I hid the gold chain under the garland and placed it round the statue. We watched the motorcycle from a distance and saw that no one was taking any notice of it, so we picked it up and left without any trouble. When we reached a particular spot, close to the jungle, we abandoned it and rejoined the gang, who were waiting for us. Everyone celebrated.

“We always carried a transistor radio with us to keep ourselves informed of news and the whereabouts of the police. That evening, when we switched on the local news, we heard that Phoolan Devi had slipped through the police net and left a nine-tola gold necklace for the goddess!

“Chaturvedi Sahib laughed and said I was a brave girl but should trust him to bring my family. He did not think it would be wise for me to accompany him. I told him I had full faith in him and knew he would do his best. He was back in three or four days, saying that he had had great difficulty in bringing my family to Madhya Pradesh but had finally managed. He said they were at his residence in Bhind. He said he had even managed to get our cow and goat across. I could scarcely believe him, till I saw the cow which he had brought with him as proof! It was the same cow Puttilal had given my family in exchange for me.

“I asked him to take me to meet them but he said he would bring them to me instead. Chatuvedi Sahib really considered my interests and was genuinely concerned about my safety. That evening, he brought my mother, brother, and sister Munni to see me. My mother was very angry and upset, saying that I had uprooted her from her home and village. I pleaded with her, telling her to understand that the U P police would make survival difficult for them; they would beat up the family and put them in jail if I surrendered. She was hard to convince, so eventually I told her to listen to everything the S P Sahib said and not to cause him any trouble. I said I would not allow them to return to U P again.”

In a similar effort to evacuate Man Singh’s family from Uttar Pradesh, the Madhya Pradesh police found themselves in an embarrassing situation. Outraged by the fact that Phoolan Devi’s family had “escaped” in the dead of night assisted by the S P of Bhind, the U P police mounted a guard on Man Singh’s village. When the Madhya Pradesh police arrived, they found themselves “surrounded” by their trigger-happy colleagues from across the border. In a panic they drove of through the U P police cordons; shots were fired by both sides and the country read reports of the police firing at each other in their bid to “control” the developments of this saga.

Mr Ammar Razvi, Minister for Parliamentary Affairs, said that “the fullest enquiry would be conducted.” When a politician in the Lok Sabha [the lower house of parliament], infuriated by such vague assurances, launched into an attack against him, declaring, “Dacoits have no confidence in the U P police!” he replied:

“I am delighted to receive such news. But I tell you that if criminals have faith in the police force of another state, it is a sad reflection on the integrity of that force.”

Meanwhile, Phoolan Devi says: “I then decided on the date of my surrender, 10 February, and put forward my demands. I called Jaiveer Singh Chauhan, who had studied up to the 12th Class in school, and asked him to write down everything I said.

“My first demand was that we should not be given the death penalty; the second was that all charges against us should be tried in the Madhya Pradesh courts, even the cases involving crimes committed in Uttar Pradesh. From what I can remember, (3) was that my family should be resettled in Madhya Pradesh; (4) my brother and brother-in-law (Rukhmini’s husband, Rampal) should be employed in the police force ; (5) that my family should be given land and a house in Madhya Pradesh; (6) we should all be released from prison after eight years like the gangs who surrendered in 1972 had been; (7) all the members of our gang, including me and Man Singh, should be resettled in Madhya Pradesh after we were released from jail; (8) we should also be provided with housing and land to cultivate; (9) the children of all gang members should be given free education; (10) on release, we should all be given licences for the possession of arms for self-protection; (11) we should not be forced to divulge sources of supply for arms and ammunition; (12) we should not be asked to name people who had helped us in any way, fed us, found doctors, etc.; (13) the police should not hold us on remand; (14) we should not be handcuffed; (15) we should be given two good meals a day in jail and allowed a certain amount of freedom.

“In short, I asked for the same facilities given to the dacoits who surrendered in 1972.

“Some days passed before we saw him again. I asked the S P what Arjun Singh had said. He laughed and told us that the Chief Minister was very happy with the turn of events and had gone to Delhi to discuss the matter with the Prime Minister, India Gandhi. He said that all my terms would be agreed to and, putting his arm around my shoulder he said, “Phoolan, we will make a human being out of you!” I asked, “Will you also convert the U P police and make human beings out of them too?” We all laughed and I put forward two more demands: that all members of our gang, including myself, would be allowed to live together in jail; and that the police should be unarmed at the time of my surrender.

“When Ghanshyam got the news, he decided to surrender with me. Rajendra Chaturvedi housed us in a large bungalow with a heavy police guard round it. The place was illuminated so well that, with all those lights, I felt I was attending my own wedding and forgot the fact that I had just come out of the jungle and was considered by many to be a hardened criminal. I felt a surge of happiness and found it difficult to be coherent in my speech. Hundreds of journalists and photographers from all over the world were there, but in my state of confusion I was very inconsistent with my answers to their questions.”

Surrender

THOUSAND OF VILLAGERS had walked many miles to witness the event. Phoolan Devi was a national legend. Songs had been written about her exploits although she did not know that at the time. Clay statues of her, dressed in a police uniform carrying a gun, sold in the markets of Kanpu at sixteen rupees a piece, next to statues of “goods, goddesses and other national leaders of the year”, as one report put it. Women had begun praying to her, whispering in confidence that she was the reincarnation of Kali, warrior goddess worshipped throughout the Chambal Valley.

Soon after 9 a.m., Phoolan Devi, “Bandit Queen” of the country, “Rebel of the Ravines”, the woman villages knew as Dasyu Sundari, mounted the 23-foot-high wooden platform which had been constructed for the occasion. She had wrapped her red shawl over the new khaki uniform and round her head was the red bandanna she had worn in the ravines to absorb the sweat from her brow. Man Singh and the rest of the gang, seven men in all, followed her up the steps. Portraits of Mahatma Gandhi and the goddess Durga, benevolent avtar of Kali, adorned the centre of the stage as she had specified. The three garlands she had asked for had also been provided and hung on a chair; one for each portrait and one for the Chief Minister. With her rifle still slung over her shoulder, the gunbelt across her chest, Phoolan Devi garlanded the portraits. Then, turning, she placed the third garland round the neck of Arjun Singh, bending down to touch his feet lightly with her forehead. It was a theatrical act of humility. It was also a sign that a deal had been struck. Turning to the thronging crowd, she raised he rifle above her head before placing it, together with the gunbelt, before the two portraits. In spirit, she was surrendering to the goddess Durga and to Mahatma Gandhi, with villagers and pressmen as her witnesses. Some cheered, some heckled and there was much confusion. A report published soon afterwards by the Times of India said:

The excitement of the show was stolen by a youthful intruder, later identified as a functionary of the Madhya Pradesh Yuva Lokdal. Shortly after the ceremony started, he stepped onto the dais unnoticed and grabbed the mike to address the gathering. Before one realized what was happening he was delivering a fiery speech in which he deplored the government for “Lionizing thugs”. The chap did not have a chance to complete his speech. He was pulled out of the dais by a couple of security men and clobbered by others who could lay their hands on him, as he was being whisked away from the scene.

A news photographer, Mr Promod Pushkarna, who sought to capture a piece of the action, was roughed up. He alleged that some policemen dragged and pushed him around. A senior police officer who had rushed to the scene promptly apologized. A district official who had rushed to the rescue of the photographer also had it from the cops, who probably wanted to make a thorough job of it. Even before the incident, some policemen and the security staff were heard mumbling about the chaotic disorder displayed by the pack of media men who apparently had the run of the place.

Another report in the Hindustan Times read:

Rampus prevailed in the audience of nearly 7,000 for some time as some boys from the local students union threw broken bangles towards the dais as a mark of protest against the incompetence of the law and order authorities in arresting outlaws instead of negotiating for a surrender.

Village women and school children cheered.

Phoolan Devi, in a cold sweat from the fever, found herself being led away hastily to a waiting police van, which was promptly surrounded by journalists and photographers. They bombarded her with questions.

“Were you really leader of your own gang?”

“Does a woman not rule this country?” she snapped back.

“What do you feel about your husband, Puttilal?”

“I should have tracked that bastard down and shot him.”

“How did you meet Chaturvedi, the S P of Bhind?”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

“How much money did you make as a dacoit?”

“How is hat your concern?”

“Who were your harbourers?”

Reply: “Your father!”

Man Singh gripped her hand and told her not to respond. It was pointless, he said. He knew she felt trapped by the van, built like a cage with iron bars across each window, and all the commotion around them, aggravated by her own fever, made he almost hysterical. Cameras clicked as she screamed abuse at the photographers, clutching the bars. “You sell my pictures and make money. My mother tells me you make a lot of money. How much do you make, you arsehole?”

The press turned against her. For two years preceding her surrender, journalists from everywhere had been in search of her, zeroing in on every little detail they could lay their hands on, digging up facts and making up fiction. Her life and all the gossip that surrounded it became public property. Yet not one reporter had seen or met her until the time of her surrender. Having met her face to face, they didn’t like her. She hadn’t lived up to their expectations. “The Avenging Angel”, Bandit Queen”, Avtar of Kali”, became “A Jangle of Bangles”, “Mistress of Murder”, “Bandit Brat”, and a “Neurotic Nymphomaniac”. There was an article I read somewhere which said she was “too dark, too short, flat-chested and rude”.

Much of what was printed about Phoolan Devi at the time reflected the nature and prejudice of the men who wrote the articles. For some strange reason, few women covered the story and those who did had been influenced by their male colleagues, or at any rate had decided to stick with mainstream of journalistic opinion. Some bizarre pieces appeared in various national newspapers. For instance, a Mr G. V. Krishnan wrote for the Times of India:

Phoolandevi, draped in a red shawl looked like a tent pole with the canvas collapsed around it. She had a red band tied around her head in the Red Indian fashion. The head band attracted one’s attention to her face that would otherwise not merit a second glance. The dark and short-statured “Bandit Queen” could easily be missed in a fish-market crowd.

Another man offended by the “short and dark” women of this world! There was another piece by him a few days later, on 22 February 1983, which began:

Phoolan Devi (at least by now he was writing her name correctly) is no big deal. Blowing the chaff off the “bandit queen” image she emerges as a plain woman with a touch of the wild about her. Remember the wolf boy of lucknow? He had acquired the habits and lifestyle of the wolves that had brought him up from infancy.

Phoolan Devi appeared no less the product of her environment. She has spent four impressionable years of her life in the Chambal ravines.

In a sense, she could be considered the “wolf boy”

of Chambal.

“How was life in the ravines?”

he had asked her and then wrote: