Jenabai's peace march during the 1993 riots was the defining public act of a woman who had spent her life as one of Mumbai's most notorious bootleggers. In the midst of the 1992–93 Bombay riots, when the city was tearing itself apart along communal lines, this elderly woman stepped out of her home in a long white chikan nightgown and a shawl that covered the grey in her hair, a rosary in one hand and a white flag in the other. The march she led to the Pydhonie junction became a rare moment of civilian defiance against both mob fury and police violence, and it transformed her from a criminal into a symbol of peace. The event is central to the book's argument that women criminals were not blank slates written upon by dangerous male mafia members, but active agents who pushed the boundaries of dominant moral codes. Jenabai's walk through the burning streets of Dongri showed that even a woman who had built her life on the wrong side of the law could become the conscience of her community.

Background and the Suleman Usman Bakery Firing

The march did not emerge from nowhere. It was the culmination of Jenabai's growing horror at the violence engulfing her neighbourhood. The immediate trigger was the Suleman Usman Bakery firing on 9 January 1993, which proved to be the last straw for her. The Special Operation Squad (SOS), suspecting that terrorists were holed up on the terrace of the bakery, had opened fire inside the building under the direction of joint commissioner of police R.D. Tyagi. Jenabai peered through her windows and heard the gunshots and the helpless cries of people from inside the bakery; she was a spectator to one of the most gruesome and unwarranted killings by the police. The firing resulted in the death of nine Muslims, yet the police failed to apprehend any terrorists or seize any firearms from the spot. The truth was that there were neither. This was not an abstract political grievance for Jenabai; it was a visceral, witnessed atrocity. The knowledge that the police had killed nine innocent people on a false suspicion, and that the forces had no justification for their actions, hardened her resolve. Now, even a hundred warnings by the forces would not shake her determination to step out of her home.

The March Through Dongri

Jenabai's response was not to hide but to walk. In her long white chikan nightgown and shawl, this fair and heavily jewelled lady went out onto the street, and within seconds a group of young men had gathered behind her as she led the demonstration. She walked between the torched lanes of Dongri towards the Pydhonie junction, unconcerned about danger. The choice of route was significant. Dongri, her home neighbourhood, was a stone's throw away from the cloth market in Kalbadevi and had been part of the original island of Mumbai, which stretched from Malabar Hill to the Dongri hills. By the 1990s it was a densely packed area of rickety, old buildings, falling partially below the gigantic JJ Flyover and primarily dominated by Muslims. Now those familiar lanes were burning. The junction she headed towards had become the dividing line for the two wounded communities, with the Hamidiya Masjid on the right, the Khatri Masjid on the left, and three Jain Derasars. The Pydhonie police station, a gift of the British era, stood at right angles from these religious houses. When she reached the junction, she stopped. Here she stood, flanked by hundreds of young men and women, waving her flag and screaming for peace and harmony even as injured bodies lay strewn and mobs openly ransacked shops in the vicinity, setting them on fire.

Confrontation with the Police and the Crowd's Response

The scene at the junction was one of chaos and danger. Injured bodies lay strewn on the ground, mobs ransacked and torched shops, and the air was thick with the smoke of burning buildings. On seeing the demonstrating crowd, the police with their lathis and shields began closing in towards them. Jenabai's tired old legs had given in, but she stood calm, unafraid of the mob fury and the police lathis. From behind her, supporters screamed loudly, 'Jenabai zindabad! Jenabai zindabad! Jenabai zindabad!' The chant transformed her from a lone old woman into a symbol of resistance. The police, who had been prepared to disperse a riotous mob, found themselves facing an elderly woman who would not move. Her physical frailty—the tired old legs that had given in—contrasted sharply with her moral steadfastness. She did not carry a weapon, only a rosary and a white flag, yet she stood her ground against armed police and raging mobs alike. The moment captures the book's central thesis about women criminals: that crime was not only a way of transcending poverty and limitations but also a life-saving concept, and that these women pushed the boundaries of our dominant moral codes.

Significance and Legacy

Jenabai's peace march is one of the book's most powerful illustrations of how a woman criminal could transcend her outlaw identity. The event is remembered not for her bootlegging but for her courage in the face of communal violence. The march also resonates with the book's broader treatment of women who used public performance and moral authority to achieve what violence could not. Just as Gangubai Kathiawadi stunned her organisers and audience at Azad Maidan with her opening line, 'I am a gharwali (a brothel madam) not a ghar todnewali (home wrecker),' Jenabai used her presence and her flag to make a statement that no amount of police force could counter. Both women understood the power of public spectacle and moral framing. Jenabai's march, however, was more dangerous: she walked into a live riot zone, not a conference hall. The event also stands in contrast to the other women in the book who wielded power through criminal networks, such as Asha Gawli, who ran her husband's gang by proxy and used a women's wing as a shield against police encounters. Jenabai's power was different—it was the power of an old woman who had nothing left to fear and who chose to use her final years to stand for peace. The march remains a testament to the idea that in the chaos of communal violence, the most unexpected voices can rise to demand harmony.