“Ruksat, Doctor Sahib,” “Salaam, Doctor sahib” meaning “Adieu, Doctor Sahib”, or “Compliments to Doctor Sahib” were the salutations which I received as I rode by the wretched tumbrils which were jolting them to their execution. The gibbets were temporary erections, forming three sides of a square. The upright posts which supported the cross-beams were firmly fixed in stone masonry five feet in height. From either side of these walls footboards were placed, on which the unhappy criminals were to land on reaching the top of the ladder. The cross-beams were each provided with ten running halters equidistant from one another. As each hackery load of malefactors arrived, it was taken to the foot of the respective ladders, and as one by one got out he mounted to the platform or footboard. Their irons were not removed. All this time the air was pierced with the hoarse and hollow shoutings of these wretched men. Each man as he reached the top of the ladder, stepped out on the platform and walked at once to the halter. Without loss of time her tried its strength by weighing his whole body on it. Everyone having by this means proved the strength of his rope with his own hands for none of them were handcuffed introduced his head into the noose, drew the knot firmly home immediately behind the right ear, amid terrific cheers, jumped off the board and launched himself into eternity! Thus in the moment of death we see a scrupulous attention paid to the preservation of caste. To wait to be hung by the hands of a chamar [skin-curer] was thought too revolting for endurance. The name would be disgraced for ever and, therefore, rather than admit to its degradation every man hanged himself.”

By the summer of 1980, caste tensions added to other forms of suspicion and distrust was festering within Vikram Mallah’s gang as they attempted to regroup. Phoolan Devi’s dislike of Sri Ram and his brother Lala Ram was so openly demonstrated that they barely communicated with each other. Vikram Mallah tried to keep the peace, growing ever more disenchanted with his former guru. He had begun to see the same things in Sri Ram that Phoolan complained of continuously. Petty squabbles led to bad feelings and ruffled egos, yet they remained together in an uneasy alliance, fearing the disintegration of the new gang they were trying to build, without which hey would become mere fugitives, on the run from the police of three states.

The Death of Vikram
THERE WERE NOW two women in the gang. Kusuma Nayan had met up with them and appealed to Vikram Mallah, saying she could no longer live in Delhi; she wanted to avenge Madho’s death. Ujagar, who had accompanied her, also wished to join the gang. Vikram agreed, realizing his need for additional men and allies from the past, despite the fact that Phoolan and Kusuma were hostile to one another and Ujagar had little experience. He protested at first that an unattached woman in the gang would cause untold problems, but Kusuma assured him she intended to live with Ujagar as his wife, now that Madho was dead. She said there was no contradiction in this, as Madho and Ujagar had been “like brothers”. The liaison was short-lived; Kusuma soon added to the dissension that had already taken root, by abandoning Ujagar and becoming Sri Ram’s lover. Vikram was furious and told her to leave the gang, but Sri Ram’s determination to confront Vikram over this issue resulted in Ujagar leaving instead. Once again Phoolan Devi found herself telling Vikram that he had made the wrong decision, powerless as they were to remedy the situation.

“In the room, he showed us a hole in the back wall behind a pile of firewood, saying he had just broken it himself to give us an escape route. He told us to remain in the room for a while and wait for him to return. He told us to remain in the room for a while and wait for him to return. He said he would give the key of the door to Sri Ram in order to divert any suspicion he might have in the future. I suddenly realized that Durga had answered my prayers.

“A little later the pandit entered the room through the hole in the wall. He handed me a 12-bore rifle and wished us luck, pointing out the direction of the river and assuring us that the neighbours would not betray us even if we were seen leaving his house. He untied us and we escaped, running for our lives until we reached the banks of the Jamuna. The first thing we did was to quench our thirst. I was not sure where to go. To return to my village would be dangerous; that was the first place the police would look for me. Suddenly, I thought of my cousin and decided to go to his village instead. Bhiku said he would accompany me part of the way and then head for Kanpur, where he had relatives.

“We arrived at a village called Dehalkan on the way, where we were surrounded by Thakurs who started firing at us. I returned the fire and vowed to Kali that, having escaped from that other Thakur, Sri Ram, I would kill each and every Thakur I found to avenge Vikram’s death. We escaped from there and came upon the village of Narhan. There we a temple on the outskirts of the village, dedicated to the Mother Goddess, Durga. As we prayed before the idol, I heard footsteps. I asked the intruders to identify themselves, but they wanted to know who we were. I told them I was Phoolan Devi, thinking they were villagers and Narhan had been a friendly village. To my horror, they turned out to be policemen. They started shouting orders to each other, taking cover and firing at the shrine. I fired back but knew I had only twenty-five bullets. Still, we managed to hold them at bay and eventually managed to escape under the cover of darkness with just two bullets left. Durga protects.

“It was very dark and we seemed to be surrounded by water. We found it very difficult to keep to the path and the Jamuna, swollen by rain, seemed like an ocean. We did not even have shoes on our feet.

“We wandered around till about 6 a.m. and then sat down to get our bearings. We discovered we were sitting under a neem tree on the outskirts of a village. We climbed the tree to survey the scene and discovered that the area was teeming with policemen. I told Bhiku that this time we would not be able to escape. It appeared that the police had followed us and we had only two bullets and one gun. I told Bhiku I intended to stay in the tree and await my end but that he was free to go, though I advised him against it. He too decided to stay.

“We sat in that tree the whole of that day. Several policemen passed by, some even sat down to eat and drink under the tree, but we were not discovered. After 6 p.m., when they had left, we climbed down half-dead with hunger and thirst. We walked towards the village and met an old man, who was the first to give us water to drink. I asked the name of the village and he said it was Pandri.

“I cannot express the relief I felt. I knew a man from that village called Vijay Singh Chauhan who was also a dacoit and I was sure we would get assistance. We entered the village and sent for his brothers. I explained the situation and said we needed ammunition. They warned me that the police had been to the village looking for me and also that Sri Ram and Lala Ram were offering money for information as to my whereabouts. Sri Ram had killed the old pandit who helped us escape.

“They said we must hide and offered the shelter of their home for a few days. I had no money and asked to borrow some saying that if we escaped alive, we would return their 2000 rupees, but if we were killed, we would die in their debt. They were very kind and I didn’t want to compromise their families so we left after a day’s rest. They helped me find a fisherman who was prepared to ferry us across the river for 1000 rupees. We lay in the bottom of his boat and he covered us with fishing-nets. As we passed under a bridge, I could see that it was swarming with policemen.”

Several kilometres short of the village of Nagina, Phoolan Devi asked the boatman to drop her off, not wanting him to know whee she was going. He was a young man who had barely spoken either to her or Bhiku throughout the journey, having bargained at length over money. She decided to leave the rifle with Bhiku, knowing that a dacoit without a gun was powerless in the company of strangers. She set off alone, waling in a direction opposite to the one she intended to take, again for the benefit of the boatman, while Bhiku continued downstream through the district of Kanpur.

Meeting Man Singh
WHAT FOLLOWS is based on Mannu’s version of events, as he told it to me, some eight years later. We were sitting in the same hut, on the ravine’s edge bordering one side of the village where Phoolan Devi had taken refuge, unknown to the rest of the family.

He was alone at home listening to the radio quite late at night. He had lit the kerosene lamp in his room and was lying on his bed when he heard a timid tap on the outer door leading into his courtyard. At first he ignored it, thinking it was the iron chain swinging against the wood it was so faint. Then the sound was repeated and he went out, wondering who it could be. Anyone from his own family, or a friend, would have called out or knocked in a more positive way. He asked who it was and there was no reply but the same light tap was repeated. Feeling somewhat apprehensive, he unlocked the door and was shocked to see Phoolan, looking thin and exhausted, barefoot, her khaki shirt tattered and filthy. The last time he’d seen her had been at his aunt’s house, dressed in a sari. Now her hair was cut short, unwashed and matted with dust. He knew thee was a price on her head and had read newspaper reports of the exploits. Letting her into the courtyard, he looked up and down the alleyway to check if she was being observed but the pathway was quiet and deserted.

For some reason he spoke in a whisper, asking her what she was doing there, what had happened, whether she was alone. She too replied in a whisper, asking if anyone else was in the house. Locking the door, he led into his room and noticed that she was shivering. Although the rain had cooled the air, it was far from cold. She sat on the bed, looking nervously round the room. At first he felt it was because of custom, since the normal place to talk would have been in the courtyard. In a state of confusion himself, he picked up the lamp and led her out again, saying he would bring the charpai. When he returned, Phoolan Devi was huddled against the mud wall, weeping uncontrollably, much to his alarm. He helped her to her feet and made her sit on the bed once more, asking if she wanted some tea. She began taking deep breaths in an attempt to regain control of herself and asked for water.

Eventually she said, her eyes fixed to the mud floor, “Vikram’s dead.”

This too came as a shock. “Police?” he asked but she merely shook her head and burst into tears again. He covered her with a blanket, feeling helpless at the intensity of her grief, as he watched her shivering. It took a long while, he said, for her to calm down and explain what had happened.

For more than a week after that, Phoolan Devi lived in her cousin’s hut, her nerves in shreds, both of them alert to every sound. Mannu was aware of all the dangers involved and, although no one in the village knew she was there, sooner or later there would be trouble. Despite this, he did his best to make her feel secure and welcome. He felt great sympathy and sadness for what she had suffered and racked his brain for a way out. His was not a “safe” village. If the police intensified their hunt, Nagina would almost certainly be on their list. It was just a question of time. The newspapers had already reported Vikram’s death, with police officers from Uttar Pradesh claiming that they had “eliminated” him as a result of their own diligence and the efficiency of their intelligence network.

Over the years, Mannu had been in touch with various dacoit gangs, carrying messages and running occasional errands in order to earn some money, so he knew something of the rivalries and alliances that existed within their world. He also knew of Vikram Mallah’s connections and eventually suggested that they try to find Mustaqeem, whom Vikram had visited with a view to strengthening his own position. At first, Phoolan had been reluctant, recalling the Muslim bandit leader’s dismissive attitude towards her, but eventually agreed that her cousin’s suggestion was the only realistic possibility. After all, Vikram had struck some sort of deal with Mustaqeem although it had never been put to the test. Besides, she was well aware that she had few options. She could not remain in Nagina for long, living as a fugitive in her cousin’s hut, and she could not return to her own village either.

Looking her into his home one day, Mannu made the trip to Kanpur in order to try to gather information about the gang’s whereabouts. He returned late at night, somewhat dejected, having paid some contact a large amount of money which he felt, almost instantly, had been a mistake. The police were out in force and it seemed unlikely that the man would have much success.

They were still waiting for word from their “contact” when Mannu rushed in excitedly one evening.