Dasna jail has a looming and forbidding iron gate. The accompanying constables suddenly swoop down on me. One grabs my hair, two grip an arm each, the third pulls the loop of my trousers. The door carved out in the iron gate clangs open with an ominous rumbling sound. I'm pulled inside. I'm now the Dasna jail staff's. They watch me contemptuously as I sit on the floor. I'm a heap of palpitating fear. I'm the pig in the abattoir, I've no esteem. I'm the neck under the state's cleaver, I expect no mercy. I fill forms. I'm pushed out. There are still three more gates to perdition.
At gate No. 2 I am frisked, their clammy hands all over me. No papers are allowed inside. So, they take away my currency notes. At gate No. 3 they frisk me again; they now take away my toiletries. At gate No. 4 I'm searched again. They confiscate my cigarettes, they light up right there before me. I walk to a roundabout; it's where the deputy jailer sits. Around it are 12 barracks. I am in hell. I've been assigned barrack No. 5. It has a small compound, and it's milling with people. They stare murderously at me. I look away. I have never talked to killers. Just then Sushil Khaitan sidles up to me. He has read about me in the newspapers. He says he'll be honoured to share his phatta with a journalist.
