Another Heaven. Annu Subramanian

which he couldn’t control when one of the policemen mercilessly punched him in his stomach. A long time ago, his mother had told him about hell; a place that pulled in liars, thieves, and sinners. That jail must be a pitiless, violent hell. He never told a lie, never stole, never hurt a fly. Why was he sent to hell?

      A bulky policeman came into the room after whispering something to the guards outside the door. “Salman, you look terrible. You’ll starve to death if you don’t tell me where you got that drug. Who gave it to you?”

      Salman, while suspended from the ceiling like a butchered goat, tried to breathe. What could he say? His muscles were numb, and he felt a different pain stabbing at his heart. He didn’t know how that drug came into his pocket. What tale could he spin? What would the police believe?

      “I don’t know,” Salman whispered in a feeble voice, his innocent, bleeding humanity gaping at an impassive world. “I don’t know. Please believe me.”

      “You must be thirsty. Here, have a drink of water.” The policeman picked up a dented metal pitcher and stared at the boy’s gaunt face. The young prisoner’s empty eyes and jaundiced skin stared back at him. “You parasite, you would like some water, won’t you?” he asked, tossing the pitcher at Salman. “I’ll make you drink from the toilet again. You, mother f…” More obscenities catapulted from his foul mouth.

      Salman tasted the blood trickling down his nose from his forehead. The heavy pitcher had made a wicked gash on his already bruised skin, but he didn’t feel much pain. His semiconscious state wouldn’t allow him to feel the raw pain.

      The policeman’s attention shifted from Salman’s face to the creaking door as it opened.

      “So, this is how you treat a young prisoner?” asked a man’s voice. “He is just a child. Your superiors and mine will hear about this.”

      Salman’s eyes tried to focus through the streaks of blood and water dripping from his face. A man was standing at the open door, but he was not in a khaki uniform. When Salman closed his eyes and opened them again, he noticed that the visitor was dressed in a suit and a tie. He had a briefcase in one hand and a piece of paper in the other, and his eyes were flitting back and forth from Salman to the policeman.

      “Who the hell are you?” shouted the policeman. He turned to the guards outside the room. “And what the hell are you idiots doing? Who gave you permission to let this man inside this room?”

      “Sir, he has a pass,” replied one of the guards, nervously glancing at the piece of paper the visitor was brandishing.

      “Let me see it.” The policeman snatched the paper from the visitor and glanced at it irritably. “Come here,” he shouted at one of the guards. “Unhook the boy and get him to rest on the cot. Give him some food, but not too much. Start with just a little gruel.” The policeman soon walked out of the cell.

      The visitor, after a long look at the boy, followed him.

      Salman closed his eyes in relief as the guard shut the door.

      d

      “Hey, Manohar, new suit and tie? You look like a bloody executive. Not bad,” laughed the policeman, once he reached his office. He sat on the chair behind his desk and asked the visitor to take a seat.

      “Well, is it convincing, Ravi?” asked Manohar, sitting on the chair opposite to the policeman.

      “Oh, it’s very convincing,” laughed Inspector Ravi, his eyes traveling from the visitor’s scar on his right cheek to his thick mustache that effortlessly concealed his smile.