Captive

It had been exactly 2 a.m. and the old clock in the hallway had been chiming away when someone pressed the doorbell. The strange cacophony produced by the mingling of two individually pleasant sounds, at once jerked all of us our deep slumber. Snatching a stole from the back of my study chair and trying to shake away freckles of sleep from my head I walked towards the dining hall. The doors to bhayya and Ammi’s rooms opened almost simultaneously and the other four members of our household emerged from them in various stages of sleepiness.  

 

The five of us – Ammi, papa, bhayya, Bhabhi and I stood in the dining hall looking at each other with perplexed owl-like eyes, each of us negotiating with our sleepy brains the possibility of this being a dream even as the persistent ringing and chiming of the old clock echoed through the silent house. Soon the chiming stopped and the ringing acquired a sinisterly authoritative tone. ‘Who could it be at 2 am?’ said Papa. 

 

‘I will check, don’t worry and stay inside,’ Bhayya replied walking towards the door. 

 

‘Don’t open right away, first ask who it is,’ Ammi said to Bhayya. 

 

‘Who is there?’ Bhayya asked approaching the door. 

 

‘Police! Open the door immediately,’ said a heavy authoritative voice from the other side of the door. My heart lurched into my throat and I heard it throbbing in my ears.  

 

‘Why has the police come to our house?’ Ammi said looking at Abba, fear writ large on her face. 

 

‘There might have been a robbery in the neighborhood,’ Bhabhi said moving towards Ammi.  

 

Bhayya opened the door. About a dozen policemen barged into our house and rushed into every room with the alacrity and swiftness of cockroaches. One of them charged at Bhayya and knocked him over.  

 

‘What’s the matter?’ Bhayya shouted. 

 

‘Come to the police station. We will tell you the matter there,’ said the person who appeared in-charge of the barge in. He held bhayya’s collar and pulled him up. Ammi screamed even as Ammi, Abba and Bhabhi rushed towards bhayya. A tug-o-war ensued between my family and police, each side claiming bhayya’s physical possession with equal energy. The only difference was that on one side the energy was fueled by love and fear and the on the other side, by a sense impunity.    

 

My gut feeling kept me rooted at my spot between the dining table and the door of my room. I instinctively opened the vertical fold of the stole around my neck spread it across my bosom. The policeman exiting after rampaging my room casually slapped me on the backside before moving on to join the tug-o-war. I suppressed a strong desire to lift the copper flowerpot from the dining table and hit open his skull with it. My family and I were in no position to bear the consequences of such an act. Tears stung my eyes.  

 

At long last they dragged bhayya away. My hapless family followed him outside and I rushed into my room to be able to look at him from the window. The warm mattress on which I had been sleeping moments ago was now lying on its side. The bed box had been opened and ravaged. My wardrobe had been pulled down, the desktop monitor was on its face and my books were strewn on the floor. The policemen had taken care to smash the tube light as well, so the only light in the room now was of the police vehicle outside my window. It cast a doomed hue of red on everything it fell upon. When the police vehicle drove off with my brother an undiluted blackness wrapped my room as well as my heart in its cold embrace. 

 

My knees buckled and I slumped to the floor. Outside I could hear my mother wailing and father and Bhabhi trying to pacify her. ‘Have patience Khadija. It must have been a misunderstanding. Omer will come back,’ my father said and I tried to imagine how mother will wail once the police realize its mistake and comes back to resolve it. I buried my face in my knees and sobbed. 

 

‘Where is Iqbal? Ask her to call Zaheer,’ my father said. Zaheer was my father’s young cousin, an officer in the revenue department and a dynamic man. It was him the entire extended family counted on in times of trouble.  

 

‘Iqbal, Iqbal!’ when my Bhabhi called out my name her voice had been perceptibly shaking. As her steps approached my room, I wondered what it would be like if she came in and found me hanging by the ceiling fan. The very next moment, that thought drowned me endless shame. That is not who I was.  

 

I forced myself to my feet. Strange colorful shapes began an unruly dance before my eyes and my head felt so light that I might be flying. Bhabhi steadied me by holding both my arms and asked me to call Zaheer Uncle.  

 

I had put my mobile on the now ravaged computer table. I looked for it on the floor, under the bed and table as Bhabhi shone light from her own phone. Bhabhi and I put the upturned mattress in place and looked for the phone in the crease of the rumpled bedsheet. I collected the books and placed them on the bed and looked for my phone among the contents of my pulled-out wardrobe. It was gone.  

 

A thief and creep.  

 

My phone had my photographs. Dozens of them in various poses of self-admiration. Hair open, kohl lined eyes looking seductively into the camera. In tight fitting T-shirts, no stole, no dupatta. In sari, mouth pouted, hair covering half of my face, pink painted lips parted.  

 

A wave of panic surged over me.  

 

‘I have Zaheer’s sister’s number. Let me call her instead,’ Bhabhi said pressing into her phone, ‘go, be with Ammi,’ 

 

Ammi was sitting at the edge of the diwan staring at the floor. Her hands on her knees had a helpless quality about them. I allowed myself to drop near her feet on the floor, its coldness seeping through the cotton layers of my shirt and trouser, and buried my face in her lap. She stroked my head with her fluffy warm hand and despite myself I started to sob. I must have started to shake because she bent down and held my arms firmly and said ‘Iqbal, control yourself.’ 

 

Abba’s phone rang. ‘Hello?’ he said with a perceptible shake in his voice. My parents were simple people. Tough but simple. All their lives they had toiled with persistence and patience but nothing had prepared them for their house to be ransacked and their son whisked away in the middle of the night. 

 

Abba covered the speaker and lisped ‘police station,’ in response to the anxious curiosity with which Ammi and I were looking towards him. 

 

‘Iqbal? Iqbal is my daughter,’ he said to the person on the other end of the line, ‘no I have no other son. Iqbal is my daughter’s name. But what about her?’ he asked puzzled and nervous.  

 

The moment I had been dreading all along had finally arrived. To my own surprise however, it came accompanied by a strange sense of fearlessness. 

 

I walked over to Abba and took the phone from his hand, ‘Iqbal here, what is it? Tell me.’ My voice sounded surprisingly sharp and clear to me. The fear and apprehension I had been feeling just minutes ago evaporated as I looked the demon in the eye. The moment of finality turned out to also be a moment of emancipation from fear. 

 

‘We will tell you. Just wait. Trying to fool people with your name? You slut!’ shouted the man at the other end. The last remark made my blood boil but I was determined not to lose my composure.  

 

‘Iqbal is a gender-neutral name. If it was me you were looking for please take me and release my brother,’ I said calmly. The man on the other end disconnected the line. 

 

‘What did you do?’ Ammi asked, truly horrified at the prospects of her daughter’s arrest.  

 

‘Exactly what I have been brought up to do,’ I replied.  

 

My parents had brought me up to be able to stand up for the right and denounce the wrong with whatever power I can.  

 

But no one had taught me to negotiate the fine line between righteousness and preservation of self and family. Unfortunately, there is no reference chart that spelled out the price one was supposed to pay for a certain amount of righteousness. The market of justice worked pretty much like the market of goods and services and these were the times of galloping inflation. Justice has become so expensive that to procure and an ounce of it one paid in flesh and blood. Injustice on the other hand grew like wildflowers – naturally and everywhere. 

 

‘What has happened? Tell clearly,’ Abba said, gently placing his hand on my upper arm. 

 

I told them.  

 

At the end of my narration Ammi pulled me closed to her bosom and planted a long warm kiss on my forehead. Enclosed in my mother’s protective embrace which was about to be snatched anytime now, I started to sob. Ammi held me tighter and Bhabhi wrapped her arms around the two of us. Sitting across from us on the sofa, deep in thought Abba stared at the floor. His shoulders hunched and the furrows on his forehead as deep and as many as the creases on his cotton pajama.  

 

The clock struck again. I looked up. It was already 5 a.m., three hours since they had barged into the house and two hours since they left. Time flies by as quickly in pain as it does in pleasure. As long as you are not bored time refuses to be your ally. 

 

Ten minutes later the police van arrived at our doorstep once again. This time two female constables along with a male inspector who had been here two hours ago hopped out of the van and marched into the house without so much as a knock on the door.  

 

‘Where is my son? Why didn’t you bring him back?’ my father asked the inspector. 

 

‘Bring back your son? You think we run a cab service?’ he said with a smirk and the two women with him obediently laughed.   

 

‘Is this Iqbal Khan?’ the inspector asked looking at me.  

 

‘Yes,’ I said, and as if on cue the two women jumped and grabbed me by the arms.  

 

 It hurt. Their woody fingers buried into the soft flesh of my arms. 

 

  

 

"Leave, I don't intend to run away," I said trying to wriggle out of their grip. It only made them tighten their grip and jostle me roughly. 

 

  

 

" Be grateful you are not in handcuffs, " said the shorter of the two women as they pulled me along. 

 

  

 

"Handcuffs would have been better. I am sure they don't overdo their job," I said as we walked towards the small gate at the end of our lawn. The policewomen had chosen to walk across the carefully cultivated lawn instead of on the brick lined walkway. My comment must have infuriated the short woman. She violently kicked a rose plant pot placed at the edge of the lawn. The pot broke with an announcement. 

 

  

 

"We are coming, Iqbal. Do not worry, " my father called out. I could neither turn around nor respond to my father's assurance for the police women pushed me in and before I could even find my footing the van sped off. 

 

Inside the van I felt a chill that I hadn’t felt while being dragged out of the house. Bhabhi had pushed a cardigan up my right arm just moments before the police women hacked my existence. To find its other sleeve I put my hand behind my back and shuffled ever so slightly in my place.  

 

‘Sit still. Don’t move a bit! What are you doing?’ shouted the taller of two women.   

 

‘Pulling out a gun to shoot you dead, bitch!’ I never said.  

 

She grabbed my arm right where her sour faced counterpart earlier had. It stung. Finding a portion of the sleeve clutched in my fist she examined it as if it was the pin of a detonated bomb. 

 

‘Please allow me to put it on,’ I said. 

 

‘Hurry up, and if you fidget after this you are dead,’ she said sententiously.  

 

‘Thank you, madam,’ I said, pushing my left arm through the sleeve, ‘I have a feeling that your immense talent is being wasted here.’ 

 

‘What?’ the two of them said in unison as I buttoned up my cardigan.  

 

‘Skilled women like you should be out there, chasing after dreaded terrorists. I am sure no one will be able to escape your hawk like vision and alacrity. But here you are...made to waste your skill arresting harmless students'. Both looked puzzled, not knowing how to react.  

 

‘Shut up! Keep your mouth shut!’ shouted the inspector at last, unable to stand the dumb silence of his subordinated any longer.  

 

‘Yes sir,’ I said and shut up for good, hoping that the Inspector would at leisure take the trouble of explaining the women the insult I had just subjected them too.  

 

I concentrated on the pattern embossed on the aluminum floor of the van. Crisscrosses and dashes that had accumulated dirt and grime on their sides and turned almost black. One couldn't make out that it was Aluminum unless one noticed the comparatively unstained metal under the seats with cracked raksine covers. Not too unlike the hearts of men and women who accumulate so much moral filth that they become almost unrecognizable.  

 

Outside the trees rushed past. There were hardly any other vehicles on the road and our driver drove at a break neck speed without any consideration for the drunkards that drive back home at this hour after their night out. If one were to come our way, he will probably have a balloon to save him from turning into a mashed potato. What will happen to the occupants of this vehicle though is another matter. My cousin once told me that the air bags that are supposed to inflate upon collision don’t activate unless the seat belt has also been put on. Pretty sadistic disciplinary technique. Why was I was having such absurd thought at this moment was a mystery even to me.  

 

The van came to a sudden halt. We had reached the police station. The women hopped down one by one and positioned themselves to efficiently foil any escape attempt on my part. As I was about to hop down the short constable once again grabbed my arm. A sting of pain shot through my entire hand.  

 

The police station was a decrepit old building with a depressing exterior. I had passed before it all my school life but now it looked different. My head felt light. Sleep deprivation, hunger or maybe stress. 

 

 The creamish yellow paint had been taken over by neglect and moisture from leaking drainage pipes, an ugly web of them spread unapologetically across the façade. When did they install these pipes that too why on the front I wondered? Then it suddenly dawned on me that it was in fact the back side of the building that housed the police station. They were taking me in from the back side. Why?  

 

Another bout of lightheadedness.  

 

My steps must have faltered because the taller women jostled my arm and instructed me to walk straight. We approached a door that appeared like a black hole from the outside. I had an ominous feeling that I was never about to come out of the blackhole once it engulfed me. Only the knowledge of Bhayya’s presence there calmed my nerves somewhat.  

 

Upon entering I discovered that the black hole was not completely dark after all. It was dimly lit by incandescent bulbs hanging from long wires attached to the high ceiling. The hole did not compress me as black are supposed to compress but the musty smell of long-standing moisture in the walls hit me with a physical force.  

 

Before I could make sense of my surroundings, I felt a sudden drag. The women, both at once were suddenly reinvigorated. They dragged me towards the cell and literally threw me in. I landed on my knees with a painful thud and heard the lockup door clank shut behind me. It was a 5 by 6 feet cell. High ceiling and a small light inlet so high on the wall that only spiders and lizards can avail the pleasure of peering out of it. Why would spiders and lizards be in the lockup anyways. Won’t they use their skills to slither out rather than up? Apparently, no. I spotted a skillfully woven spiderweb in a high corner. There was no spider in or around it. Then I spotted a lizard lurking close to it. The spider had probably been annihilated by the slithery creature. Did he try to crawl away in terror or did it give up to his fate submissively knowing that with its physical disadvantages and the lizard’s physiological advantages there was no hope for it, that an attempt to out crawl the lizard would be futile? I would like to believe that it is programmed to reconcile to its fate. Unlike some of us I must say. There is quite a few among us who are programmed to bring upon themselves relentless torment. I did it too. First refusing to acknowledge power when it manifested itself in its fang-bare glory and then by teasing the foot soldiers of that depravity enough that they break my knees. They hurt badly. I looked down. A blot of blood had formed on my trousers where my knee had scrapped against the rough floor of the cell. What kind of people did this cell welcomed before me in it’s rough, cold and greasy lap, I wondered? 

 

Petty thieves, molesters, rapists, murderers, wife beaters, tax evaders. Quiet an impressive legacy fate had chosen my brother and me to carry forward, I must say. But where was he? Within the police station in all probability. But there was no way for me to find out. From my disadvantaged point all I could see was the back of two worn out chairs and a portion of a long table. The rest of the world had been rendered inaccessible to me. To think of it, it takes just a dozen iron bars to cut off a person from the rest of the humanity. Although the iron bars did not hinder the flow of air at all, this thought made me feel suffocated. There wasn’t so much as a stool to sit on so I dragged myself to the nearest corner and seated myself on the damp cold floor.  

 

Involuntarily I started to cry. Rolling down my cold cheeks the tears felt warm. They reminded me of the hand pump in our village house, whose water felt cold in the summers and warm in winters. I had grown up believing in the extraordinary kindness and consideration of the ground water un till one day the concept of relative temperature dawned on me. I must have been in 8th standard then. And when I told bhayya about my pathbreaking discovery he very nicely told me to stay clear of sciences after class 10th. Not that I needed to be told about it. But conflict arose when I elected Humanities despite bhayya’s clear instruction about electing Commerce. He did not talk to me for an entire week after my admission, not because I had gone against his wish but because I had acted on the sly. ‘Makkar’ that he had called me all those years ago had etched a permanent place in the depths of my consciousness - the word but more than that Bhayya’s deep disappointed tone it had come encased in.  

 

A shuffle of feet broke my train of thoughts. I looked up at the two figures that had approached my cell. One was a potbellied policeman with an indifferent expression. The other it took me a few moments to recognize. One side of Bhayya’s face had become blue and swollen. A single concussion cut through both his lips at an obtuse angle. He had been hit across the face with something hard. The capillaries in his left eyes had burst making them bloodshot.  

 

‘Iqbal, come here,’ he whispered, beckoning me with his hands that he had put through the iron bars of my cell.  

 

I ran towards him. He cupped my face in his palms. ‘You are not allowed to be scared. Do you understand Iqbal?’ He said as his blood shot eyes drilled into my soul.  

 

‘They have hit you! Why have they hit you?’ I said trying to control my tears, the sides of my lips shivering involuntarily.  

 

‘At first they didn’t,’ bhayya said wiping away the trail of tear on my cheeks with his thumbs, ‘but after I told them that my sister has done just the right thing this is how they expressed their disagreement.’ 

 

I buried my face in his huge palms and sobbed.  

 

‘Don’t worry. We will get you out of here in a few hours. Just keep yourself together. And don’t sign any papers,’' Bhayya said. 

 

‘Hmm,’ I nodded my head.   

 

Soon after bhayya left, my old friend, the stout one, came and ordered me to accompany her.  

 

‘Come! Sir has called you,’ she said sternly. 

 

‘Which sir?’ I asked. 

 

‘Don’t ask questions. Just cooperate,’ she barked irritated, and grasped my sore arm once again. I winced in pain. 

 

********* 

 

Unlike the rest of the police station this room was airy and sunlit. The large window on the side looked over a well-manicured garden with a green rectangular patch of grass bordered by beds of colorful flowers. The outside world was just a few meters away but totally inaccessible to me. Despite Bhayya’s assurance I did not for how long. Presently a bee from the garden buzzed into the room and the man in crisp khaki uniform seated behind the teak paneled table, swatted it away with a large pink file folder. The next moment it lay near my feet, struggling to die.  

 

The man then turned his attention to me and instructed me to sit down. With my free hand I pulled out a chair green coved half back chair and took my seat. The man opposite me, with the expensive paneled table spanning between us, folded his arms over his chest. 

 

‘So, miss’, he said ‘you know who I am, don’t you?’ he asked in a self-important tone. 

 

‘Yes, a sexual molester you are,’ I replied with a smile and saw his face change color.   

 

‘Shut the fuck up!’ he shouted. The thunderous violence of his voice shook my heart. Rising from his place, he placed his large hands on the table palm down, fingers spread. I looked up and met his burning gaze. It seemed he would lift me up and throw me on the floor like frustrated children throw their toys.  

 

If rage had a face this was it. In terms of the gravely skewed power dynamics within this room I was closer to the dead bee than this man.  

 

Every cell in my body contracted in fearful anticipation of a physical manifestation of his white rage. I unlocked my gaze from his and focused on the blurred, deformed reflection of his face on the table glass between his powerful palms. Time stood unbearably still. Nothing happened.  

 

Suddenly he dropped back into his chair.  

 

‘There is something I need to tell you,’ he said calmly. I looked up surprised. The rage was gone. His face looked as peaceful as the clear blue sky outside his window.  

 

‘What is it?’ I asked puzzled. 

 

‘Your father has suffered a stroke. He is in the ICU, battling for his life,’ he said softly. 

 

His words hit me with a physical force.  

 

'Take her away and take good care of her,' he said to the stout constable who had been standing behind my chair like a mannequin. 

 

'Yes sir! ' she said to the khaki man. 

 

'Get up!' she said to me as she grabbed my forearm. 

 

'This is on you!' I said looking into his eyes and emphasizing every word.  

 

The man looked away. Then addressing the stout woman by name, he said, 'take very good care of our guest, Shalini.' 

 

'Yes sir,' Shalini said pulling me with a jerk. I freed my arm with an equivalent jerk.  

 

'Let your minions break my bones. However, that will not change the fact that you are a sexual molester, responsible for my illegal detention and my father's condition.' I said as calmly as I could.  

 

'I know how to change facts,' he said with matching calmness, his back towards me, hands in pockets, head slightly thrown back, pretending to admire his collection of trophies and certificates. 

 

'And I know how to preserve them,' I said and noticed his hands clench into fists inside the pockets.  

 

************ 

 

Back in the cell, this time, I wasn't left alone. For two long hours Shalini and her colleague Kishore took turns beating and torturing me. Under conditions of optimum power and impunity reverse evolution was a matter of minutes as Shalini and her colleague was about to show me.  

 

Shalini it turned was an expert at grabbing her victims' hair. Not once, not twice but thrice she pulled my hair so hard that they tore out of the scalp sending shocks of pain through the body while my neck joint threatened to give way. 

 

Kishore on the other hand preferred slapping, kicking in the stomach and twisting the arms.  

 

At one time he twisted my arm to the point the point of breaking and just when I thought it would break, he suddenly freed it.  

 

'Why are you doing this to me?' I asked gasping for breath. In response to my question Kishore gave me a tight slap that sent me crashing into the adjacent wall head first. The impact opened a gash just below my hair line and for the next few second I my eyes could make out nothing. I allowed myself to slump to the floor. 

 

'Get up, ' Kishore ordered. I remained still, hoping that they would now leave me alone.  

 

'Has she fainted?' Kishore asked Shalini. 

 

'Check,' she said. 

 

In order to check whether I was in my senses or not Kishore kicked me in the stomach with his pointed police boots. I groaned in terrible pain.  

 

'Not fainted, just doing drama, wasting our time,' Shalini said with malice. 

 

Kishore, agitated by my non-cooperation let loose a volley of kicks on my stomach. With every subsequent kick my entrails came closer to bursting out. At long last I managed to grab his legs in a bid to stop him. Agitated by the hinderance he used his other leg to kick me on the face. I felt the hard heavy flatness of his shoe sole against my nose, cheek and mouth and passed out.  

 

************* 

 

Coming to my senses in cold silent darkness, I felt as stiff as a lump of mutton in a freezer. For the first few moments I did not remember where I was. Breathing hurt and the left eye refused to facilitate vision. With great effort I altered my angle and a dim light fell on my right eye. The landscape now made sense. I was still in the cell, left unconscious after the long beating session. 

 

Mustering all my courage I tried to sit up. Couldn’t. Every inch of muscles in my legs had become terribly sore. Then I tried to turn around and lay on my back. But my arms and back it appeared was not under my command anymore.  

 

As much as I wanted to give up trying to get up, I couldn’t, for a terrible thought rushed like current through my body and mind. Has the beating rendered me permanently disabled? I clenched my teeth and forced my limbs to my command. It took immeasurable effort to rise on all fours. Then with equally great effort I shifted my weight so as to bring myself in a sitting position against the wall. My muscles punished me vehemently. There wasn’t a cell in my body that did not shiver with pain. All my life I had not known such pain, such desolation of the soul. But at least I hadn’t been disabled and that was a huge relief.  

 

I must have been groaning in pain because a policeman came up to the cell and said ‘Stop making these noise, this is not your mother’s house!’. Then he left as abruptly as he had come.  

 

The air inlet high above on the cell wall that had let in natural light earlier was now black. The day had turned into night while I had been unconscious. But Bhayya had promised to get me out in a few hours. Where was he? Oh! With Abba in the hospital, I remembered, and my already sinking heart sank deeper. The thought of Abba’s stroke made nausea rise up my chest. 

 

The police man who had moments ago informed me that this was not my mother’s house came back again. ‘Here, have this,’ he said and threw a packet of Parle-G biscuit at me. To my own surprise the indignity of food being thrown at me did not discourage me one bit from partaking it. Despite the pain, nausea and nervousness I opened the packet and put small some biscuit into my mouth. Like other parts of my body my teeth also refused to do their job so I let it sit in my mouth to melt on their own.  

 

As the biscuit degenerated in my mouth, I wondered what tomorrow will bring. A number of possible scenarios presented themselves. The khaki man might demand money in lieu of my release. He may refuse to release me even in lieu of money and keep me here longer to satiate his ego. Alternatively, he may pressurize me apologize to him to save myself from frivolous charges. The last scenario was scariest of all. Apology was out of question.  

 

Presently, the biscuit man returned somewhat excited.  

 

‘Madam, please come,’ he said as he unlocked my cell.  

 

His respectful tone baffled me. With great effort I rose to my feet.  

 

‘Where are you taking me? ’ I asked.  

 

‘Hospital madam. Sir has asked you to be taken to the hospital,’ he said. 

 

‘Why?’ I asked. My head was now spinning with confusion and apprehension.  

 

‘You were picked up mistake. It was a big mistake,’ he said. 

 

‘It was not a mistake. I will not go anywhere with you,’ I said resolutely.  

 

‘Madam please talk to Sir,’ he said dialing a number on his phone and handing the phone to me.  

 

‘Hello’ came the deep, husky voice of the khaki man from the other end of the line. 

 

‘I will not go anywhere,’ I said. 

 

‘See Iqbal, you had been right all along. I apologize,’ said the khaki man, his tone constipated. His words sounded as if they were tumbling out of a thin necked bottle - abruptly, unwillingly. ‘Allow me to make amends for my blunder,’ he said like a tour operator offering a two night-three-day tour on discounted rates, trying to hide desperation behind benevolence.  

 

‘In that case I would like to go home, not hospital,’ I said firmly. 

 

‘See Iqbal, if you go to the hospital, we will able to pass off all this as an accident,’ he said. 

 

‘All this? What all this? The injuries that have been inflicted on my body at your command?’ I asked angrily. 

 

‘Hmm, well yes, that only,’ he said hesitatingly. 

 

My head started to spin so terribly that I had to take support of the wall behind me. Of course, I would do anything to leave this damned place. But to leave the relative security of the police station at this hour upon the word of sold-out men was anything but wise. Beat me as much as they can they will not kill me here. That much I knew for sure. 

 

'Call my brother,' I said firmly. 

 

'Why do you want to trouble your family? He must be busy with your father,' he said softly and benevolently. 

 

'How nice of you care for the comfort of my family,' I said sarcastically. 

 

  

 'Alright I will call your brother. But these injuries were sustained in an accident. Don't forget that,' he said and hung up before I could respond. He was man oscillating madly between what he wanted to do and what he was forced to do. What was the compulsion to free me and apologize, I wondered? Has Zameer bhai managed to pull some strings? Improbable. He was influential, not enough though to force an ACP to his knees. A few months ago, he was himself mistreated at this police station and he could do nothing about it. A few years ago, he could have. But times had changed right before our eyes.  

 

And now the anti-CAA protests were raging across the country and the administration was rattled. In some states the police opened fire under and killed unarmed passersby. In the capital the opened fire, lobbed grenades and arrested the protesting students. Here they resorted to lathi charge and arrest.  

 

Two days ago, when we were running helter skelter after the lathi charge on our peaceful protest thatI came face to face with the officer for the first time.  

 

I had parked my Activa on the deserted lane behind Acharya Public Library and walked to the protest site, the State Assembly, along with Shivangi, my childhood friend. Shivangi Bhatt and I had been class mates and best friends since nursery and the prospects of seeing me off to a detention camp did not sit well with her. Despite her family's neutral stand on the controversy surrounding the CAA bill and their stringent warning to her to stay away from all sorts of protests here she was, by my side, waving an anti-CAA banner in the face of the minions of a hostile state government thumping her fists in the air demanding the rollback of the draconian law that threatened the citizenship of Indian Muslims.  

 

We must have been 15 minutes in the protests occupying one side of the road in front of the assembly when the police started to lob tear gas shells. The first tear gas fell right at the heart of the protest near the foot of the student leader making a passionate speech urging common people to raise their voice against the CAA. The protestors ran outwards only to be met with an onslaught of lathis. The khaki clad men hit students without discretion or restrain, breaking limbs and heads, chasing them as if with a vengeance.  

 

The core group of protestors, those who were managing the protest tried to put up a resistance. They were physically lifted and lodged into the detention van. Male police lifted the female protestors from behind letting their hands linger on their bosoms.  

 

Shivangi and I instinctively started to run towards the Acharya Library behind which we had parked my Activa. Running a few meters ahead of us was Siraj, a poor but brilliant student from Bihar, our class fellow at the university. Suddenly, around the corner of Parikh book store a policeman appeared and charged at Siraj. He first hit him on the knee and after Siraj fell down the lathi blows did not stop. Within moments Siraj's face became bloodied. While I was still making up my mind on whether to flee or plead on Siraj's behalf Shivangi lunged at the police man and held his lathi by her hands, her frail bare hands!  

 

I helped Siraj to his feet and gave him my hijab to wrap on his profusely bleeding head. When I turned around to assists Shivangi in her struggle against the police man and his lathi I could not find her.  

 

'That way' Siraj said pointing towards the library, 'run! help her!' 

 

I found Shivangi in the deserted lane where I had parked the Activa, pinned against the wall by the same police man whose lathi Shivangi had dared to hold back. Presently he was trying to force a kiss on my friend who was trying her best to wriggle out of his grip.  

 

'Leave her!' I shouted. He left Shivangi and turned around frustrated at my unexpected arrival. Taking advantage Shivangi lunged at his neck from behind and before he could react, I hit him in the groin as hard as I could with my knee. When Shivangi let go of his neck he fell down groaning in pain.  

 

'Dog!' Shivangi called out to him as we clambered the Activa and fled.  

 

'How did you two reach here?' I asked Shivangi. 

 

'The guy got mad that I got between him and his victim. Male ego, I guess. He jerked away the lathi from my hand and was about to hit me. But I managed to push him and run away. He followed me and after about a minute I could no longer outrun him. He got hold of me and when he realized that we were in a deserted street his agenda changed from hitting me to something else.'  

 

************ 

 

Bhayya came. He hugged me and began to sob uncontrollably. So, Abba was no more. I began to howl. 

 

'Don't cry my little sister, don't cry. It's his turn to cry. After doing this to you he has the audacity to call Abba and say that we should let this pass off as a road accident. But Abba refused to give in to his intimidation tactics.' 

 

'Is Abba alive?' 

 

'Why wouldn't he be?' Bhayya asked puzzled. 

 

'Didn't he suffer a stroke?' I asked 

 

'Of course not!' Bhayya said. 

 

'The officer told me that Abba is critical in the ICU just to cause me mental torture. I can't tell you how I have lived with this lie since past ….hours,' 

 

We walked out of the police station as if we were walking out of a restaurant. In the car Bhayya showed me a video posted by a Twitter user called BihariBoy.  

 

It was of the street behind the Acharya library. A policeman molesting a young college student. Her face has been blurred. Another student enters the scene. The two then collaborate as if by telepathy. The first girl lungs at his neck from behind while the other hit him in the groin with her knee. The molester falls to the ground and the girls scoot away. The video zooms in for a clear view of the molester's face as he barks a vehicle number into his phone with instructions for the arrest of the owner.  

 

The 38-second-long video clip had had 765 comments 28.9K likes and 5K Retweets.