𝐇𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐑𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐫, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐆𝐨𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐬.
Love is hope for the hopeless and sin for the saint. Love is both a salvation for the lost and a temptation for the righteous. It drives people to cross lines they swore ne...
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📌Warning: T*rture
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Central Jail, India.
A city within a city. High walls of weathered concrete stretched endlessly, topped with coiled razor wires that gleamed under the sun. CCTV cameras blinked from every corner, capturing every movement, every breath. The watchtowers stood tall, manned by guards whose fingers rested lightly on the triggers of their INSAS rifles.
The day began, announced by the clanking of iron gates and the shrill whistle of a warden. Cells unlocked in a rhythmic sequence-thud-releasing prisoners into another day of the same unchanging cycle.
Men shuffled out of their barracks, some rubbing sleep from their hollowed eyes, others already wide awake, their backs hunched with old guilt or new rage.
The factory unit workers rushed to their assigned stations-some stitching police, prisoner uniforms, some engraving wooden furniture, their hands moving with practiced monotony. The kitchen crew prepared huge vats of dal, steel plates clattered as they were stacked into neat piles. In a corner, a group of elderly inmates bent over looms, weaving cotton rugs for a government project.
In the open courtyard, the privileged ones gathered.
Prisoner no. 601, stood at the center of the makeshift badminton court, gripping a Yonex racket as if this were some college sports tournament and not a prison. He swung, and the shuttlecock sliced through the morning air, landing neatly on the other side of the net. A burst of laughter and cheers erupted from his side.
Prisoner no. 601 was loved by everyone. Some loved him because he is a friendly person who judge none. Some loved him because they fear to get in the wrong side of a VIP prisoner. Some loved him thinking his father might reduce there sentence because he is the DGP's only son.
Nearby, others prisoner played carrom, their fingers flicking strikers over the dusty wooden board with easy familiarity. A few men sat cross-legged on the ground, playing chess on a cloth board, murmuring strategies under their breath.
Most of the prisoners are kept in a group inside a single cell not unless there crime is too harsh or the Jail authorities think they will reveal something they want to keep buried from the outside world.
