‘The School for Bad Girls’: Rule-breakers who became trailblazers of Indian women’s liberation

I look up and sigh – this one significantly different from the defeated and off-put ones that usually break the silence of my days – stepping away from the vividly painted world of the 1800s in The School for Bad Girls for just a brief moment. This particular sigh was one of guilt-ridden gratitude and cold, unsettling realisation. They are just 11 years old, they have seen more than I ever have or ever will – I scribble into my notebook. But before my seemingly haphazard ramblings about sighs and notebooks force you to click away, I will concede and explain what exactly I mean by all this, and who these enigmatic 11-year-olds are that I supposedly scribble about.

The School for Bad Girls by Madhurima Vidyarthi is a wonderful blend of historical figures and fictionalised narratives. In the afterword, Vidyarthi, a doctor and author, chuckles at the fact that her fictional piece includes more historical figures than imaginary ones. And these figures – Kadambini, Dwarkanath Ganguly, Bidhumukhi Ganguly, Sarala Ray, and Abala Bose – are often left in the shadows of our history textbooks, their contributions to the evolution of the Indian education system left largely unsung. Vidyarthi brings them to life, weaving their struggles and triumphs into a narrative that is as empathetic as it is enraging.

Stories of liberation

Through their stories, she hands the spotlight to little girls like Kumudini (Kumud), the fictional 11-year-old protagonist. She is married off to a much older man, widowed almost immediately, and violently cast out by her in-laws. Dwarkanath Ganguly – PanditMoshai to the girls – rescues her from where she was left on the streets, battered and bruised. He doesn’t just save her life, he sets her on a path of transformation, prying her away from the crushing orthodox values imposed on widows. Although Kumud is only 11, her dialogues often carry a maturity that feels intentional. It reflects the harsh reality of a childhood stolen by unreasonable societal norms – a girl forced to be a widow, treated as an adult, grappling with a child’s confusion and resistance. Kumud’s story unfolds as one of gradual liberation, her journey interrupted by moments of childlike resistance and tantrums, a natural unwillingness to break free from the unfaired world she was socialised into, that makes her growth feel all the more human and raw. On this journey to become an educated and independent woman, she finds herself in PanditMoshai’s school for bad girls – Banga Mahila Bidyalaya.

Banga Mahila Bidyalaya – a boarding school for “bad girls,” girls who dare to disobey the societal scripts written for them, is one of the first of its kind, challenging every norm that bound women to ignorance and dependence. Here, girls are educated on par with boys – trained not just in domestic work but also in Science, Mathematics, and English. The school becomes a battleground for these girls as they war against the restrictions placed on them by society and the colonial government.

This is where Kumud meets Kadambini through Bidhumukhi (PanditMoshai’s daughter and Kumud’s best friend), a senior student who becomes her idol. Kadambini, destined to become India’s first female doctor, occupies almost a god-like space in Kumud’s life. Vidyarthi writes about her in a way that illustrates the weight of expectations she bears – she is both an inspiration for girls and a symbol of what women are capable of achieving, all while the world expects her to fail. Through Kadambini, Vidyarthi captures the immense pressure of being a trailblazer. These pages bleed with emotion – rage at the injustices, astonishment at the brave audacity of these girls, and an overwhelming admiration for their perseverance.

Confronting uncomfortable truths

Coming back to my sighs of guilt-ridden gratitude and cold, unsettling realisation, this book’s power lies not just in its historical accuracy or emotional depth but in the way it forces readers to confront uncomfortable truths. This story is not just about celebrating the victories of these girls. It is about the cruelty these girls endured and the absurdities of the societal rules they were forced to navigate. Few moments in the book evoke as much rage as when Kumud’s thirst for knowledge is blamed for her husband’s death. Vidyarthi lets this moment linger, pacing it perfectly to allow the full weight of its injustice to sink in.

The accounts of Kumud, Sunalini and many other widows in the book jolt us awake with the unsettling realisation that Sati often targeted such young, clueless and often defenceless girls. These girls, barely teenagers, bore witness to death and violence that most adults could not fathom. They were asked to forfeit their lives before they could even fully begin living it, treated as burdens, beaten into silence, and taught to obey without question. The author doesn’t shy away from portraying this darkness, but she also doesn’t let it define her characters.

Kumud, Kadambini, Sarala – they are all more than just survivors. They are revolutionaries, their successes a challenge to the same norms that sought to erase them. Sunalini, whose backstory contains striking similarities to Kumud’s, has reactions that are worlds apart. Through these parallels, the author skillfully exposes the unfortunate ways in which misogyny becomes internalized, leading women to project their expectations and disappointments onto one another. The book constantly reminds us of the often taken-for-granted power of education – how it not only arms women with knowledge but also with the ability to question, resist, and redefine the world around them.

The author’s stylistic choices make the novel an immersive experience. Diary entries and letters appear throughout the book, written in fonts that mimic the girls’ handwriting. This small detail pulls readers closer to the characters, letting us hear their voices – confused, hopeful, determined – directly. They are also windows into the minds of girls struggling to restructure the lives they’ve been told to accept into lives that are freeing and satisfying.

In the end, The School for Bad Girls is a wonderful read, one that I will recommend for many days to come. It left me in awe – not just of the characters but of the careful, empathetic way their stories are told. Madhurima Vidyarthi’s novel helps us look at how far we’ve come and reminds us of how far we still have to go. It is impossible to close this book without feeling both gratitude and responsibility – gratitude for the women who fought battles we’ll never fully understand and a responsibility to continue that fight in whatever ways we can.

The School for Bad Girls, Madhurima Vidyarthi, Duckbill.