An Excerpt from ‘Pink Sari Revolution’ by Amana Fontanella-Khan

“No! We will sit here!” she yelled. Turning back to the women, she instructed them, “Sit down, sit down,” tugging at Sushila and the other women, who were unsure what to do.

After the women had squatted in the cramped office, taking over all the floor space, Sampat turned to the young officer and, pointing an accusing finger at him, shouted, “You’ve kept a poor woman’s husband out here all night. I’ll take him with me today. What form of justice are the police giving?” The policeman did not answer; he picked up his crackling walkie-talkie and transmitted code messages to his colleagues — “Delta One, enter mobile from Delta One” — and then sat tight.

Sampat, realizing that this junior officer was not the right person to deal with, stomped out of his office and went to speak to the subinspector, a balding, beer-bellied man with a moustache called Sangham Lal Singh. The subinspector was sitting behind a desk overlooking the veranda.

“By shouting in this manner you’re not going to achieve anything,” lectured the police officer from his chair, waving his index finger at Sampat.

“No? Then we’ll shout more!” Sampat retorted. “Raise your voices, we’re all one! Strength in unity!” she hollered toward the women, her chorus of chanters, who had gotten up and followed her outside. All of the women raised their fists and joined in Sampat’s rallying cries.

With several cameras pointed at him, the officer, looking embarrassed, tried to get Sampat to turn back to him and stop this raucous, impassioned chanting, which was disrupting the calm of his station.

“Come this side, don’t cause any drama,” said the exasperated officer, motioning Sampat toward him.

“Without her consent, how did you dare just take her husband? So you’ve got bullets, have you? I don’t care. I don’t fear the police. You’re a human, just like me,” she shouted, banging her fist on the desk behind which the officer sat.

Just then, Sampat thought she heard the policeman mumble haram zadi, which means “bastard.”

Sampat’s eyes grew wild. “You call me a haram zadi? Have you gone mad?” she shouted hoarsely, her voice breaking. Whipping her head around to face the women behind her, she repeated in a hysterical tone, “He called me a haram zadi!” her outrage growing.

That was when all order in the station broke down. “You’ve come here to fight . . . ,” the subinspector started saying. But before he could finish, Sampat clasped a large folder she was holding in her hands and brought it crashing down on his head with a smack. She then pushed the folder into Sushila’s hands, who was carrying Sampat’s bamboo stick and rope, and grabbed the laathi from her. Sampat raised the long stick high above her head, bringing her elbows up around her temples; she assumed a position evocative of an ax-bearing wood feller about to reduce a lone tree stump to firewood.

“Hey, hey, hey!” the policeman said with alarm, as he leapt up from his seat and pushed forward the desk that separated him from Sampat.