I'm exhausted, having been in a vehicle for so long. It must have been hours since they started the truck engine and put a blindfold on my eyes so it's safe to say I am far away from home.

We finally arrive at our destination. I am still blindfolded, sitting in on a rough surface.

On my request, a man whose face I cannot see grabs my head and takes me towards the washroom. I have been ordered to not come out on my own, to knock at the door and make sure I'm standing with my back to the door. "Do not even think of making any mistake," the man tells me.

I am served daal and roti. But with my hands tied and blindfold on, eating proves be tough. But I'm starving.

After eating, I am put in a tiny cell, where I only have space to sit. I'm tired; I want to sleep. But every time I start dozing off and my body falls towards the wall, I am hit with a stick. I realise then that political prisoners are not allowed to sleep.

I have not slept in 24 hours. Tiredness overshadows my hunger. I am offered food but I cannot eat. I don't have the strength.

I am placed on a rocky bed. My tied feet touch concrete-like material. My hands are chained. And what comes next is something I had long feared: electric shocks.

Bamboos, punches and boots, all come my way with unrestricted power. Do I really look that strong to them?

My cheeks that were once blessed with my mother's kisses are now bruised and bloodied.

I feel like I am in a gunny bag being constantly knocked amidst loud questions: "How many murders? What's your next task?"

My next task? How could I tell them my next task was to work on a new poem?

It continues the next day. I sense a man's hands pulling off my shirt. He pauses. He must have seen the scars on my back which I have had since childhood from whipping myself on the day of Ashura. Perhaps the pause means mercy?

The aggression with which the stick hit me in the next few seconds tells me otherwise. They are pissed off.

I yell, "Ya Ali madad".

The conversation I hear next has frightens me further.

"Sir, it appears this guy is a Shia terrorist too. He must have worked as a hit-man for both his party and sectarian outfits. Did you hear what he shouted justmoments ago? The same thing killers affiliated with Sipah-e-Muhammad say. Ithink we have apprehended the right guy."

They start taking names, one by one of perhaps Shia men. I mustered all the strength I have to ask them on what charges they had arrested me. It was because I was part of a political party not any religious group.

Silence ... followed by shocks, sticks, and punches.

I feel like crying but tears won't come out. How many days I have spent here? What time is it?

Why can't I sleep? Please let me sleep.

I hear a door opening and I brace myself. They take me to a seemingly spacious place with two to three men there.

"How much money did you take from your party?" asks a voice.

"Money is not his issue. Have not you understood yet? He has been into the political ideology of the party. Money is not his game, politics is," says another, more authoritative voice.

How many blows and scars on my body did it take to make them understand this?

I am told my family has filed a petition in court and there is also pressure from somewhere to release me.