The brawny police constable Rana had a unique style of asking questions. He used his iron fists to slam a blow in Aakash’s stomach and pinned his head to the rough walls.
“Are you ready to sing like a cuckoo now?”, Rana asked in a husky voice.
The windowless cell or Arthur Road Jail was no less than a trapping pit. Smell of dried urine filled his blood soaked nostrils. He suffocated as mosquitoes relished the sweat of his shirtless torso. His head bent down in tiredness as blood trickled from his hair strands. The handcuffs and leg irons that bound him to the chair pierced his wrists and ankles. His broken spectacles and puffy eyes made his sight hazy. His bones rattled, and his mouth was a cracked, barren land awaiting downpour. In all this, Aakash’s mental strength prevented from vomiting a confession.
“So, this is what they call the third degree? I know who is behind all this, and the b******s won’t negotiate”, he thought in despair. As a 28-year-old b-school graduate, Aakash wanted to be famous, but ‘incarceration’ was not the skill he desired on his resume’.
Presstitutes waited outside the police station to get a glimpse of the suspect. News channels displayed their breaking news – ‘Employee of $50bn WDS Ltd. held for molesting the Chairman’s wife’.
Musings of an Author 