The frenzied faces looked back at me. Frowning, sneering and jeering: their cracking laughter

echoing through my eardrums. Some dragged, some kicked, some slapped.

I couldn't bear the excruciating pain. Suddenly, I saw him laughing at me standing behind a man. These kicks and hatred were meant for him. But who would listen to me — a poor ragged thief?

It all started as I came out of the shop. Someone cried, "There goes the pickpocket." Automatically, my hands went inside my pocket to feel the tatterred 50 taka note. I felt  happy to find it safe.

A blow on my left ear made me howl in pain. Before I could realise what was happening and regain my balance, people pounced upon me. The mob was having a feast of unburdening their frustrations with every blow they were hurling on me.

I was becoming numb with pain. I realisedthat the more I tried to resist, the more aggressive they became. So, I stopped struggling. Not that I had to, my body gave in.

I lay bleeding, my eyes glued to the man responsible. He had a mischievous smile on his face.

He was a boy in his teens, maybe seventeen or eighteen: short hair, almost bald, beady eyes, a flat nose and dark black lips with a long gash on his cheek.

The blaring noise of police car horns weakened the attack.

'Give way, give way. What happened?'  A man in police uniform quizzed.

Almost all in the crowd started talking together, giving their versions of the story.

'How on earth can people make stories so fast?' I wondered even as I lay there.

There were three policemen. One of them had a look of authority. He asked the other two to ask people individually what had happened. The moment they asked for a witness, the crowd dispersed.

That boy with the cut mark glanced at me before finally leaving the place. I think I saw a glint of remorse on his face.

"Take him to the station. See if he needs any medical attention and then take his statement," ordered the senior officer.

The two policemen assisted me to the jeep. Rather than heaving a sigh of relief, I was shivering in fear. I have seen movies where the policemen torcher innocent people into confessing their guilt. I started reciting all the suras from the Quran I could remember and asked for God's intervention to help me out of this unholy situation.

The jeep entered the police station and stopped.

I remembered what brought me to the market. When I came out of my house my ten-year old little sister was coughing on the floor lying on a mat. She must be waiting for me to return with her medicine.

My father died a long time ago. My mother worked as a maid but she had to leave her job as my sister was often ill. I had to take up the responsibility of the home when I was nine working at tea-shops, factories and whatever job I could lay my hands on.

"Tell me, how long have you been in this trade? Who runs the business?' A torrent of questions came pouring.

"I swear I didn't do anything. I went to the shop to buy rice and was supposed to buy a cough syrup for my ailing sister." I searched my pocket to take out the slip on which the name of the medicine was written but it wasn't there.

"Sir, the prescription was in my hand when I came out of the shop. It must have fallen when they attacked me."

"Do you want to tell the truth or do I have to take other measures?"

Horrific images of punishment invaded my mind. I started to cry, "Sir, believe me. I haven't done anything. I swear upon my mother."

"You bastard, you will not confess like this. Let me show you how I can make you talk."

The two policemen then started dragging me. I guess I fainted for a while. When I regained consciousness, I was lying on a bench in a corner of the room. I wondered what had happened.

I heard a girl's voice, "You have seen the video what happened."

"So, what were you doing there and how come you have a video? I am the officer in charge here. You can tell me exactly what happened."

"Well, I am a student of BRAC University. I was here in Banani preparing a video for my coursework. This man is innocent. When I was filming, I saw a young boy with a cut mark. His activities looked suspicious and so I followed him through the video camera and saw that he pickpocketed a man inside the shop and left. While taking out his wallet, the customer realized he had been pickpocketed. Unfortunately this young boy here was about to leave the shop and the customer started shouting pickpocket. The rest you have seen."

"Why didn't you tell the people there that he wasn't the culprit?"

"Are you out of your mind? After all the incidents with the crowd pouncing on women, how could I even take the risk?"

"True. Very sad. Thank you for coming forward with the evidence. There are still people with good conscience in the world. Would you please send the video to the number I have just given?  I will circulate it."

"Sure. Thank you for being so cooperative."

"Akbar, Release the boy."

"Apa, thank you. You saved my life. May Allah bless you." I was trembling with tears in my eyes.

"May God protect you too. Take care. Bye."

My eyes were wet. My sister was waiting for me. I put my hands inside my pocket, but the money was gone too. I sat down on the pavement hopelessly. Suddenly, I saw the young boy with the gash mark in the distance. I needed his help. I started walking toward him.

Tasneem Hossain is a multilingual poet, columnist, op ed columnist and training consultant. She is the director of Continuing Education Centre, Bangladesh.