In a rural village of Bangladesh lives a boy named Budha. Except for an aunt and some cousins, he has no immediate family left. But that wasn't always the case. Just two years ago, Budha had a complete family—his parents, two brothers, and two sisters. The youngest, Tinu, was only a year and a half old. Life was good, until one night, cholera took them all. Miraculously, Budha survived. He initially found shelter at his aunt's home, but due to their poverty, he eventually left and began living on his own.
From then on, Budha wandered freely—morning or night, it made no difference to him. He roamed fields and markets with no fixed destination. He had no concern about where to sleep—storefront verandas, tree bases, market stalls, boats docked at the river, and straw stacks all became his shelter. Food wasn't a big worry either. He ate wild fruits, drank river water, or got puffed rice from a kind old lady, Molok Bua. Sometimes, he worked small jobs in exchange for a meal.
Budha wasn't afraid of anything—not because he was brave, but because he never learned fear. No one ever scared him with ghost stories or threats. He grew up by his own rules, untouched by fear, and developed great courage. His favorite game was to stand in the middle of fields or roads with his arms stretched out, shirt tied around his head, posing like a scarecrow. That's how he wanted to grow up—like a scarecrow, unnoticed yet standing strong.
Standing under the scorching sun, sometimes vultures would fly above, mistaking him for a corpse. Budha saw the same lifelessness in the villagers—like scarecrows themselves, directionless, hungry, homeless. Some villagers, like vultures, exploited the weak. Eventually, people began calling him "Kaktarua" (Scarecrow). Others gave him affectionate nicknames like "Chhinnachhara" (the Drifter), "Sonababa," or "Gobor Raja." Budha loved having many names—it made him feel like he could be many different people.
Then, one day, the military invaded the village—firing bullets, setting fires, burning market stalls. Villagers were shot dead—Salam Chacha, Rabi Da, and many more. Budha, hidden in the rice fields, trembled with fear. When the soldiers left, the survivors buried the martyrs in mass graves without shrouds. Budha whispered one word: "Revenge."
This massacre triggered an exodus. Villagers fled to escape, including Budha's aunt, Rani, and others. They begged Budha to come, but he refused. "If I leave, who will fight back?" he asked. As time passed, life slowly returned. Some villagers came back, while others moved to India. But the military returned and set up a camp. Budha couldn't understand their language, but he knew they were foreign invaders.
The village slowly divided. Wealthy locals collaborated with the military, supplying food, livestock, and even people. Budha's anger grew—not just toward the foreign soldiers, but also toward the local traitors (Rajakars). When a Peace Committee was formed, chaired by Ahad Munshi, Budha cried out, "War! War!"
Budha questioned Ahad Munshi: "You lead the Peace Committee, but where is the peace?" Offended, Ahad turned against him. Secretly, Budha joined Ali and Mithu to discuss how to resist. Budha said, "If we don't fight, our village will be filled with ghosts." He believed unity would bring strength.
That night, Budha made four torches using kerosene and dry jute and set Ahad Munshi's house on fire. The next day, he set fire to the Rajakar commander's house too. Being a poor orphan, no one suspected him.
Budha became involved in the freedom struggle.
Later, before joining the Mukti Bahini (Liberation Army), Ali and Mithu asked Budha to stay prepared. A few months later, Commander Shahabuddin, an art student turned freedom fighter, gave Budha the task of reconnaissance of the enemy camp. Budha befriended the soldiers by offering them guavas, while secretly studying the camp's layout.
But he was caught by Ahad Munshi and his men. They tortured him brutally. In the field, they tied Budha to a bamboo pole in a scarecrow-like posture—arms stretched, shirt on his head, face smeared with soot, left under the scorching sun the whole day without food. In the evening, soldiers released him. Budha vowed to return.
That same night, Budha burned down Ahad Munshi's new house. Even while trembling with fever, he scared away three Rajakars. That night, Shahabuddin praised Budha and entrusted him with planting mines around the enemy camp's bunkers.
Next morning, Budha joined a forced labor group digging bunkers and secretly planted the mines. As soldiers entered the bunkers, a massive explosion destroyed the entire camp. From a safe boat, Shahabuddin and Budha heard the blast—their mission was a success.
Budha lay back on the boat's floor, legs stretched, arms wide, shirt tied on his head—just like a scarecrow. Shahabuddin looked at him in awe, as if the entire village, its fields, skies, and rivers had been embodied in this heroic scarecrow—Budha, the symbol of resistance.