Police Station Kasoor: As I was lost in these thoughts our captors were perhaps reaching the place where they wanted to incarcerate us. From whatever little I could overhear, I could make out that we were to be lodged in the lockup of Kasoor police station overnight and some persons from the Army (FIU) were to come to pickup us early next morning. When the jeep stopped I could guess from the kind of sounds and voices coming from all directions that the place indeed was a police station.

Some one, perhaps a constable was telling the man in charge of the FIU team that nothing was possible before the arrival of the ‘SHO saab.’ (Station House Officer of a police station is an almighty in his own right as not even a leaf can move without his approval within the police station. Whether a detainee is to be tortured or kept in comfort is decided exclusively by the SHO. The institution of SHO as well as his all pervasive powers are common in India and Pakistan as both countries inherited and preserved the same system of police administration which was bequeathed to them by the British rulers). The constable made it clear to our captors that we couldn’t even be off-loaded from the jeep until the SHO came and agreed to take us into his custody.

Then there was a commotion. The sound of heavy boots and smart salutes were heard along with words like ‘sikhs’, ‘kafirs’ and Indians’ uttered in whispers.

Then there was a commotion. The sound of heavy boots and smart salutes were heard along with words like ‘sikhs’, ‘kafirs’ and Indians’ uttered in whispers. The SHO had arrived. It seemed the man in charge of the FIU team had accompanied the SHO in to his chamber. After sometime we were pushed down from the jeep and I felt in spite of the blindfold, that we were encircled by large number of armed personnel. As we were standing, persons passing by our side (probably the constabulary assigned to the station) simply kicked, punched or slapped us calling us ‘kafir Sikhs from India.’ Some of them were even prodding us with the butts of their rifles and hurling most filthy abuses in Punjabi. After a while we were told to march up to the chamber of ‘SHO saab’.

As we started walking with great difficulty because of our legs having become stiff like a rod on account of being tied together since long, the police personnel escorting us kept beating and abusing. When we finally reached the chamber one of the escorts slapped me for not having the manners to offer ‘salam’ (salute) to the SHO. “How can I know that SHO saab is here because I can’t see” I pleaded with my invisible tormentor and he quickly responded with another hard slap saying, “Jabaan ladanda e haramjade kafir” (How dare you speak back you kafir bastard). Gulzar too was being beaten without any rhyme or reason. “Salam walequm janab SHO saab,” I said to cut the long story short. The SHO ignored and continued to talk in whispers with the FIU man. The conversation was being carried in chaste Punjabi and went like this.

“OK then, we will send our team to pickup these kafirs in the morning” (Changa fir assi savere kisse nu bhejangai innan kafiran nu len lai”), the FIU man seemed to be telling the SHO. “Where is the need”, the SHO replied adding, “This is what I don’t understand about you people. Our policy in the Police is clear. Soften the bastards overnight (saari raat kafiraan nu narmawo) and if nothing useful seems to be coming out, throw the body in the canal before the day- break. That way you are out of all those hassles of wasting time in running to the courts.” (Court kutchery da koi chakkar vi nahin rainda). “Don’t do that”, the FIU man sounded the SHO and reminded him of some incident of the past, “Pichhali vaar jadaun tussiai kitta si kinna rola paya si. Je sadde colonel saab saath nahin dende te twahdi fiti utarjani si.” (Remember the problems you would have run into last time when you did that kind of a thing. Had our Colonel not supported you, you would have lost your stripes).

I remembered how during our training he had told the MI bosses clearly that he was willing to cross over the border and collect whatever information the MI wanted for the defence of the mother land but he would under no circumstances engage in any kind of violence against the Pakistani citizens.



The FIU man apparently left and I was ordered to march towards the ‘havalat’ (lock-up). I was asked to follow the policemen and on pleading inability to do so because of the blindfold I was pushed forward like cattle with some punches from cane or rifle butt landing randomly on my body. I could feel that Gulzar who was beside me all along this ordeal was perhaps missing. On reaching the destination that seemed to be an extremely small cell with thick smell of stale dampness and hardly any trace of air or light I heard loud screams of Gulzar from some where nearby. He was being beaten severely and was crying like a dying man. My heart went out to him. What an innocuous human being he was.

I remembered how during our training he had told the MI bosses clearly that he was willing to cross over the border and collect whatever information the MI wanted for the defence of the mother land but he would under no circumstances engage in any kind of violence against the Pakistani citizens. “O vi sadde phra hagai janab” (they too are our brothers sir), he would tell the MI trainers without mincing words. I also remembered how when once he was chided by Ustadji for being so kindly disposed towards the Muslims (Pakistanis) inspite of being a Christian himself, Gulzar had told ustadji that he shall forfeit all the grace of God and His Messenger Jesus Christ if he started believing that non Christians could be treated unkindly. Is this the kind of treatment he deserved from the Pakistanis? After a while the cries from Gulzar were no longer heard and a scary silence descended. I started fearing for the worst for Gulzar and felt scared myself.

The chain of my thoughts was broken when I heard some footsteps inside my cell. Before I could ask who it was, I found myself at the receiving end of severe thrashing by 3-4 persons using an assortment of instruments from their bare hands to rods and leather whips for the purpose. “Oye tussi kaun ho? O menu maar de kyaun ho”, (Who are you and why are you thrashing me), I started yelling. The beating continued getting more and more vicious. In between I heard someone saying, “Maar da kaun hai assi ta teri jamatalashi le rahe haan” (who is beating? we are only carrying out a body search on you). I fell down on the floor and felt that some one – a hefty person had sat on me and was raining heavy blows all over my body, hurling filthiest abuses at the same time. After some time I fell unconscious and heard someone giving instructions to pour some water over my face and head to see if I was dead or alive.

The beating continued getting more and more vicious. In between I heard someone saying, “Maar da kaun hai assi ta teri jamatalashi le rahe haan” (who is beating? we are only carrying out a body search on you).



In my state of semi consciousness I felt that I was transported back to my childhood days in Jullundur. I was playing with a group of friends when a very small chick of dove had fallen on the ground. In fact a cat had climbed the tree and had tried to uproot the fragile nest perhaps in search of food. In the tumult that followed the poor little nestling of a dove chick fell down. We left our game of roadside football and converged towards the chick surrounding him in a circle. As most of the time we used to play in front of my house, my mother heard the commotion and came out. On seeing the badly injured chick she asked me to bring some water and sprinkle on its face. “If he has even a small trace of life left he will be revived with the soothing effect of the water,” she said with a tinge of optimism. We gently sprinkled the water on its face and also tried to pour a few drops tenderly in to his lovely pink beak but the poor chick simply didn’t show any signs of life. We all felt sorry and resumed the game but my mother was so sad that for a long time after the incident she used to start crying in sobs for the dead chick.

Lying almost completely unconscious on the floor of the cell badly bruised, the images of water being poured on the dying chick, his ultimate death and my mother’s inaudible but pathetic sobs started haunting me. “If my mother could not bear the death of the little chick and used to cry for long after every one else had forgotten about it, how was she going to cope with the news of what had just now happened to me and perhaps what could shortly afterwards happen to me,’ I started worrying and crying silently. I felt a person rudely prodding me, asking me to give up the tantrums (nakhre na kar oye), get up and take tea. His prodding could make me conscious but I didn’t have the strength to get up and hold the tea mug in my hands. The person started beating me again accusing me of simply throwing tantrums just to avoid giving a statement. As I was falling down he asked some of his colleagues to hold me standing and not let me fall. “Cha da mug phar” (hold the tea mug), he shouted and shoved what he said was a tea mug in my hands.

It fell down spilling boiling hot liquid all over my body because of which perhaps I jumped. The person seemed quite satisfied and yelled, “Hun aaya na tainu hosh, vekhya meri cha da kamaal” (so now you have become conscious again. Do you see the miracle of my tea.) He then asked me to make a statement about my name, place of origin and the purpose of my visit to Pakistan. The moment I uttered ‘Mohammad Salim,’ he started beating again banging my head against the wall. I again became unconscious and felt that the person had left after instructing his subordinates to throw a bucketful of water ‘so that the kafir waits a little more before going to hell, at least till the SHO saab comes to see the fun’.

The person started beating me again accusing me of simply throwing tantrums just to avoid giving a statement. As I was falling down he asked some of his colleagues to hold me standing and not let me fall.



I was in deep slumber with the images of the dying chick and my mother’s sobs continuously haunting me when I once again felt the commotion that is caused in a police station across the subcontinent only by the arrival of the all powerful ‘SHO saab’ on the scene. My guess was right. A hard kick in the abdomen perhaps by one of the cronies was the announcement of the SHO’s arrival to me. “Statement de vai apna” (give your statement), the SHO said curtly in a no nonsense manner adding mechanically, “naun” (your name?). “Mohammad Salim,” I said mustering all the strength I could to make myself sound confident. What followed could not be termed unexpected. After letting lose all his manpower to make pulp of me he suddenly ordered his men to leave him alone as he wanted to talk to me in confidence. I was lying on the floor of the cell, too exhausted to even speak properly.

I felt the man leaning down on me and whispering in my ear, “Oye gal sun oye mundiye tera te hun jo hou tainu pata I hai. Tainu te marna hi hai. Hun tere statement naal mera kuch bhala ho jau ta tera ki jau oye kafra! Oye maran taun pailan kuch mera vi bhala karja oye haramjadiya.” (You know very well that the only fate that awaits you is death you infidel. Now if before dying you give your statement before me, what do you lose?). Not finding me responding to his tricks he started talking about Gulzar saying that he had already died but before that he had told everything about our real identity and our mission. “Allah shall grant him place in paradise” (Allah o nu jannat nashin kare), he said, “because of that noble soul I am sure to get the police medal. Now you also be a good boy and tell me everything so that apart from the medal I also get an out of turn promotion. You know you are not going out alive from this cell so come on be a good boy at least for a while before you die. After all it is in the interest of every dying man that he does some good to others”.

To be frank I felt rattled by what the SHO told me about Gulzar, but kept my cool as our trainers had prepared us well for such situations. Without giving away my inner feelings I told the SHO coolly, “Je ohne twahnu sab kuch das ditta hai te hun mainu puchhan di ki lor vai janab SHO saab. Ik gall main vi janab nu das denna vaan ik musalman nun dujje musalman da khoon allah taala kade muaf nahin karda.” (If that fellow has told you everything then why do you have to ask anything from me. And Sir, let me also tell you one thing. Allah never forgives a muslim for the blood of another muslim). The SHO seemed completely exasperated. He leaned little closer to me and whispered extremely slowly in my ear, “listen kaka! I forgive you for not telling about yourself and your mission to me so long as you do not divulge anything to the Army fellows also. If you keep silence here you have to keep silence there also.

…never forget that wherever in Pakistan you make a confession your case will come for a trial through my thana only because the illegal border crossing by you is already shown in the Kasoor sector in the records and even the General of the Pakistani Army will not be able to change that.



But if I come to know that having fooled me the whole night you have made a statement before them, I shall skin you alive (chamri udher dyanga). And never forget that wherever in Pakistan you make a confession your case will come for a trial through my thana only because the illegal border crossing by you is already shown in the Kasoor sector in the records and even the General of the Pakistani Army will not be able to change that. I have suffered once because of these ‘Fauz wallas’. They once took the case out of my jurisdiction by showing the crossing from another sector just because I agreed to their suggestion of filling the records later after they had finished their interrogation. This time I have already recorded that you were captured in Kasoor and tomorrow morning when the FIU fellows come I shall obtain their signatures on the ‘rojnamcha’ (daily diary) so that they don’t change any thing.

Therefore janab Mohammad Salim sahab Kibla,” he added sarcastically, “either tell everything to me or don’t tell anything to the Fauzis as well.” I thought his utterances were the epilogue and he would be leaving shortly but he kept on sitting and muttering to himself, “Every time I become a laughing stock before my seniors because of these Fauzis. I keep the fellows over night in my lock up and they behave like dumb brutes. The moment they go in the Fauzis’ custody, they blurt out everything and I bear the brunt of my seniors’ taunts and anger. Let me see what happens this time.” The muttering kept on receding and finally stopped indicating that the SHO had left the cell leaving behind thick stench of alchohol.

I continued to languish depressed and lonesome with every pore of my body in severe pain due to merciless beating by the SHO and his cronies. The images of the dying dove chick looking at me and my group of friends pitiably beseeching us to do something to save him from death and my mother’s sobbing face at the lovely little creature’s death continued to haunt me amid shudders at the very thought of my friend, philosopher and guide Gulzar being no more if what the SHO had said about him was right. The dying chick’s face was a variable being replaced frequently with Gulzar’s and my own face by turns. Are we going to meet the same fate as that lovely little creature leaving my mother to sob alone with no one around to comfort her?

I abhorred the very idea of seeing my mother in pain and decided instantly that I shall not let that happen because of myself. I saw another image of my mother often telling us lovingly, “Jeda bachcha rondu hoye rabb o di madad nahin karda.” (God never helps the child who simply keeps crying.) I had already made my resolve to stand up, buck up and boldly face whatever calamity befell me. “Na dainyam na palayanam,” I quietly recited an immortal verse from the ‘Bhagvad Gita’ one of our holiest scriptures. It meant, “I shall neither give up nor cry”. From that very moment a new Kishorilal alias Mohammad Salim was born. It is this new born who kept me alive through a series of unspeakable atrocities to which my Pakistani captors subjected me over the coming decade or so.

Lost in myriad thoughts amidst the resolve to never say die I didn’t quite realize when did I fall asleep. It must have been quite late in the night, or perhaps in the wee hours of the morning as I was so fast asleep when a policeman came to the cell in the morning that he had to kick hard and abuse on top of his voice to wake me up in the morning. “Chaloye bhen**** kafir! O aa gaye tere phyo tainu len nu,” (come on you sister fucker infidel your fathers have come to take you along), he was shouting, kicking me at the same time. “I want to urinate and ease myself,” I said. “Shut up and follow me straight to SHO saab’s chamber,” he replied showing no concern for my request and started pushing me. My hands were tied behind, legs tied together and blindfold still on.

When I reached the SHO’s chamber he was talking to someone. Perhaps the FIU men were already with him. “Salam walequm janab”, Isaid addressing the SHO. “Chupkar oye salam walequm de puttar. O apna nimaskar ja kikende ne aunu Sat Shri Akal kyon nahin bolda haramjade”, (Shut up you son of salam walequm; why don’t you say your own greeting of namaskar or Sat Shri akal or whatever that is), he said visibly irritated. His cronies who had encircled me followed suit as each tried to give a slap, punch or kick. “Ai levo janab twahdi amanat twahde hawale” (Here you have your detainee), the SHO said apparently addressing the FIU man sitting with him. The police personnel encircling me again started pushing me out of the chamber.

I was thinking of Gulzar who was not around. I feared for his life. Suddenly a mischievous idea flashed in my mind. “Changa janab SHO saab Allah Hafiz,” I said even as I was being pushed by the SHO’s cronies and added, “main twahdi kal raat wali gall da khyal rakhanga.” (OK sir SHO, bye; I shall keep in mind what you told me last night.) The SHO didn’t respond. I could not see anything because of the blind fold but I could easily visualize the embarrassment and suspicion that might have become conspicuous on the SHO’s and the FIU man’s face respectively. As I was being marched out I knew for sure what I had sown in their minds. In my own way I had taken revenge for what the SHO and his cronies might have done to Gulzar and for the beating to which they had subjected me the previous night.After what I had uttered in the SHO’s chamber he would have wanted to get rid of my presence at the earliest. His cronies too would have read their master’s wish as, soon thereafter their sole preoccupation seemed to be to push me out without any loss of time. I too had no intention of staying in the police station any longer after having dropped the huge brick.

Under the Pakistani Army’s Quarter Guard: After a quick unceremonious walk out of the SHO’s chamber I was shoved in the rear of the jeep to lie on its floor like a sick buffalo calf. I could feel some persons sitting guard on the rear seat and another person, perhaps the senior most member of the team occupying the front seat by the driver’s side. No one uttered a word and the deafening silence had started weighing heavy on my mind all the more because of the blindfold that made me feel oppressed and choked.

I was also thinking every now and then about Gulzar and feeling sad. A semblance of normalcy came in the air when the person sitting on the front seat shouted at me asking what had the SHO told me last night that I had assured him to keep in mind. I instantly felt lighted up at the success of the trick I had played and decided not to let the game be up. “That is something I am under oath never to reveal. I have given my word to the SHO and as a musalman I have to honor the word given to a brother in faith,” I said without showing any signs or fumbling or hesitation. For some reason that I could not comprehend the person also kept quiet and didn’t pester for an answer. After a little while, the jeep seemed to have entered the highway. As it was still early morning time there weren’t too many vehicles and the road seemed to be deserted.

How dare you talk to the young soldier you bastard. Now quietly pickup the tea and puri and keep your mouth shut.

After more than an hour or so I felt we had entered a crowded area. From the kind of noises heard I guessed we were in the bazaars of Lahore. Having driven for sometime in the city it seemed we were again in some sparsely populated area. Perhaps it was the cantonment area of Lahore. I was still busy guessing when the jeep stopped and I was pushed down and marched for a small distance before being thrown into a small cell. The cell was so small that one could neither stand erect, nor stretch the legs in sitting position. Crouching seemed to be the sole option and that was an agonizing option for me because of the severe beating all over my legs, arms, chest and head. I became nervous and started breathing heavily with unusual rapidity. Very soon I realized that the breathing problem was being compounded because of the dampness in the cell. Within seconds I felt the resolve made by me the previous night never to say die was withering away under severe physical pressure. Gasping painfully for every breath I started screaming loudly, “Oye main mar gaya! oye twahnu Allah Pak da wasta mainu bachao!” (I am dying! For Allah’s sake please save my life!) There was no response and I felt as if I was talking to the thick walls of the cell. In fact there was no sign of any human presence anywhere near by. After wailing and yelling for sometime I fell silent but my resolve not to give up again started firming up on its own. Perhaps it was due to that infallible but mysterious instinct of survival that the Almighty has bestowed upon every living being in just the right quantity.

The solitude was finally broken when a hoarse and grumpy voice typical of Army men giving commands asked me to turn my face towards the wall so that he could push my lunch; two puris and half mug of tea. “Why are you asking me to turn my face towards the wall,” I asked and added, “You are free to push whatever you want to push inside.” “We are under orders to ensure that you do not see any human face while you are interred here,” the soldier replied with the simplicity common to soldiers of India and Pakistan alike. “But I am already blindfolded, how can I see anyone even if my face is towards the gate of my cell,” I asked again. The soldier’s response was so sweet that for a moment I forgot my sufferings and felt like hugging that simpleton. “Mainu nahin pata,” he said, “JCO saab kende ne ke patti bandhi hoye taan vi bande nu kuchh parchhain vangar kuchh diss da rehanda hai.” (I don’t know.

My JCO says even when the blindfold is on a person sees the shadowy outlines of all objects in front of his eyes.) I guessed he must be a young man like me hailing from the rural Punjab (so what if his part of the Punjab happened to be on the western side of the Redcliffe line), his innocence still unpolluted and undisturbed by the indoctrination stuffed in young minds in the name of motivation and training by the defence establishment of his country. After all we share the same ethnic stock, same sub-continental social values, same food habits and the same gusty sweet Punjabi language. My God! The simplicity of the soldier’s mind threw me into a maze of thoughts and I started wondering how could the young lad be an enemy for me.

I later learnt that the term ‘Sikh’ was used commonly for any one suspected of being an Indian agent.

What a world of illusions the colonial masters had created and left us to dwell in, I was wondering unmindful of the severe and abusive admonition some one had started giving to my newly found young hero. Perhaps it was the JCO who having seen the youngster talking to me without being aggressive or abusive was taking him to task for such gross dereliction of duty. It was time he took over he thought and started prodding me with a roller that he seemed to have shoved in the cell through the iron grill of its gate. “Haramjade jaban ladanda hai nhyane naal. Chup karke apni cha puri chuk le te jaban nu band rakh ” (how dare you talk to the young soldier you bastard. Now quietly pickup the tea and puri and keep your mouth shut), he shouted struggling to target and hit me with the rod that he had already managed to see past the iron grill. I had decided not to be done down by the bully and said assertively, “Mainu bahar kaddo, mainu pishab karna hai.” (Take me out of the cell I have to urinate). Perhaps it was too much for the JCO to take and he simply blew his top. After shouting a non-stop string of filthy abuses – and there is no dearth of them in our dear Punjabi language -he flung a cruel taunt before marching away from the scene. “Andar kisay kone wich karle haramjade assi edda vadda hall ditta hai tainu”. (Do it in some corner inside. After all we have given you such a big hall you bastard.)

Urinating inside the small cell without being able to even pull down the trousers because of hands being tied was unbearable to even think of. But there is a limit beyond which human endurance simply doesn’t last. I had not answered the calls of nature for more than 18 hours now and my endurance had already been stretched beyond its limit. Lying bundled and crouched on the floor of that small cell I lost all control and urinated right in my pants. The cell was filled with stench and the dampness increased manifolds. I once again felt demoralized and remembered the comforts of our modest home in Jullundur Cantt. I recalled how fussy I had been about having a bathroom exclusively for use by me. In fact I had emotionally blackmailed my father into using his influence with his colleagues in the MES and have an additional bathroom constructed sans authorization. My mother had thrown her weight in my favor, as she could not bear the idea of her children facing any discomfort. “Mamma dear do you know the condition of your son at this unfortunate moment,” I said to myself sobbing silently and kicked the tea and puris the soldier had pushed in the cell.

For the next three days I survived only on tea taken sparingly (I didn’t take every time it was brought). I didn’t touch any of the puris served to me by the soldiers. Because of the resultant physical weakness I used to keep lying motionless and speechless in the cell most of the time. This seemed to have alarmed my captors who thought I might die leaving them accountable under the circumstances. The JCO who had abused the young soldier for conversing with me tried to bully me so that I regularly ate whatever was being provided. He was a vicious man who would abuse Mahatma Gandhi saying that by refusing food I was following in the footsteps of “that kafir baniya.”

So long as you are in my custody you are under the protection of a true muslim. To protect you from hurt is my religious duty. Ill see to it that no one tortures you.

I felt incensed at his foul mouth but controlled myself as any sign of annoyance could easily give away my Indian identity. I had to therefore perforce join that rascal in abusing the father of the nation and pretend that if I was not eating regularly it was because I was not able to offer Namaz and not because of any influence of the ‘kafir baniya’. Offering Namaz was not possible I clarified, because of the impure state of my body as I was urinating in my pants and was not able to even wash my hands, let alone do ‘wazu’ in a proper manner. The trick worked and on the third day I was taken out to answer the call of nature and take bath. My hands and feet were untied but the blindfold wasn’t removed.

I felt great relief after the bath and the few moments of partial freedom out in the open. Back in the cell I offered ‘Namaz’ with the perfection of the devout leaving my captors including even the wily JCO impressed. While no human interaction was allowed and the command to turn my face towards the wall every time the guards came to shove tea and puris in the cell remained intact, I was allowed to come out for answering the calls of nature with my hands and feet untied twice daily. Proper facilities for ‘wazu’ were also afforded every morning and evening when I would offer my prayers (Namaz).

What baffled me however was that no one ever came to interrogate me even though occasionally I used to hear some senior military officers talking to the guards about who I was and what for I was incarcerated. The guards would invariably respond in hushed voices for fear of being overheard by me but I could make out that they knew nothing beyond the basic information that I was put in the quarter guard by the FIU on suspicion of being a Sikh. (I later learnt that the term ‘Sikh’ was used commonly for any one suspected of being an Indian agent.) Occasionally I could also overhear the guards telling the inquisitive visitors that notwithstanding the allegations of the FIU, they had little doubt that I was a musalman and a devout one at that. Every time I heard the guards say so I felt satisfied and happy about my professional competence as MI operative relieving me howsoever temporarily of the gloom that otherwise seemed endless.

I spent nearly two weeks in this quarter guard after which I was moved to another location. The shifting came as suddenly for me as for the guards as I could hear the JCO and the other soldiers on guard duty grumbling about the problems they had to face to make arrangements hastily in the absence of adequate notice.

The mode and manner of transportation was as usual. Hands and feet tied, shoved like a bundle of grass on the floor in the rear portion of the jeep with three or four persons occupying the seats above and one person, invariably the senior most member of the escort team, sitting on the front seat by the side of the driver as per military protocol for an official vehicle. The jeep was driven for over an hour but from the noises heard around I guessed we were still in the cantonment area of Lahore and the long drive was only a red herring to put me off my guesswork about the real location. By now I had become a sounds expert of sorts and from the kind of sounds heard around I could make out that the place was once again an army quarter guard. The cell here was better than the previous ones. It was small but there was space to either stand erect or sit down and stretch the legs. It wasn’t damp or smelly either.

My hands and feet remained tied while I was inside it but were untied when ever I needed to answer the calls of nature for which the guards agreed to bring me out as often as I asked them. On my part I returned their gesture by making it a point to not ask for the liberty unless it was absolutely necessary. The guard company seemed comprised of some half a dozen men headed by a JCO. From their talks I could guess that they were all hailing from Baluchistan province of Pakistan and apparently also belonged to the Baluch Regiment of Pakistani Army. They were a well-knit team and I sometimes overheard them talking to each other complaining how the Baluch soldiers were discriminated against in the Pakistani Army. They also condemned not just the Punjabi domination of their army but also the unislamic and selfish attitude of their Punjabi compatriots whom they referred to as ‘jahil’ and ‘khudgarj’.

The soldiers were kindhearted, simple souls, particularly the JCO who seemed to be a paragon of the Islamic virtue of compassion. Soon after my arrival in his custody he said in his broken Punjabi loaded with heavy Baluch accent, “Vaikh kakke tu aitthe kyaun laya gaya e te tera ki gunah ve mae nain jaanda; mainu jaanan di lor vi ke ve. Teri umir da mera apna puttar ve. Mae rabb kolun duva karaanga vai koi jalim tere utte kade vi koi julamna kar sake. Jitthun tan tu sadde havale rehsi ai samajh tu ik sachche musalman di panah vich hai. Teri hifazat sadda farz e. Tainu assi kise julam da sikar nahin hon dyangai. Lekin je tu nassan di koshish kitti te assan tainu goli maar deni e te oh de naal sadde dil vich vi taklif hosi; ess gallda hamesha dhyan rakhin kake.” (See young man, why have you been brought here and what is your crime is not known to me. It is also none my business to try and know that. Back home I have a son exactly of your age and I have reason to pray to God that no one should torture you. So long as you are in my custody you are under the protection of a true muslim. To protect you from hurt is my religious duty. I’ll see to it that no one tortures you. Just remember one thing. Never try to escape from here, as in that case I shall have no option but to shoot you even though that will make me sad.)

The JCO kept his word as his men treated me with grace and dignity and never ever uttered any abuse or did anything that might make me feel humiliated. They gave me the same food that they themselves ate and even enquired if anything was wrong whenever I appeared rundown or gloomy. Whenever I wanted to thank him for his kindness he brushed aside the topic simply saying that there was no need for any ‘shukriya’ as he was only doing what the prophet of Islam has ordained for him. His kindness, simplicity and profound knowledge of the spirit of Islam often brought to my mind the memories of Gulzar. Had the wily SHO of Kasoor actually killed him or is Gulzar still alive, if he is alive where and how he might be; I would often wonder.

Every time I came across the elderly Baluch JCO I instantly started thinking of Gulzar. The kindness of the Baluch JCO left me with a unique solace as seeing him I thought even if Gulzar has been done to death by the devils in Kasoor police station his spirit shall continue to remain alive so long as there were people like my Baluch friends around.

My tryst with peace and tranquility under the benign protection of the kind Baluch soldiers was short lived as exactly after a week (or perhaps on the sixth day) my newfound friends told me to get ready quickly as they had received orders to dispatch the detainee to some undisclosed location. “Tainu laen nun team aan vali e kaka,” the JCO said and added affectionately, “Khuda taali da bharosa rakhin te hosla na harin, Allah vadda Rahim te Karim e.” (The team is coming to pick you up. Have faith in Allah and don’t lose heart, Allah is most compassionate and merciful).I had no doubt in my mind that the JCO knew that the place I was being shifted to was not an easy one and he wanted to say his words of kindness to me before the team came to pick me up so that his kind disposition towards me didn’t become known to his other colleagues in the Army.

Under the Pakistani Army’s Quarter Guard: By now I had become so resigned to fate that whenever I was to be shifted from one quarter guard to another I would mechanically march out and jump on to the place I knew was meant for me in the jeep. In a way the state of my mind had been conditioned on the lines of an animal marching towards the slaughter house in the hope that whatever was destined to happen, happens without any delay or suspense. The escorts no longer had to make any efforts to either make me walk or shove me in the vehicle. My experience about the shifting this time was somewhat different in as much as the escort team appeared to be extraordinarily savage and boorish.

Even when I was getting into the jeep on my own, one of the escorts kicked me hard in the buttock mouthing filthy abuses. When I protested saying that there was no need to kick when I was myself getting in another person closed in and started hitting with the butt of his rifle. After the jeep rolled on all the persons sitting in the rear started hitting and abusing without any provocation. They then started mouthing unspeakable abuses for the Sikh Gurus and Hindu deities challenging me at the same time to object to them and ‘see the fun.’ “Bhen****kafir, panja rupayye wich kise hajjamkolun nikka ja operation karake apne apnu musalman kainda hai, Mohammad salim da puttar madar****”. (Just by getting some small surgery from a barber for no more than some five rupees you call yourself a Musalman), one of the escorts who was continuously hitting and abusing me ever since we left, started accusing.

They then started mouthing unspeakable abuses for the Sikh Gurus and Hindu deities challenging me at the same time to object to them and ‘see the fun.’

I knew that by using unspeakable language against the Sikh gurus and the Hindu deities they were only trying to provoke me in to reacting so that they could pick up some brownie points before their bosses by flaunting their achievement in having ‘broken’ the detainee even before reaching the interrogation chamber. I also knew equally well that what awaited me at my next destination was real hard interrogation by some of the worst sadists of the Pakistani establishment and was quietly preparing myself mentally for the ordeal ahead. In the process I lost my usual mental count of the time we had spent in the journey and the distance it indicated. I also failed to take note of the noises around for my guesswork about the place we were cruising around or headed for. I had nevertheless decided that I should not react to any kind of provocation and walk in to the trap so painstakingly being planned and laid by my escorts. I therefore continued to brave all the blows and abuses but didn’t open my mouth.

The first round of this war of wits had apparently gone to me as we had already reached the new place of my custody without the escorts being able to provoke me or elicit any information in any other manner. The other side tried to express their frustration by throwing me down – almost dashing me against the road below- from the jeep on reaching our destination. From the lighting point up to the cell also they kept prodding and pushing as if I were a beast reluctant to carry the burden loaded on the back.

The cell was as could be expected dark, dingy, damp and stuffy with foul smell. When I entered I felt that there was another person already inside. Because of total darkness I could not sense even the shadows the young soldier had said could be felt in spite of the blindfold if I did not turn my face towards the wall but I could clearly hear the sound of some one moving slowly and surreptitiously. I could even hear heavy breathing by another person nearby.

My first reaction was that the cell could be haunted and the sounds were perhaps due to presence of some ghost in the cell. This was a place where detainees are tortured, many of who might have breathed their last here and their spirits might haunt the place, I thought. Besides as a resident of a cantonment town since birth I was aware that in every cantonment there were some old buildings well known for being haunted. My father often used to talk about ‘Robert Barrack’ in Lansdowne Cantonment in North India where large number of officers and men of the Garhwal Rifles who stayed overnight had testified about their friendly encounter with the spirit of a certain Capt. Robert who had died inside the barrack during the British rule.

“Kon hai oye” (who is that), I said scared but determined. The reply came in the form of a huge punch across my face and I started bleeding from the nose. Ironically the punch even though painful came as some sort of relief as it made me certain that my invisible companion was a human being and not a ghost. I knew even Punjabi ghosts do not use four letter words and in any case the voice I heard was most certainly human and not of a ghost. “Oye mainu maar da kyaun hai oye” (why the hell are you thrashing me), I said now that I was convinced that I was dealing with a human being just like me with no extraordinary power or strength ghosts are supposed to have. What followed was more beating.

After the person had completely tired himself he left the cell shouting threats and abuses like a mad man. He had hit me with his bare hands and with what seemed like an iron rod all over the body. I was bleeding from nose and mouth with multiple cuts on my face. My arms and legs were swollen and my wrist had become so stiff with pain that I could hardly move it. As he walked out he said, “ai ta tu nikka ja trailer vaikhya hai. Asli filam ta tainu raat vich vikhavangae. Pailan tu roti shoti kha le ohde vaad fir tere naal mulaqat hoyegi insha Allah.” (This is just a small trailer I have shown you. The real film will be shown when we meet again at night. First you have your grub, we’ll meet again afterwards).

After the person had completely tired himself he left the cell shouting threats and abuses like a mad man. He had hit me with his bare hands and with what seemed like an iron rod all over the body.

Just after the ghost man left, a guard came shouting asking me to pick up ‘apna khana’ (your food). I had not yet recovered from the effects of the massive beating the ghost man had given me and was lying bleeding and bruised on the floor. Because of the blindfold I couldn’t see in which direction the food plate was lying. When he saw that I was not getting up, the guard first prodded me with a stick as if I was an animal in a cage and then started beating the enamel plate with the same stick shouting, “eddar oye khotiye eddar” (look here you donkey, its lying here). To avoid further prodding by the stick which was getting more and more hurtful I got up with great difficulty and started running my hand over the contents in the plate. It had two chapattis and a loaf of meat with a large bone – larger than normally found in mutton, chicken or other meats commonly consumed in India. I instantly had a gut feeling that it was beef and in shock and disgust dropped the plate. I had been brought up in a vegetarian family and as a Hindu beef was simply ruled out from my diet. I abhorred the very idea of having touched a piece of meat that was obtained after slaughtering a cow venerated by every Hindu as an alternate mother.

“Chal apna khana kha chheti,” (hurry up and finish the food), I heard the ghost man thundering but didn’t respond. Oye apna khana kyon nahin khanda hai oye,” he thundered again finishing the sentence with four letter words directed towards me. When I still kept mum, the ghost man asked the guard to open the door of the cell and barged in charging towards me like a bull. He kept on hitting me and repeating in frenzy his question why I wasn’t eating the food given to me. “I can’t eat as I am not well” I said, “cant’ you see what a bad shape I am in because of beating by you. Can any one eat even a morsel in such a state.” “OK” said the ghost man, “in that case just put this loaf of meat in your mouth only once and swallow just a fraction even if you don’t want to eat the whole of it.”

He started forcibly pushing the loaf down my throat. From some of our relatives who had to migrate from the Pakistani Punjab at the time of partition I had heard horrifying tales of how some of them were made to forcibly eat cow’s flesh by their muslim neighbors to convert them to Islam. What was heartening was that for every such tale of horror there could be ten stories of how their Muslim friends saved the lives and properties of some of them and how their friendship has survived the partition of India even after a quarter century.

When I threw up what the ghost man had tried to push down my throat, he became furious and started thrashing me mercilessly accusing me of having lied all along by claiming to be a musalman whereas in reality I was a kafir sikh. “Tell me your real name now,” he was screaming. “You can’t be Mohammad Salim as you are not even a musalman. If you are a musalman why don’t you eat this loaf of beef.” He was now being quite clear and open about what was being offered to me as food. When I told him that I was a musalman but at the same time I was also a vegetarian who didn’t like eating meat be it beef or mutton or whatever he asserted that a muslim can never be a vegetarian. I had no intention of giving in and confronted him with the basic question of where exactly was it written in the holy Koran that a muslim has to compulsorily be a meat eater. (In fact some of my muslim friends in the school had told me that the holy Koran no where enjoins meat eating as being compulsory for a muslim and that they did have some close relatives who were strict vegetarians.

The ghost man brushed aside my query about the holy Koran by simply stating that he was a soldier and not a maulvi who would know the verses of the holy Koran by heart. His training, he clarified, was that if a person refuses to eat meat he can’t be a muslim and one who refuses to eat beef has got to be a Sikh kafir. “I am giving you a last chance,” said the ghost man and asked me to take the beef in howsoever-small quantity to prove that I was a Muslim. The Islamic teachings shared by some of my Muslim friends came in handy once again for me. “The flesh of a cow is ‘marz’ (disease), its milk ‘shafa’ (medicine) and its ghee ‘daawat’ (feast),” I said, “and this has been stated not by any kafir but by an Egyptian Islamic scholar. On what basis you are saying that any one who refuses to eat beef has got to be a kafir.”

The ghost man didn’t seem impressed and had perhaps already made up his mind. He left pushing me and dashing my head against the iron grill of the door of the cell and threatening, “hun mainu pata chal gaya, mai tainu vekhanga haramjade kafir.” (Now I have come to know and I will see you, you kafir bastard). I was gradually losing the calm I had managed to maintain through the course of the day and was nervously awaiting the happenings that lay in store for the night.

Span of the day seemed to have become extraordinarily short as night fell sooner than expected. I heard the footsteps of some persons entering the cell. They must have been at least three persons I guessed. One of them handed me what seemed like a pair of trousers made of some synthetic cloth. (Nylon, terylene and stretchlon were popular in those days). Asking me to change the pants ‘as I had to go for an interview with ‘vadde saabji’ (the big boss) he sounded incredibly sweet I knew though that it was artificial. He helped me in the change over after which I was marched up to a room where the mysterious ‘vadde saabji’ was already present. In addition there were 2 or three other persons inside. “Ai ta kise bhale ghar da padhya likhya munda lagda hai” (he appears to be an educated young man from some decent family), the big boss said and ordered his men to make me seated. “Sit down son, here is the chair for you.” As I started running my hand to find the chair because of the blindfold, the boss commanded his men to guide me to the chair. The person who had given the new trousers to me caught my hand and guided me to the armrest of the chair asking me to sit down comfortably.

As I sat I felt my bottoms had been set on fire. Oh my God! I said to myself, they are making me sit on an electric hot plate and tried to get up. My helper was standing nearby and he forced me back on the hot plate. This was too much and clearly far beyond what I had been trained to expect during the interrogation should that eventuality at all come by. The synthetic fabric of which the pants so kindly gifted to me by the helper burnt instantly and stuck deep inside my burnt flesh. It was horrible. I started crying hysterically and felt like I was going to die shortly. The boss told his men to let me get up from the ‘chair’ and not force me on to it. “Now tell me your real name and the purpose of your visiting Pakistan,” he asked.

I had hardly uttered ‘Mohammad’ and was yet to complete by adding ‘Salim’ when the boss said, “kursi utte” (on the chair please). The helpers again pushed and pinned me down to the ‘chair’ (read hot plate). This game of musical chairs continued for some time. I cried pathetically but now I was fully prepared to die rather than give up. ‘Mohammad salallaho alaho wale wasallam,’ I would chant the name of the holy prophet with due protocols prescribed in the scripture and at the end add ‘Salim’ as if I had become possessed by some extra terrestrial power and would occasionally also recite the kalama. “Ya Mohammad,” “Ya Rasul allah,” “Ya Allah khair,” “La ilah illillah Mohammad ur Rasuillah,” my chants had become as frenzied as they were frequent.

Not that my tormentors were any less. They too were doing their job unfazed by my efforts of religious blackmailing. “Kursi utte”, “lat”, “chittar” (on the chair again, boot, kick), the boss was yelling out commands to his men as if he was an accomplished music director guiding the members of the ensemble and his men were following the direction deftly. My inability to touch and feel the wounds or see them because of my hands being tied and the blindfold being on added to the pain and the overall feeling of discomfort.

My physical stamina proved a poor companion for my mental conviction. My chanting of the Kalama and the name of the holy prophet started getting feeble and finally stopped. I fell down motionless even though I wasn’t fully unconscious. The interrogators lifted me up and helped me change from the pants to a salwar. The synthetic fabric had dug deep in to the flesh leaving gashing wounds after it was pulled out. A person being addressed as Doctor saab by others was asked to see my condition. He applied some lotion on the wounds and told that there was nothing to worry even if the whole exercise was repeated allover again. “Ainu maran te main nahin dewanga enni guarantee hai” (I will not let this fellow die, that much I can guarantee), was his final verdict and lasting assurance.

As I could not walk I was carried on a stretcher and lodged in a slightly bigger cell. The torture was repeated continuously for three nights and the interrogation veered from my real name and identity to the contacts I had in Pakistan. Occasionally I was shown some photographs and asked to identify the persons. I denied, as I had never seen them before. The person who used to force and pin me down to the hot plate told me some names and asked me to state before the boss that those were the names of the persons seen in the photographs. He assured me that he would keep the hot plate disconnected from the electrical mains if I did as he asked me to do. From his talk I could gather that the photograph also had some of the personnel of the same unit and the man was trying to settle personal scores with some of his own colleagues using me as his tool. I declined the offer referring to some verses of the Holy Koran that forbade a Muslim from giving false evidence before any court.