‘Bastard! Hai kaun tu? Tell me, or this bullet will make you meet your maker,’ the attacker said, pointing a pistol at the man on the ground.

‘All of you are agents of the oppressors. I spit on you instead,’ the young man said.

Enraged, the attacker fired at the bespectacled man before fleeing from the scene.

An hour later, the wounded man found himself in a local hospital. Two bike-borne men had seen him slumped by the side of the road as they passed by the Qudsia mosque. They had managed to carry him to the nearby government-run Sushrut Emergency Hospital. The bullet had only grazed the flesh of his left leg, causing superficial injuries. He was allowed to leave two hours later.

Outside the hospital, as he was hailing an autorickshaw, a speeding Maruti Gypsy screeched to a halt in front of him. Two men jumped out and dragged him inside. He could feel the touch of cold metal on the back of his neck.

‘Don’t look back, sit tight.’ It was the attacker who had stayed behind to beat him up some more.

The bespectacled man complied with the order but said nothing.

‘Why did you insult the imam?’ A punch landed on his nose, bloodying his face.

‘It was a genuine question, mister. My father was killed during a riot three years ago in Thrissur, Kerala. The goons of the local right-wing outfit, Samaj Sanstha, went on a rampage, burning down homes and stabbing several innocents who were caught alone on the streets,’ the man said.

‘They also killed my father. All of this because a rumour spread that the men who had killed a young woman were of my community. Maybe they were from my community as the allegations went, maybe they were not, I do not know. But those who died, like my father, were innocent, and this is certain,’ he said.

‘So what will you do now?’ the abductor asked.

‘I do not know, but if I get a chance, I will take revenge as I am still hurting from the pain,’ the man said. ‘The police case was closed because there were no witnesses apparently, and the perpetrators could not be identified.’

‘Why did you come to Kishanganj from your Thrissur?’

‘My family exports cotton garments to Bangladesh and the Middle East. I came here to supervise our office here, along with two of my brothers.’

‘How many brothers do you have?’

‘There are six of us.’

‘Where are your two brothers?’

‘They are at the office. They are as desperate and angry as I am.’

‘I see,’ said the abductor.

‘Who are you? Why are you beating me? Why have you detained me?’ It was the bespectacled man’s turn to be the interrogator, once the flurry of questions directed at him had stopped.

‘What do you think?’

‘I know you are a policeman or someone from the intelligence service. A special branch tasked to monitor mosques?’