No way," Saloni said. "It's Farah's problem."
Geeta stared at the dark wall, willing the lizard to be a good sport. Nothing. "It's our problem," she snapped. "If we default, Varunbhai won't give us another loan next year." The women were somber; everyone knew the center extended loans to groups, not individuals.
Then began a communal metamorphosis from fishwives to martyrs: the women spilled their excuses onto each other, all pushy contestants in a competition with no judge to rule as to who was the most aggrieved party.
"I have to buy my kids' schoolbooks. They keep getting more expensive." Saloni's lips compressed. "But it's such a gift to be a mother."
"We just bought another buffalo. My kids guzzle so much milk. I keep telling them ‘if you're thirsty, drink water!' " Preity coughed. "But still, they bring me joy."
"My boy needs medicine for his ear infection. He cries all the time....
The women were arguing. The loan officer was due to arrive in a few hours, and they were still missing two hundred rupees. Rather, Farah and her two hundred rupees were missing. The other four women of their loan group had convened, as they did every Tuesday, to aggregate their respective funds.
"Where is she?" Geeta asked.
No one answered. Instead, the women pieced their respective Farah sightings into a jigsaw of gossip that, to Geeta's ears at least, failed to align. Saloni-a woman whose capacity for food was exceeded only by her capacity for venom-goaded most of the conversation.
"This isn't the first time," Priya said.
"And you know it won't be the last," Saloni finished.
When Preity mentioned she was fairly certain she'd seen Farah buying hashish, Geeta felt it best to nudge them to more prosaic matters. "Varunbhai is not going to like this."
"Well, now we know where her money's going," Priya said.
"Some devout Muslim." Saloni sniffed, the gesture dainty for a woman of her size. Lately she'd been attempting to rebrand her weight as evidence of her community status. Compounded with her preternatural talent for bullying, this guise worked on the women. But Geeta had known Saloni and her family since childhood-when she ruled the playground rather than their loan group-and could accurately attribute her heft to genetics betraying her in her thirtieth year rather than any posh mark of affluence. Ironic, considering Saloni had spent her first nineteen years perpetually malnourished, thin as paper, and just as prone to cut. She'd married well, curving into a stunning woman who'd reclaimed her slim figure after her firstborn, but hadn't managed the same after the second.
Geeta listened to their rumors, observed how the women contributed and piled on, with clinical interest. This must've been the way they'd whispered about her after Ramesh left-a fallen woman "mixed with dirt"-then shushing each other when she approached, their lips peeling into sympathetic smiles as sincere as political promises. But now, five years after her husband's disappearance, Geeta found herself within the fold rather than shunned, thanks to Farah's absence. It was a dubious honor.
Her fingers toyed with her ear. When she used to wear earrings, she would often check to make sure the backs were secure. The sharp but benign prick of the stud against her thumb had been reassuring. The habit lingered even after Ramesh vanished and she'd stopped wearing jewelry altogether-no nose ring, no bangles, no earrings.
Tired of the gossip, she interrupted the women's musings on Farah's defection: "If each of us puts in another fifty, we can still give Varunbhai the full amount."
That got their attention. The room quieted. Geeta heard the feeble hum of her fan stirring the air. The flywheel's tight circles oscillated like a tiny hula hoop. The blades were ornamental; the heat remained thick and unforgiving. The fan hung from a strong cord Ramesh had tied in their old house. It'd been early in their marriage, so when he'd stumbled on the ladder, it had been okay to laugh-he'd even joined her. Rage hadn't found Ramesh until their second year together, after her parents passed away. When she'd been forced to move into this smaller home, she'd tied the cord herself.
A lizard darted up the wall in a diagonal before hiding in the lintel's shadow. Geeta's mother used to tell her not to be afraid, that they brought good luck. She itched to see it plop from the dark pocket onto one of the women-preferably Saloni who was terrified of all animals except, inexplicably, spiders. The other two-sisters Priya and Preity-were neither kind nor cruel, but they deferred to their leader. Geeta could sympathize, having herself once served under Saloni.
"No way," Saloni said. "It's Farah's problem."
Geeta stared at the dark wall, willing the lizard to be a good sport. Nothing. "It's our problem," she snapped. "If we default, Varunbhai won't give us another loan next year." The women were somber; everyone knew the center extended loans to groups, not individuals.
Then began a communal metamorphosis from fishwives to martyrs: the women spilled their excuses onto each other, all pushy contestants in a competition with no judge to rule as to who was the most aggrieved party.
"I have to buy my kids' schoolbooks. They keep getting more expensive." Saloni's lips compressed. "But it's such a gift to be a mother."
"We just bought another buffalo. My kids guzzle so much milk. I keep telling them ‘if you're thirsty, drink water!' " Preity coughed. "But still, they bring me joy."
"My boy needs medicine for his ear infection. He cries all the time....
