We talked in this way for an hour or so, about inter–gang rivalries and disciplinary problems within the jail. Then Saigal came up with what I really wanted to know.

“Her brother, Shiv Narain, now works for the Madhya Pradesh police force,” he said, laughing loudly, shaking his head at the craziness of it all. “They’ve even given him a gun,” he added, trying to control his laughter, “in line with his duties!”

I laughed too and said, “That’s the paradox of our country.” My response relaxed him and he told me where I could find Phoolan Devi’s brother.

The police quarters, airless, concrete blocks that stood in a small cluster, were visible from the prison gates. A rough, dusty road full of pot–holes and stones ran along one side. I had been directed to the corner block at the end. As I approached, I saw a white cow and an enormous, regal–looking long–haired goat tied to the metal railings of a staircase leading up to the flats. They sat close together dozing, like two domestic pets, and I recognized them instantly. I knew from press reports that Phoolan had insisted the animals be brought to Madhya Pradesh together with her family, under police protection, before she surrendered. It had been one o the “conditions” of surrender. Without much difficulty I found a room on the ground floor where I met members of her family: Moola, her mother, Rukhmini, her elder sister, Rukhmini’s three children and Shiv Narain. I explained who I was and why I was there. Within a few minutes, we were drinking tea and chatting as if we had known each other all along. The women were the most forthcoming; Phoolan’s brother, Shiv Narain, was at first shy and reticent, perhaps just cautious, but he too began to speak freely after a while.

They spoke of their own experiences. Moola recalled the night that police, under Chaturvedi’s command, organized their evacuation from Uttar Pradesh, from her husband’s ancestral village, where Phoolan Devi had been born. The cow and goat had been reluctant to enter the lorry piled high with all their worldly belongings and had to be lifted by constables. They found life in the city strange.

“Phoolan was the queen,” Moola told me in a matter–of–fact way. “While thousands flocked around her, we were starving. The police had guaanteed us two meals a day but, I suppose, they had other things to do and forgot. Many a day passed when we didn’t have even dal and roti to eat.”

I was reminded of Phoolan’s first disciplinary charge in prison, which I had red about in London. The press clipping I had been sent said that “on the evening of 22 December 1983, her brother–in–law was searched while leaving the jail and the assistant jailer, Mr Mathur, found 2 kilos 400 grams of dal, 2 kilos of sugar, 2 cakes of Lifebuoy soap and 2 packets of Panama cigarettes on him.” He had confessed, after some interrogation, that Phoolan had given him these things, from her own rations, for the family. The stuff was confiscated and Phoolan given a stretch in solitary confinement. I had found it quite shocking at the time that Phoolan Devi should be better off, materially speaking, in prison than her family were outside.

I asked about the incident and got mute nods. I sensed a sudden sadness descend and asked Rukhmini if the person mentioned in the report was her husband. Tears filled her eyes as she nodded again. Then Moola intervened and told me that Rukhmini’s husband, Rampal, had died of some unidentified illness the previous year; her daughter was now a widow with the added responsibility of bringing up three small children.

“And tell her how they beat him over that incident,” said Rukhmini, her anger breaking through the tears as she wiped her face with the edge of her sari.

I couldn’t find any words to express my sympathy so instead I placed my hand on her shoulder. We agreed to meet again the next day.

I started to make regular visits, sometimes taping interviews, at other times just listening to them talk. I took many photographs with my Instamatic camera, for Phoolan had been told that I was in Gwalior, seeking permission to see her and Man Singh, and she had asked me to send her pictures of the family, of her cow and goat, to put on her cell walls. The camera was easy to use and everyone took turns, fascinated by the flash that automatically came on indoors. During the day, while Shiv Narain was at work and the others visited the prison, I met various other officials in the hope that they could assist in some way.

I made an appointment to see the town’s Commissioner. I wanted to know if the Chief Minister had communicated with him regarding my application to interview ex–dacoits in Gwalior Central Jail. He had not. The Commissioner was definitely a city man, probably educated in one of India’s exclusive public schools. He was suave and confident, an enthusiast about ancient monuments. He talked endlessly about old forts and I realized he was impressing upon me the fact that he was a “man of culture”, not a mere bureaucrat. Antique carvings, in stone and wood, adorned his living–room. He lived in a spacious bungalow with armed sentries at the gate, within walking distance of my hotel. Throughout our conversation, I kept trying to persuade him to talk about dacoits, the Chambal Valley, Phoolan Devi and Malkhan Singh. He cleverly sidestepped all my questions and continued to elaborate on the cultural heritage of our great country. I was growing impatient but had to remain polite and appear interested. I needed his help. He was the only link I had with the Chief Minister in Bhopal. Eventually, knowing that I had arranged to meet Moola after she returned from visiting Phoolan in prison, I began pushing my questions for the last time. Had he ever met Phoolan Devi? What did he think of her?

He shook his head vigorously and both his hands as if any contact with Phoolan might have contaminated him, and said, “I saw her once from a distance. Anyway, why this interest in Phoolan? She’s just an ordinary village girl, you know, nothing special. Not even pretty. An ordinary village girl.”

“But she’s become somewhat world–famous, hasn’t she?” I ventured.

He laughed, shaking his head again. “The world is made up of fools,” he stated, starting at me hard.

I tried to look as f his cliché contained words of wisdom that deserved serious consideration. I needed his support. “However,” I persevered, “she has become something of a phenomenon.”

He was quick to reply. “I don’t know why. She’s illiterate cannot even write her own name. It’s the press, the media that have built her up. In her own right she is nothing.”

He went on to advise me not to waste my time on her and said he could arrange for me to visit some famous old forts in the area so that my time in Gwalior would be “well spent”. I thanked him, looked at my watch and said I had another appointment but would be in touch again.

Back in the scooter, I told Ashok the driver that I was already half an hour late so we had to move fast a reckless and foolish remark, as his normal speed was already manic. We had several close encounters that day, with other scooters, bullock carts, pedestrians and tongas. I tried telling him I was not that late Moola would wait but by now he had gained enthusiasm for my project, having met with members of Phoolan’s family, and assured me that I had nothing to worry about. He’d been driving scooters for many years and had only been involved in minor accidents all the fault of other, less experienced drivers. Above the roar of many horns, hurtling through clouds of dust, he told me that his cousin brother also went faraar (took to the ravines) a year before and had not been heard of since. It was his way of showing a kind of fraternal solidarity. Baghis were clearly respected in his world.

At the police quarters, I found Moola and Rukhmini cooking rotis and potatoes. They had missed the morning visit but would go in the afternoon. They wanted me to eat with them and said they’d take the rest into the jail for Phoolan and Man Singh. I said that I’d tell the scooter driver to go and have something to eat and come back in an hour but they wouldn’t hear of it and invited him in too. As I watched them cook, I realized they were still essentially rural people with village ways, despite three years in the city. They cooked on a wood fire. Rukhmini remarked that kerosene stinks and changes the taste of the food. I agreed and watched them as they fanned the smoking choola (stove).

Rukhmini then said Phoolan wanted a personal gesture from me, something that would indicate my intentions towards her. At first I was puzzled, then Moola explained, “It could be anything: she wants your nishan [mark], something that is yours.” All I had of any worth was a thin silver chain with a mango–shaped medallion. I took it from around my neck and handed it to Rukhmini, saying, “It’s the best thing I have here in Gwalior. My sister gave it to me.” Rukhmini smiled, stuffed it down the front of her blouse and continued to turn the rotis.

We ate and they asked me about my own life, which I answered as best I could. Nothing seemed to sound odd or unusual to them. They accepted without question that I lived in another environment and therefore had different habits. Moola even rummaged among her son’s thing under his pillow, in the pockets of his civilian clothes and came out with a packet of cigarettes. They had seen me smoke but, until then, I had always wondered if I should. Generally, women in India do not smoke not in public, at any rate. Another middle–class hang–up demolished at a stroke by Phoolan’s mother. I felt a friendship was growing between us.

Later that night, I finally got the break I’d been looking for. Moola and Rukhmini turned up in my hotel room with the three children, full of conspiratorial excitement. Phoolan, they said, was to appear in the High Court the next morning. It was some sort of routine hearing of little significance. I was to go to Gwalior High Court by 10 a.m. The prison guards who were to accompany her would allow me access to her cell. In celebration, we ordered pakoras fried snacks and ice cream for the children and soft drinks for ourselves. I added rum to mine. Rukhmini had a sip and screwed up her nose. The bucket of ice that accompanied the freshlime–soda was considered a great luxury.

Meeting Phoolan Devi

THE COURTYARD WAS crowded, early the next morning. Male prisoners, in leg–irons and chains, squatted in groups, accompanied by indifferent looking guards in khaki, with rifles slung over their shoulders. Their relatives, mostly village people clutching bundles of home–cooked food, hovered around the compound. I was not sure where to look for Phoolan Devi in this confusion.

Inside the building, the corridors were full of lawyers dressed in black, watchful as city crows. I enquired from one or two which court Phoolan Devi would appear in. They said she was not listed to appear. Then as I walked back towards the entrance one of them came after me and told me in a confidential whisper, “They never list her for reasons of security.” Thanking him for the information, I went back out into the sunlight and confusion of the courtyard, hoping to find either Moola or Rukhmini.

After a while, I realized that a man wearing a lungi was following me. He was smoking a bidi tobacco rolled in tobacco leaf and his presence made me uncomfortable, so I mingled with the crowd, trying to look as though I knew what I was doing. Eventually he approached and asked quietly, politely, “Is it Phoolan Devi that you seek?”

I nodded, completely taken back.

“Follow me,” he said as he started to walk ahead, leading the way.

I had come too far to turn back, so I decided to take a chance, wondering whether I was being naïve. I was aware that in my city clothes, simple as they were, I was conspicuous and that people were staring. I felt increasingly self–conscious.

Behind the court, we reached what looked like a shed: white, crumbling walls with a makeshift tin roof, sheltered by a neem tree and an insecure–looking door. I made up my mind not to enter this place with this man. He banged on the door and a khaki–clad policeman, holding a rifle, opened it. Behind him I saw Phoolan Devi.

She gave me a warm, bright smile, pushed past the guard and embraced me.

“I recognized you from the pictures you sent through Amma (Mother),” she said. “Quick! Come in.”