**The Condition After 12 Months**
The Hindu forces were slowly winning because their system was sustainable. They had turned their hatred into a bureaucracy. They were not just destroying; they were consuming, repurposing, and profiting from their conquest. The Muslim resistance, fueled by a righteous and terrifying fury, was consuming itself. Their acts were more spectacular, but they were not scalable. They were burning their own world to keep the enemy warm.
The country was not at a stalemate. It was dying a slow, agonizing death. One side was methodically tightening a garrote, while the other was flailing, cutting itself with its own knife in a futile attempt to break free. The air itself felt toxic, saturated with the psychic stench of a million unspeakable memories. There was no innocence left. Every child had seen something no human should ever see. Every survivor was a monster, whether they knew it or not. And the war ground on, not for victory or for God, but because the machinery of hate had become the only thing the nation knew how to operate.
After three more months of brutal, grinding warfare, the last Crescent Enclave fell. The Hindu forces, now a unified, fanatical army under a single command, had achieved total conquest. The nation was, for the first time in its history, entirely under the control of a single ideology. The celebration was short-lived. The generals and political leaders knew that winning the land was meaningless without owning the souls within it. A new, final phase began: “The Great Liberation.” It was not a liberation from suffering, but a liberation from identity.
The treatment of the conquered population was meticulously planned, a systematic dismantling of an entire culture and its people, codified into law and enforced with chilling efficiency.
**The Treatment of Muslim Men**
The men were not executed en masse. That was seen as a mercy, a quick escape. Their fate was a living death, a state of perpetual humiliation designed to erase their manhood and their faith forever.
All Muslim men, from teenagers to the elderly, were rounded up and taken to “Re-Education and Labor Camps.” Upon arrival, they were shaved bald, their beards—a symbol of their identity—scraped away with rusty razors. They were stripped, hosed down with water mixed with cow urine, and branded on the forehead with the symbol of a trishul.
They were then subjected to a public ritual of emasculation. Not physical castration, but a spiritual one. They were forced to bow before idols of Shri Ram and Ganesh, their heads pushed to the ground. They were made to consume beef and pork, the meat shoved into their mouths by laughing guards. If they vomited, they were forced to eat their own vomit. Their names were taken from them and replaced with numbers. They were no longer Basheer or Abdul; they were Resource M-7341.
Their days were spent in hard labor—quarrying stone, building new temples on the ruins of mosques, cleaning the streets of Hindu cities. At night, they were the entertainment. They were forced to dress in women’s clothing—torn burqas and sarees—and perform dances for their captors. They were made to sing Hindu devotional songs in cracking, broken voices. The ultimate humiliation was being forced to act as “servants” in the brothels where their own wives and daughters were held, tasked with cleaning the rooms and preparing the Hindu clients for the violation of their families. They were ghosts in their own hell, forced to witness the destruction of their lineage, their powerlessness the central tenet of their new existence.