Page 84 of Mrs. Pandey
“Do you want me to announce it on television?” he scoffed. “Maybe I should give an ad in the newspaper…Captain Pandey marries Ira Solanki. Would that make you happy? Seriously, Ira?”
“At least they...” I began, but he cut me off.
“I have to go to the field. Maybe we should talk about it later.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked out.
I stared at the doorway long after he was gone. He’d changed completely in just one day. I had told myself he was busy, but now, I could hear it in his voice.
He was ignoring me. Coldly.
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Chapter 39
PRASHANT
THREE MONTHS LATER
UNKNOWN LOCATION - SOMEWHERE BEYOND THE LOC
Three months or maybe three hundred. The concept of time was a luxury I could no longer afford. It was a fluid, terrifying thing, measured not in the rising and setting of the sun, but in the rhythm of my suffering. It was the length of a shadow on the wall, the slow burn of hunger, the fraction of a second between the click of lightning and the strike of a boot. My body was a bizarre clock, every fresh wound a new hour marked in agony. My left shoulder, dislocated so often it felt like a loose hinge, shrieked with every subtle shift. My ribs were a shifting, splintered puzzle, every shallow breath a sharp, stinging reminder that I was still here, still alive, still there to be tormented by them.
They broke me as casually as a child breaks twigs. They would let the bones heal, reassemble themselves into a crooked mockery of what they once were, just to break them again. Pain was a constant, throbbing existence, a white-hot river that flowed through my veins and never dried up. They would starve me until my insides were tearing at each other, then give me stale bread soaked in salty water as a cruel joke but caused even more pain. Water was rationed without mercy. They would let my lips crack and my throat turn to sand, then force me to drink from rusty cans that smelled of gasoline. I would drift off seeking justa little peace, and they would slam the door or douse me in ice-cold water, their laughter echoing in the dark like a pack of hyenas.
But physical pain was just one layer of torture. They were playing mind games, the psychological warfare was far more insidious. They were a poison that seeped into the cracks of my understanding, a slow-acting acid that eroded the very foundations of my identity. They played recordings of women screaming, their voices hoarse and full of terror. Sometimes they would say it was my mother, sometimes my sisters. The lies were so intricately crafted, so carefully woven from the intimate details of my service file, that the line between truth and lie blurred completely. They didn't need the truth to hurt me; they only needed doubt.
One night, they slipped a photograph under the door. It was Ira as her smile was full and genuine, her eyes were shining with the quiet joy. But the edges of the photo were burned, and something looked off about her. Of course it was also their mind game. On the back of the photo, written in bold letters, were the words: "She asked for your name."
I knew it was a lie. I had to admit it was a lie. But a part of me, a tiny, and scared corner of my mind couldn't help but wonder. That was his real genius. He didn't need me to believe him completely. The slightest doubt was enough to sow a seed of self-hatred that could grow into a forest of despair.
They used to leave me alone in the dark cells with the bodies of strangers, perhaps dead villagers, or prisoners who had died long ago. I could smell the stench of the darkness; I could feel the cold, suffocating air of their courtyards pressing against me.
Once, they left a man inside the cell, mumbling prayers in Pashto, until his voice faded and changed into a hoarse, barely audible whisper. I didn't know his name. I didn't know what he said. But I remembered his last breath as it was a calm, hushing breath that stayed with me like a ghost in the dense silence.
Often, they would drag me from my room into a larger chamber. The blinding light would sear my eyes as a cruel imitation of the sun I hadn't seen in what felt like eternity. I never saw the sky. Just other faces: some masked, some bare, each one taking their own risks with me.
I was no longer a person, just a face, a piece of flesh to be dismantled. One of them liked to smile before hurting me, as if we shared some private joke. Another never spoke, his eyes were dead and empty, as he systematically broke my fingers, one by one.
But while they were breaking my body, my mind was sharpening. I studied them: their steps, their habits, the tiny tells that betrayed their weaknesses. I knew the one who limped slightly, the one who kept adjusting his scarf when he was nervous. I studied the buttons on the belt of the guard who brought my food, the way he spoke, the sound of his breathing when he bent down to scare me.
They never expected me to notice. That was their mistake. This was a calculation, a cold, ruthless reading of my environment, my captors, and my prison.
And then, one night, I felt it, a slight give in the warped metal of my shackles. Almost nothing, just the faintest scrape of metal against metal. But it was there. It told me that in another month,maybe two, it would break. One well-placed blow would be enough.
I hid my progress carefully, like a secret weapon. When the guard came near, I would shift my hands to conceal the scuffs on the chain, the faint gleam where the links had worn thin under my constant, subtle pressure.
Every whispered curse, every scream I swallowed, was a silent prayer for the day that chain would finally snap.
When it happened, the killing came almost naturally. It was the simple, inevitable outcome of months of observation and a lifetime of training. Two of them entered the cell. One, whom I called the chaakoo wala, liked to taunt me, leaning in so close I could smell the mix of onions and tobacco on his breath. The other carried a plate of food. I watched them, my heart a frozen knot in my chest, my mind an empty slate focused solely on the moment.
Before he could react, I moved. I smashed his head into the steel wall. The sound of bone breaking was thick and ugly. His voice was swallowed by shock before he could cry out. As his shoulder slumped, I grabbed his knife.
The one with the food froze, eyes wide in disbelief, before collapsing to the ground. That stumble gave me the opening I needed. I drove the blade into the soft space between his ribs. He let out a thin, strangled scream that died as I pulled the knife free and cut his throat.
Two cuts as blood poured fast, a red river staining the dirty concrete. My heart thundered in my chest, but my mind was ice.
The other two came running, boots pounding the floor. The first raised his weapon. I lunged, grabbing it, the heat of the first bullet brushing past my ear. I smashed the butt of the rifle into his face. I heard the crack of bone. He fell, a roar of pain shaking through his body.
The last one fired. The bullet grazed my shoulder, another tore through my side and lodged near my chest. But I didn't fall. I threw myself at him, all my remaining strength condensed into one final burst. My elbow smashed into his throat. He dropped, and I took his knife.
