My Years in a Pakistani Prison by Sharma Kishorilal

Author:Sharma, Kishorilal [Sharma, Kishorilal]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781935501923
Publisher: Lancer Publishers LLC
Published: 2013-10-27T00:00:00+00:00

12

THE SHAHI QUILA

The ‘hotplate treatment’ had left me a complete physical wreck though my morale wasn’t down in spite of every possible trick tried by the tormentors, day in and day out. Making me put on trousers made of synthetic cloth so that the pieces of fabric got stuck deep inside the flesh as a result of burning and pain aggravated, keeping hands and feet tied continuously and not removing the blindfold so that I could neither see nor feel the gashing wounds that kept my entire consciousness under incessant inflammation and the continuous taunts and abuses at times accompanied by the guards, sentries or other passersby spitting in my face without any provocation from me were perhaps all aimed at breaking my nerve. The interrogators were not interested in knowing the truth beyond forcing me to confess my Indian identity. If they could achieve this they thought there would be no problem in making me agree to any other half truth or untruth they desired. Apart from a fake name and identity for myself they wanted me to identify some persons from a bunch of photogrqaphs they showed me and affirm that they were working for Indian intelligence agencies. Surprisingly, most of such persons were not only their own compatriots but also their own colleagues in the FIU or the police. So much about the feeling of camaraderie amongst ground level workers of the intelligence and security agencies of Pakistan! I found it ironical.

“An interrogator pursues the trail of truth like a blood hound,” I had read in one of the many books I used to read on spying in my days of crushes on the profession. Our Pakistani interrogators seemed to be just the opposite and pursuing the trail of untruths and compel me to be their henchman in the process. My mother who was a simple housewife with modest level of formal education had taught us some simple home truths. One of these was that you can never know another person’s truth if you have no regard for truth yourself. Here were our Pakistani brethren wanting to know my truth and at the same time persuading, forcing and even torturing me to tell lies that they thought would suit their petty, personal vested interests. I wonder if their mothers didn’t teach them what my mother had taught me or whether they had forgotten what they might have learnt as little children.

I must have languished in that condition with severe burn injuries on my bottoms, hands and feet tied and eyes blindfolded for nearly a week. In fact I had started losing track of time because of the stunning effect of the torture on my mind but I still had been able to retain the awareness that my mental faculties and physical capabilities were falling rapidly. I also had the mental alertness to understand that I needed to put in some extra efforts to keep count of the days of my misery just in case I survived the

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