Fayez noticed, within a foot, a hand was lying on the ground. As he stepped closer, he found the body. One eye of the corpse stared at him with a lifeless, vacant gaze. A fox from the jungle was chewing its way through the intestines—a horrible, barely recognizable sight.
The scent of death was overpowering. A man in formal attire lay dead with an expression of shock frozen on his face. Nearby, body of a woman lying on the water surface.. and her state ..... prefer not to tell.
In this gruesome pond of blood and remains, fayez noticed something else. the face of one victim was still visible, drowned but not destroyed. A child lay half-submerged, clutching the torn clothes of his mother. The bullet must have ended his life before he even knew what was happening.
It wasn't simply a bloody pond. It was a testament ; testament to the genocide committed by the PAK bastards. The war was won, yes. But will they ever get justice?
You're naive if you think think they will...
In the world, those who have the power can pursue justice , those who can't just hide their faces like beaten dog.
The newborn nation didn't have any power and their leaders they were too busy to care.
Those who committed this hedonistic crimes were under the care of India treated well to be used as a bargaining chip .
As for Geneva convention, sorry but its just a piece of paper. Nations break it whenever and however they want. The powerful hide their crimes to protect their reputation. The rest don't even bother.
Even though Payez had witnessed a nightmare, fear wasn't what filled his mind.
It was rage. A burning anger. And the only thing he could think of was: one day, he would make them pay.
"Fayez? Fahmid? You two don't look good. We should leave this place and get some fresh air."
Ahsan's expression was unreadable, but one thing was certain: he didn't feel fear. Pain, anger, frustration perhaps filled his heart under the cover of stoic face. Still, seeing the concerning state of his juniors, he spoke up.
Then fayez noticed: it was Fahmid who was the most affected. He was trembling fear gripping him. The gruesome scene around them was too much for him to bear.
Conquering his emotions and the urge to vomit, fayez stood tall,
"Fahmid, are you okay, man? Do we need to carry you somewhere else? "
"No, I'm good. Let's go. The air here… it's too heavy."
The three of them left. After breathing in some fresh air near the mango tree, fayez spoke.
"Mr. Ahsan, how are you so calm? shouldn't you be like me and Fahmid?"
"A man needs to hide his emotions. When you grow up, you'll understand it."
what Ahsan said seemed reasonable, but it wounded Foyez's pride. He was older than Ahsan, and yet Ahsan seemed more mature. Desperate situations truly matured people.
"I'm creating a portrait in my mind. After returning, I'll print it out on paper. Red ink might be more suitable,don't you think?" Ahsan said with a gloomy face. No matter how gruesome or horrible the reality, it's artists' job to portrays it using creativity.
After calming himself down, fayez leaned against the tree and said, "How lovely the climate is. The wind coming from the Himalayas through the north... It's not too cold—just enough to calm your inner self."
After a brief pause, he continued, "Who could have imagined? Even in this lovely weather, such horrible things are happen around the nation. This winter will not bring golden paddy from the fields—but hardship, which people have endured enough of, and have to keep enduring.
Those people we saw in the pond... they were unfortunate souls who endured torture and trauma beyond our comprehension. Let's give them a proper funeral—as a final respect for their hardship"
"I don't think just the three of us are enough. Let's go back and call others," Fahmid said hesitantly. His fear still hadn't settled, despite the cool weather.
"No. We're here to safeguard the mill. We should at least check it out," fayez refused to abandon the mission.
"Why are you acting like those greedy merchants? The mill isn't going to run away!" Fahmid protested strongly.
"I share the same sentiment with fayez. We're on a mission, and we must accomplish it. Think about your friends and comrades. They went on missions far worse than us. Don't you feel ashamed?" Ahsan interjected, dismissing Fahmid's request.
In a democratic process, the decision to continue was made.
Shortly afterward, they reached the entrance of the jute mill. Once, farmers from the north had sent their raw jute here for processing. The refined jute—known as the golden fiber of Bengal—was a source of pride.
Now, this place was nothing but a site of horror. A place where Bengalis were brought, tortured, and brutally killed. A holocaust, which stood tall as a testament of brutal suffering.
The infrastructure remained intact, but the mill had lost its image. A foul scent of blood still lingered in the air. It was even coming from the old machinery.
Rust covered the machines, as expected, but worse were the visible bloodstains smeared across them and the factory floor. The once-proud facility was now a grotesque reminder of what had transpired within its walls.
Suddenly, Ahsan called out, his voice sharp, "Hey. Come here. I found someone... a boy. I think he's dead."
Fayez rushed over and knelt beside the boy. He leaned close—and heard it: a faint sound. Breathing.
"Idiot, he's alive! Bring the water, now!"
They quickly poured water into the boy's mouth. After a moment, he whispered, "Mo...m... Dad..."
"He's in a dire state," Ahsan said, checking his pulse. "Most likely starving. Bring the lunch pack."
fayez and Fahmid unwrapped food and carefully began feeding the boy in small bites.
The boy didn't speak further, but silent tears rolled down his cheeks. His eyes were open—but they seemed to be looking somewhere far away, beyond their reach.