I am back with yet another part. Some Urdu words are used here to give in to the feel of the location. Their meanings are written at the end of the chapter.

Hope you enjoy it!

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I am faintly aware of the stench, that makes my nostrils burn and slices through my hazy state. My heavy lids, matted with blood and dirt struggle to open. I vaguely remember the camp, the tour. . .

Suddenly all the bloodshed, unflinching dead bodies and the loud explosion come back to me all in a flash as I still struggle to open my eyes.

I try to bolt up straight but instead I double up on the floor as pain slices through my back. My neck muscles protest at the slightest movements I make to examine the room being sore from the long hours of staying in an awkward position. How long have I been here? Where am I ?

My heavy lids flutter open to find myself in a closed space engulfed by darkness except for the small lamp on the wall. The metallic handle glints in the yellow light, of what I assume is a door. The musty odor of the room makes me look around the room for any possible air passage.

I feel claustrophobic, almost.

My hands slide on the floor slowly to feel the rough texture of something. . .

Wood?

As I try to gulp, my throat itches as if I have swallowed a cactus. I dart out my tongue to moisten my chapped lips, as I taste something metallic and bitter.

How long have I been here? Where am I anyway?

I try to recollect how I came here. All I remember is seeing the sun fade and a face looming above my head, but I can't exactly remember the face.

Whoever it was, what was he doing there lurking amidst bodies? My mind reminds me not so gracefully I was also the one lurking there. Did he come out to help them, like I did?

Didn't I bleed?

I definitely saw blood on my fingers before I fainted. . .

My fingers lightly touch the back of my head to find a small bump but can't find any dried crusted blood. How had I been unconscious? Did they give me a sedative? That explains the bitter taste in my mouth and the fog engulfing my mind.

Maybe the blood was of the soldiers I was checking.

Will someone come for me? I wonder.

I wonder if I should try to walk up to the door and find a way out. I push my palms on the rough surface, using it as a support to sit up. My muscles protest viciously, but I do it anyway.

"Is anyone here?" A hoarse voice calls out, I realize it's mine. I gulp a few times, still trying to accumulate the saliva into moistening my dry throat. There's no way I can shout.

For the briefest of moments, I wonder if they want to kill me, but I discard the idea since if they had wanted to do that, they would have done that by now.

I want to believe that I am safe here given the lack of ropes binding my wrist, but my aching body disagrees. Every time I try to move, my back hurts, a burning pain slicing through it. Had I been safe, I wouldn't have been left untreated with crusted blood and dirt sticking to my now spoiled shirt.

I wonder if they are looking out for me, or do they think I dies along with others? I fervently hope that they are on a look out for me and they find me before the unthinkable happens.

I sit there quietly after dragging my body to a nearby pillar and resting my back on it. I immediately hiss at the contact but carefully angle my body so that the pillar supports my weight, but doesn't touch the gash on my back.

Knowing it will be futile attempt to try to escape through the door, I close my eyes, trying to delay my impending doom and gathering up the courage for whatever is to come.

No sooner than I rest my eyelids, I hear the commotion outside. They are speaking in Urdu perhaps as I catch some words that are also used in Hindi. (Note: Hindi is a language that comes from Urdu and Devanagari script )

I briefly catch the words 'Quadi', 'tabeeb', 'khubsuraat', before the door opens and the hallow of a man appears.

The stench becomes even more strong now. Beyond the door, dimming light flickers. I close my eyes briefly, to avoid the strain on my eyes from the flickering light.

His height is short, no more than 5 feet. As he steps further into the room, the yellow light falls on his face, revealing the ugly scars that mar his face. My eyes slightly widen at metallic glint of the handle of a revolver peeking out through the slit of his black pathani suit. His one eye is shut closed, pinkish tissues growing at the edges symbolizing that its still healing.

Is this somewhere in POK or India itself? Are these people living on Indian soil and conspiring against it?

Another man walks into the room bending his head once slightly to avoid bumping his head on the door casing. The smell of jasmine wafts into the room as soon as he steps in in spite of the stench. I flare my nostrils to inhale the sweet heady aroma, but soon restrain as soon as I realize my folly. He's probably a few inches taller than me, his head being covered by the white headdress and his face is masked by the shadows.

Before I can inspect their appearances any further, the shorter man speaks up, "Here," he says pointing his chin at me, "is our little prisoner."

I am no way little with a height of 5'8''. But this certainly isn't the place for objecting to his word 'little'. Somehow, I want to stand up right now to show him who's little here. But I decide on suppressing my little desire for a rebel. I can feel a burning gaze on me which unmistakably comes from the taller man. I must look like a featherless crow right now.

"I will take her." The taller man finally speaks up nodding. His voice is the perfect balance of deep and still sexy with the slight hint of gruffness in it.

he steps further into the room so the light reflects from his steely gray eyes. I am not sure if I want a hint of warmth in those eyes, but his cold, unwavering, calculating glance makes my heart stutter to my throat, my gut clenching at his words with a deeper and darker undertone. In spite of his voice, I don't like the words he says.

Take her?

Where am I and who's this Arab? Is he selling me off? A mix of rage and fear swirls through my body, wanting to lash out at them but afraid of the consequences. I must hold on until they come to save me. They are looking for me right? They will come, unless. . .

I am off Indian territory.

The shorter one nods," I knew you would agree. I have come to know she is an Indian Doctor. Might come to use as well, besides your bed." A brief look of anger passes his face as he utters the word 'bed'.

Bed?

As in bed?

I am supposed to be his sex slave or something like that? My ears burn with embarrassment. I am a bloody doctor not a whore on sale!

Did I study for my entire life to get here?

Is this what it means to sacrifice your life for your country?

My gaze swivels between the two men, still trying to grasp the situation. I am tempted to pinch my skin, awakening me from the nightmare. But even nightmares aren't this scary. I wonder if he will sell me off after having his fill, or trade my organs. The possibilities are endless and frightening.

Just a span of twenty-four hours and my entire life that I have visioned is swiveling down the drain and I have nothing to do than stare and keep mum. If only I would have done this back at the camp and not run around on impulse, I could have avoided this. My egoistic mind tries to push away the regret that tries to wash over me.

I want to break down into tears, plead them to leave me but my pride would never allow that.

You weren't made for crying. You can't break down now. Be brave.

Crying, rebelling or lashing out neither of them will save me. As a doctor we have been trained to take the toughest of decisions in the hardest of times in spite of the pressure, never to loose our cool. Only this isn't an operation theater, but life.

Only way to get out of this to act stupid and meek enough for this Arab to get bored of me and not spare another glance my way.

"Come," the tall man addresses looking in my direction.

I try to stand up using my outstretched my hands as support. I clench my teeth as my shirt sticks to the gash, rubbing it, eliciting a cry from my mouth.

Before I can stand the shorter man pulls me by the hair, "Can't you see Sahab is waiting for you? Kutiya kahiki!" My wobbly, numb legs manage to stand up, while tears cloud my vision at the pain.

Searing hot pain permeates through my scalp, igniting the tips of my hair and rage blinds me but not enough to slip up my act, I only say, "Maaf huzur!" My voice comes out strained as I try to suppress another cry.

"Salam Sahab!" I greet the taller man.

"Hmmm," he replies.

He exits the room before I can even see his face. My scalp burns and my back hurts from moving so fast, the slight effect of drugs making my gait unsteady. I am not sure how I match my strides to this man when I would just crash on the floor, face first if he hadn't been holding me by my hair.

The narrow path leading to stairs is wooden. I stumble missing a few steps. My knees scrape painfully but the hold on my hair remains painfully steady. As we reach the top of the stairs a man in black pathani suit stands with a machine gun slung to his shoulder stands guarding the door leading to the basement.

The flickering lights are replaced by a steady but dimming light. But, being dragged by my hair I can barely move my neck to peek a look at him.

How many scars mar your face?

How much did you pay for all the lives you took?
I want to ask him.

Shabby green coloured walls with men standing guard along the way nodding every time we pass. I distinctly note that they don't nod at the man dragging me but at the Sheikh who strides ahead of us.

He must be important then.

We finally come to a stop near a source of the stench. It's piss and cigarettes. A bathroom, I realize as I turn my head to look at the source of stench when his hands leave my hair and I immediately crash on the floor, getting my elbows scrapped.

This time however I stand up leaning on the door case before he can abuse me any further. A woman appears there with a set of clothes and a washcloth.

"Go in and make yourself presentable for Sahab. After that, you will accompany him back to his home."

Presentable? My ass! The insolent part of me shrieks.

As I make my way to the shabby bathroom, the stench becoming stronger, I vaguely wonder about the word, 'Home'.

You have one back in India.

And it's called 'Home'.

We will get there one day.

Author's note:

Translations:

Quadi: prisoner
Tabeeb: doctor
Khubsurat: beautiful.
Salam is a way of greeting in Urdu
Maaf Huzur: Sorry Sir
Kutiya Kahiki: Bitch

All the information about Pakistan, the incidences stated are true and factual. Don't bother me with angry pms if you can't digest the truth.

Back with another part. I hope you like it. I will update this as frequently as possible. Let me know your thoughts.