After returning home (Rashmi's house), Fayes found a tall man with a large beard greeting him warmly.
"So, you're the 'Mr. Savior' my niece was talking about? I have to say, you look more childlike—younger than I imagined."
Who will make this man understand the truth—that I'm actually 23, at least mentally.
"Hello, sir. May I know who you are?"
"You're polite, unlike your peers. I'm Liton, the uncle of the girl you're staying with."
Fayes became embrassed .
"I have to leave this house soon. Otherwise, I'll soon become a lolicon for sure."
"Let's get inside. I'd like to have a long chat with you."
"Sure. I was about to suggest the same thing."
When entering the home, Mr. Liton cautiously noticed the two girls behind Fayes but refrained from commenting.
They stepped onto the balcony, where Rashmi served tea.
"So, I heard you went to take control of the textile mill. Are these two girls from there?"
Skeptical about the situation, Mr. Liton asked.
Fayes gave a brief explanation of what happened.
"You people are really something. One of you even sacrificed himself to save a girl. Mr.Siraj was a real hero indeed."
Mr. Liton sighed softly.
Not wanting to continue the conversation Fayes changed the topic.
"What about you, Mr. Liton? Where did you serve?"
You've got the wrong impression. I only covertly supported a guerrilla force. The army caught me..."
"You're an honest and humble man. Even collaborators from Razakar, Al-Badar, and the Shanti Committee are changing their colors these days. Yet here you are, recognized as a freedom fighter, still refusing to claim it."
Fayez's compliment carried sincerity.
If there was one thing Bangladesh had in abundance, it was opportunists. Their ideologies and political stances shifted like the wind—the moment the ruling party changed, so did their allegiances.
The country had witnessed this cycle repeat endlessly: after the 1971 war, the armed coups of 1975–1985, the anti-fascist movement of 1991, even the July uprising of 2024. Opportunists merely swapped their masks and clung to power.
Post-1971, collaborators of the Pakistani army buried their pasts and flocked to the Awami League. With money, influence, and—most crucially—the sycophantic skill of "buttering up higher-ups like dogs" (a signature talent of Bengali politicians and bureaucrats), they scaled the ladder and embedded themselves in the ruling class.
The very people complicit in genocide and mass rape became the representatives of their victims. The government vowed to publish lists of collaborators, yet 55 years later, not a single list had seen the light of day.
"Well, changing colors is the norm in this country," Mr. Liton remarked, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
Fayez, eager to avoid unnecessary conversation, cut to the chase:
"whatever, I'll be direct. I want you to resume your role as general manager of the textile factory."
"I can do that—but are you certain about reopening it? The investment required will be substantial. The machines are likely rusted through, and cotton is scarce right now."
Mr. Liton's sharp, skeptical gaze bore into him.
"There's bound to be cotton stockpiled in Dhaka's warehouses. As for machinery, we can 'liberate' some from Narayanganj."
Narayanganj hadn't just been the textile heart of Bengal—it had supplied fabrics to Europe, the Middle East, and Asia. Its quality was legendary.
Yet, thanks to the British pirates' "dumping strategy," Bengal's industries—once the economic powerhouse of the world—had been reduced to ruins in barely a century.