The truck was jumping up and down due to the muddy roads of Chashara, Narayanganj. Jakaria was driving with an annoyed face.
The once-crowded but prosperous place now lay in ashes and ruins. Some broken rickshaws lay empty in the middle of the street.
The road had turned reddish brown — stained by blood. Whether it was human or not was a completely unknown matter.
Once-loyal dogs had turned into wild beasts, tearing apart corpses as they pleased. Crows fought in the air for a slice of meat.
The stench in the air could make anyone vomit to death. But for these brave warriors, it was... manageable.
"Hey Jakaria, when will we leave this shithole? I'm feeling like puking my entire intestine," Rakib said with annoyance. During the outbreak of war, he watched his friends being wiped out in the campus hall. He was lucky enough to survive as a lodging master, staying in someone else's home.
"It's hard to imagine this was the economic centre of Bengal. And now\... humans and dogs are lying dead on the same road."
During the war, the people were completely shaken. The military took people left and right under the slogan "trust the law and government." But what trust exactly? Trusting that they would be tortured in the most inhuman ways possible? Trusting their dear ones would end up as fish food in the waters of the Buriganga? Trusting their loved ones, their neighbours, wouldn't even receive funerals, only their bodies to be fought over by street dogs?
All of a sudden, Jakaria pressed the brakes.
"Hey, what the hell is wrong with you?"
Before Mashrafi could finish, he noticed two small children standing in front of the truck.
Dried tears painted their faces. Dark circles under their eyes. Ribs showing through skin from starvation. Their hands were open, begging.
The scene made the others realise the solemn reality once again. Liton got out of the truck with a lunch pack.
He came and kneeled before them. "Young man, what were you trying to accomplish standing in front of a running truck?"
"Uncle... we were hungry. We asked our mother for food, but she beat us without stopping. We managed to flee home, but there's no food anywhere. Some days ago, a good man gave us his leftovers. I hoped you would give us some food," the older one said, trying to control his urge to cry.
It wasn't like the mother was a psychopath who enjoyed beating her children. The situation was like that.
Factories had shut down before the outbreak of war. Our leader, Bangabandhu, had told workers to stop production — without thinking who would feed them in return.
After ten months of factories being shut, workers' situations worsened. No wages. No savings. The price of food skyrocketed. Most couldn't do anything. And others didn't care.
Foreign aid? Dream on. It was all connected to politics. The Soviets supported Bangladesh, but they had only military power. Aid from them was too much to ask. India? Just another poor nation — they wouldn't act without political gain. Other nations sent aid, but it was personal, not official. In that regard, Bengalis living abroad were the greatest contributors.
In times of need, you expect help only from your own people.
"Huh! Boy, take this. And make sure not to pull that stunt ever again."
After a pause, Liton added, "You guys stay here and share the food. We'll take you when we return."
They didn't say anything, but gratitude shone in their eyes.
Upon entering the truck, Liton muttered, "Hopefully, you guys can live without food for two days."
The others didn't complain. They had suffered much worse. Recent days of luxury wouldn't turn them into twinks.