“hai raam!” I groan as I wake up battered and handcuffed in a field tent. I found myself shackled and completely naked except for my poonal.
My vision is blooded and blurry. All I can make out in the dim light of a field lantern is a silhouette holding a crop whip. Even in my concussed state, I can discern that the silhouette is female: a thin waist, huge thighs, proportionate bust. She is petite yet imposing at the same time.
I am brought to my senses by the sharp crack of her crop whip.
“ENGLISH, YOU ÜNDERSTÄND?”, she booms.
“Ji haah, yes. I understand”, I manage to meekly respond.
“You are Subedar Major Nagaraj, from the 44th Indian Armoured Division. Is this correct?”
“Yes”, I respond.
Clearly she had rummaged through my documents as she undressed me while I was unconscious. The last thing I remember is commanding my gunner to aim his QF 6-pounder at the closest Panzer IV before my antitank position was hit by artillery. I think that’s when I blacked out.
“Why am I shackled and naked? I demand my rights as a prisoner of war as outlined by the Geneva convention!”