I am a master in India

Chapter 213 Torture
Even though Anand was spinning so much that his vision went black, the police didn't let him go.

Five or six men hit him as he spun around, hitting him relentlessly with all their might, the metal sticks cracking loudly.

The stinging pain from the lashes traveled through the ropes to his body, affecting his face, arms, legs, and feet—no part was spared.

He was bleeding, he was screaming in pain, and he was begging for mercy.

But the police ignored him and continued beating him.

The police tortured the prisoner for interrogation, and strangely, Anand's pleas for mercy received no response.

They seemed to be simply beating him, without any intention of letting him speak.

Anand was beaten to the point of near death when someone reached out to stop his spinning and freeze him in place.

Just when he thought it was over, the man turned him around in the opposite direction and continued hitting him.

After they had beaten him enough, several policemen dragged Anand up a steel ladder to a detention room upstairs.

He was bound like a dumpling and dragged up a hard steel ladder, leaving a bruise with every step he took.

Anand didn't even have the strength to scream; they left him in the corridor of the detention cell.

The police officer on duty ordered the prisoners next to him to untie the ropes binding Anand, who was standing at the door of the detention cell with his hands behind his back.

When Anand was helped to his feet by the prisoners, the police grabbed his unconscious face with their hands.

Anand opened his eyes groggily and, through the bloodstains, saw his distorted smiling face.

The police swore at him and spat in his face. Anand couldn't even dodge because the other prisoners held him down.

After humiliating him, the police threw him into the first cell, and as they closed the door, his expression seemed to say: Kid, you're finished, your life is over.

Metal clashed, the steel door closed, and the key jingled.

Anand looked around at the prisoners, their eyes filled with lifelessness, madness, resentment, and fear.

An overwhelming chill crept into his heart, making his body tense.

He had no idea what had happened, why he had been arrested, or why these people had beaten him up and then ignored him.

However, his horrific days in the detention cell had only just begun; just like outside, there were different classes there.

The police station has four cells, each about nine square meters. The corridor is only wide enough for two people to pass each other, and it is more than ten meters long.

At the end of the corridor, there is a urinal and a key-shaped squat toilet, neither of which has a door.

The four cells and the corridor housed prisoners, totaling 240 to 250 people.

Densely packed, like a honeycomb or termite mound, a large group of wriggling human bodies were huddled together, with pitifully little space for their hands and feet to move.

The feces in the toilet were piled up to ankle height, and the urinal overflowed. The stench of excrement and urine filled every corner of the space.

January in Mumbai was still a bit chilly, and the prison cells were filled with groans, shouts, whispers, complaints, and screams of fighting every now and then.

Anand was initially placed in the first cell, which held only about ten people. They were furthest from the toilet, and the cell was clean with a place to lie down.

The people imprisoned here are all wealthy; they can bribe the police to beat up any other prisoner who tries to squeeze in.

The prisoners called this cell the Taj Mahal Hotel, a five-star hotel.

The second cell held about thirty people, all of them thieves with prior convictions. To protect their territory, they would resort to the most despicable means to ambush challengers.

The third room had more than forty people sitting shoulder to shoulder against the wall, each taking turns to stretch their bodies in a central open space.

The people in this cell were not as vicious as the first two, but they were united and worked together to resist the new intruders.

The last cell was closest to the toilet, so you can imagine how poor the conditions were, and the prisoners inside were the most cunning.

Newcomers usually pass by the first cell, and they might go there to try their luck.

But each of those ten or so people had a follower in the corridor who would push away newcomers and verbally threaten them to get out.

Shouting, "Next room! Next room! Get out!"
The writhing body desperately pushed the man into the corridor, into the second room, where he might be suddenly attacked.

The anxious newcomer could only go to the third room, where he was punched and kicked by several people at the door.

Next room! Next room!

The newcomer is ushered to the fourth room and is warmly welcomed as if he were an old friend.

Come in, friend! Come in, brother!
If anyone believes this, then they've gotten on a sinking ship.

The fifty or sixty people crammed into that dark and smelly room would immediately surround him and strip him naked.

The clothes that were looted were distributed according to the rank of the prisoners in the cell, and jewelry, money, and anything of value were all taken without exception.

Newcomers can only pick up dirty clothes that others don't want to cover themselves. At this point, they either stay and join the next robbery, or they go to the corridor to fight for territory with hundreds of people.

Even in the corridors, there was a distinction between the noble and the lowly, and a small place to stand had to be fought over several times.

The best spot is at the end of the corridor, near the first room; the worst spot is at the back, where there's a foul stench and excrement spilled onto the floor.

However, even near the nauseatingly sticky toilets, people sometimes fought over a small patch of shallow mud.

Those forced to stay at the end of the corridor, forced to stand day and night in piles of excrement and mud that were ankle-deep. Some would collapse from exhaustion and eventually suffocate.

The prisoners are only allowed one meal a day, which is served around four or five o'clock in the afternoon.

Most of the dishes consist of lentils and flatbread, or rice with a thin curry sauce.

Even meals are contested; those who are last in line often get nothing and go hungry for a day or even longer.

The people in the first cell had already bribed the police; they even had a small cooking pot and six or seven plastic bottles and jars for storing tea and food.

Even during their detention, they were provided with hot tea and snacks, fueled by the clothes and shoes of other prisoners.

The five-star hotel treatment doesn't stop there; they even have someone to serve them when they go to the toilet.

There, wealthy people would stuff their nostrils with shirts or strips of cloth and hold hand-rolled cigarettes in their mouths to mask the stench.

They pulled their trousers up to their knees, held their sandals in their hands, stepped barefoot into the pile of excrement, and then squatted down.

The toilet flushes well, but with over two hundred people using it every day, if anyone doesn't flush correctly, feces and urine will accumulate.

The wealthy would step through the filth and wash their feet at the tap. There, someone would wipe their feet with a rag in exchange for the leftover cigarette butts from the rich.

Anand was personally escorted into the first room by the police, who assumed he was a wealthy man.

He stayed inside unharmed until the next day, and was even invited to afternoon tea by the people in the first room.

Anand was dazed and confused from the beating, and his stomach was growling with hunger. So there was no reason for him to refuse; he ate and drank voraciously, behaving like a starving ghost.

The people in the first room looked at each other, somewhat suspicious. They exchanged glances and began to talk to him.

Anand, completely guileless, burped and revealed everything about himself, including his surname.

He firmly believed that Indians were compassionate and kind, and that everyone here was in distress and should help each other.

He even boasted that they would receive a generous reward after they left.

But when he wiped his mouth and looked up, he saw that everyone in the room was staring at him with hostile eyes.

"W-What's wrong?" He had a bad feeling.

"Throw it out!" someone waved their hand dismissively.

Before he could struggle, several people came into the corridor, slapped him a few times, and then dragged him outside by the hair.

Anand screamed all the way, his old wounds not yet healed and new ones added.

He shouted that he had connections in Mumbai, that he knew Officer Rajesh, and that he and Ron Sur were good friends.

Nobody believed him; the people in the first room even burst into laughter.

The famous Mr. Sue is brothers with Dalit?
This lowly commoner has gone mad!

The people huddled in the corridor watched the spectacle unfold, neither offering help nor kicking him when he was down.

They were all eliminated from the four-room system, at the very bottom of the detention cell.

After being beaten up, Anand stumbled to his feet. Someone tried to pull off his clean clothes, but he screamed and pushed them away.

His experience over just a few hours made him afraid to trust anyone again.

He was pushed backward by the writhing figures in the corridor, shouting, "Next room! Next room!"

The people in the second room were watching intently, already prepared with ruthless sneak attacks.

Anand hesitated, not daring to step forward. He was then pushed back; cowards were not fit to stand there.

He kept backing away, his short, stout figure being pushed and shoved around.

The stench grew stronger and stronger, and before he knew it, his feet were standing in a pile of excrement and urine.

Intuition made him stop; this was the fourth room.

"Come in, buddy," they greeted him warmly.

"You're injured, let me bandage you up."

For a moment, Anand almost took a step, but then stopped himself.

This is the sentence he used to hear often.

He missed Ron.

The crowd continued to push him, but Anand remained unmoved.

Someone squeezed in; he was a little taller and fatter than Anand.

He grabbed Anand's arms with both hands, trying to search him.

Anand struggled and cursed, and the two remained locked in a stalemate.

Everyone watched in silence, their breaths swirling around the two of them.

Anand gritted his teeth and persevered; he could no longer back down.

Behind that was the toilet area. At the end of the corridor, a figure lay motionless in the stench of filth.

Those who are driven there will not have a good outcome; most will not last more than a month.

But he was still injured and his strength gradually waned.

Just as he was about to be pinned to the ground, Anand suddenly headbutted the man's nose.

Three times, five times, seven times, his forehead just reached the man's chin, and the man's face was covered in blood from the impact.

The crowd looked at him in horror, pushing him, pulling him, and holding his hands down.

Anand lunged forward, biting the man's face and tearing at it frantically.

The man screamed and let go, frantically waving his arms and legs as he crawled desperately down the corridor toward the iron gate.

Anand chased after him and grabbed his clothes. The man clung to the iron gate, shaking it and screaming for help.

The guards entered and witnessed Anand spitting out flesh and blood from his mouth.

The man was missing a piece of his ear, and blood was flowing continuously.

The iron gate closed again, and the guard gave him a questioning look before ignoring him.

Anand squatted down in the corridor. This was the door to room number two. This time, no one chased him away.

"Dude, that was a brilliant move." Someone nearby struck up a conversation with him.

Anand remained silent.

"How did you get in?" the man continued to ask.

"I don't know," he replied.

"do not know?"

"They arrested me at night, didn't tell me what crime I had committed, and beat me up."

"Then you're in trouble. You might have to stay here for two weeks."

"I can go out in two weeks?" His eyes lit up.

"No, you'll be sent to Arthur Road Prison in two weeks. And they've warned the people here not to help you, especially those who left. You've offended a big shot? Yaar, I wouldn't dare help you either, or I'd be in big trouble."

Anand looked desperate; he had to find a way to contact the outside world, at least to let the news out.

As long as Ron gets the news, he will definitely come back to save him.

"Sigh," Anand sighed again, wondering if Ronbaba had returned from Uttar Pradesh.

(End of this chapter)