He was heading to Noorani mosque when a black car had rammed into him from behind, he recalled. He was seething and had rushed to confront the burly men who had alighted. The duo, as if expecting Salim’s response, were ready for him. One of them had kicked Salim on his left knee and that had made him wobble. He had fallen on the road. His two adversaries were waiting for that moment. The duo had then thumped Salim, raining blows on his chest and back, almost in a practised rhythm, wordlessly.

Were they professionals, trained combatants? They knew what they were doing, Salim thought. This thought made him uneasy suddenly. The fight was staged? He sank deeper in thought.

He recalled losing consciousness. Next, he remembered being in the vehicle, which was zipping past parked aircraft in what looked like the Hyderabad airport. He remembered a booming voice asking the men in the vehicle to put him in a chopper.

He was now lying on a mattress; his wrists and feet were bound. An orange plastic glass with water was kept on a stool nearby. A plate with two slices of white bread and an omelette was kept there too.

He looked around and saw a small crack in the door frame. Through the crack he could see brilliant golden light outside.

So, was it noon? Salim’s mind was racing. He tried to stand but fell down. His knees hurt. For a minute he sat still, waited for the pain in his knees to subside and then dragged himself to the door.

His face pressed against the wall, he peered through the crack. Four men in jeans and T-shirts with cropped hair stood outside in what looked like a long, wide corridor of a three- or four-storey building. The athletically built men carried automatics, the Russian-built AK-47s and the German MP-5s. One of them was pacing the corridor with measured steps, the other three were chatting in a huddle. One of them carried a newspaper.

The building he was being held in seemed to be on one of the four sides of a square-shaped complex. He could also see two watchtowers, one on each side of the building, manned by men in civvies. They were bent over what seemed like long-range sniper rifles.

‘Farhan Qureshi, get up, bastard!’

The moment Salim had been dreading had arrived. He shuddered and shut his eyes.

The door of his room was flung open. A lone bulb emitting a pale yellow light was switched on, and the two burly men who had thrashed him outside the mosque entered.

‘Pakistani snake! Aatankwadi, qaatil kahin ka! Just see how we will screw you and your terrorist baap, chacha. And everybody in the cave from where you came!’ one of the two men who had barged into the room screamed at Salim.