Chapter 11: Introduction
The next day, Foyez woke up just in time of morning prayer for another productive day and prayed along with his comrades.
After a couple of hours, Foyez went outside to get some fresh air; he felt alive. In his previous life, even fresh air was a luxury—due to the pollution of the urban cities in Bangladesh. The more prosperous the city was, the more it looked like a garbage dump.
He noticed an old man in his 40s with an unshaven face and gloomy eyes, smoking cigarettes nonstop and letting puffs of smoke rise like a depressed man drowning in thought.
"Hello, sir. May I know your name ?" Foyez asked, polite yet perceptive.
The old man gave a slow glance, then muttered,
"So you're the polite yet cunning kid Reyaz was talking about. What's your name again Faisal.... faiyaz or something like that"
The old man treated him like a kid which angered Fayez a bit.
Foyez smiled slightly, remaining calm. "It's Foyez, sir."
"Oh! Foyez. I recall now. I'm Monish Bosu. Reyaz requested me to meet you."
"Oh, I heard from Captain Reyaz that you used to be in charge of transport. That's why I wanted to meet you.," Foyez said.
" You look like a kid from a wealthy family. What're you trying to gain by starting a business!"
Mr. Monish was skeptical.
"I just lost my memory from a brain injury," Foyez replied calmly.
"What about your family Mr. Monish? Don't you have someone to live with after being discharged?"
Mr. Monish took a deep drag of his cigarette and sighed, letting out a heavy fog of smoke.
"I had a lovely wife and three cute children. The eldest should be about your age now. After the outbreak of war, we tried to flee through the northern border. My wife even wore a burka to avoid being detected as Hindu. We even memorized the Kalima Shahadat."
Monish paused for a bit and smoked. then he continued.
"A soldier forcefully removed her veil and noticed a sidur on her head. While others checked my sons by removing their pants. We all got caught. I was lucky enough to find a knife during captivity. After unbinding myself, I killed a soldier and fled. But my family... I don't know anything about them "
Throughout the Middle Ages, ambitious sultans and nawabs used religion as a tool to justify their imperialism and expand their spheres of influence. Most of these rulers didn't genuinely care about religion—they indulged in alcohol, women, and luxury, using the name of Islam merely for legitimacy.
Meanwhile, young soldiers gave their lives for what they believed was a righteous cause, often manipulated by the elites for political gain.
The practice of using religion for imperialism exists even today. Governments create religious friction and hostility to polarize minorities and brainwash the majority, all to ensure votes in the name of faith.
In the war of 1971, the Pakistani government used the same tactics. They exterminated the Hindu minority, forced them to flee, and even declared Bengali Muslims as 'Half Hindus' simply due to cultural differences. They framed their genocide as a form of jihad.
The Hindu-Muslim conflict in the Indian subcontinent is centuries old, ultimately leading to the division of British India into India and Pakistan. But that's a story for another day.
Understanding Mr. Monish's heavy situation, Foyez prevented himself from asking further about it.
"Don't lose hope, old man. Hope is all we soldiers have right now," Foyez said.
Mr. Monish's mood lightened a bit.
"Past is past. I hope at least they survived. Anyway, I brought two trucks with me."
"You bought them last night?" Foyez asked. "There should be two drivers. Where's your assistant?"
"That twink is sleeping like a pampered girl," Monish grumbled. "Let's wake him up."
They headed to a grass field where two grey trucks stood under the rising sun. They looked ashen and worn—you could tell they had been through war. Probably American trucks once used by the Pakistani Army to transport prisoners, are now repurposed to carry cargo.
"Hey, old man! Can't you be a gentleman for once?" a voice shouted. Foyez noticed Monish getting into the back of one truck and pulling someone out.
"I just wanted to rest after the war, and here you are, dragging me like a sack," the young man complained.
"Young people are too naive," Monish muttered. "Do you really think you'll get a single penny after the war? If you want to survive, you'd better work hard"
After the war of 1971, soldiers were discarded like trash. The new government didn't need them anymore. Some became burdens. Sometimes they were seen as threats to the regime. The government talked big about martyrs, but had ignored the surviving soldiers seeing them as a burden.
All they had were certificates and medals—worthless things that they often threw away in gutters after their dream of a better future was shattered, they were forgotten in the shadow of history."
"You're right, Mr. Monish. We're just some guerrilla soldiers — easily discarded and disposable. Hoping to get any pension is a daydream. But still, even soldiers need to rest now that the war is over. Yet how can one truly rest with an empty stomach?" Fayez spoke nonchalantly, but his words hit the young man hard, reminding him of the grim reality.
"You speak like you're older than me boy," the young man scoffed.
"So, may I have the pleasure of knowing your name, Mr. big boy?" Fayez asked sarcastically.
"I'm Zakaria. Just a truck driver. Not some brave soldier like you," Zakaria replied humbly.
"Every person who contributed to this war is a brave soldier." Fayez responded.
Zakaria nodded slowly. "So, what do you want us to do? Just drive the truck or something more?"
"No, it's more than that. Your missions will be flexible. I won't lie — sometimes it may involve smuggling or stealing," Fayez said cautiously, watching their reactions.
"The whole country is a lawless zone now. Thinking too much about morality won't earn you bread."
Mr. Monish said while jakaria only nodded.
"Our first mission begins this afternoon. Make sure you stay at the house until then. May Allah bless you," Fayez instructed, then left the place.
"That kid… the horrors of war must have matured his brain. He ordered us like a superior officer," Jakaria commented.
Later at lunchtime, Fayez, Fahmid, and some comrades gathered in the dining room. Mr. Monish and Zakaria sat as guests — technically they're comrades too.
"Slow down, big bro Jakaria. The food isn't going anywhere. Uncle Monish, why the gloomy face? Dig in," Fahmid, the talkative one, said with a cheerful smile.
"Many of us don't know each other. Why don't we introduce ourselves?" Fayez suggested.
"I'm Fayez. A veteran and aspiring to be an entrepreneur."
"I'm Fahmid and I want to be a comedian," fahmid laughed like he told a great joke.
"I'm Rakib. Used to study chemistry in Dhaka University. I want to become a researcher."
"I'm Mashrafi. A matric examinee. I want to open a school in my village." - The topper guy mashrafi really have noble ambition.
"I'm Reza, an accountant and a former bureaucrat. I want to help rebuild the nation"
It's rare to find a bureaucrate who one who actually wants to serve the people rather than indulging with corruption.
"I'm Ahsan, an art student from the Art Institute. I created some paintings during the war. I'll show you later."-
Everyone's interest piqued but refrained from asking question during introduction.
"I'm Monish. Was a delivery man for Haque Company. Now… just jobless."
Without slightest bit of interest mr. monish replied just for formality.
"I'm Zakaria. Student of agriculture University." Everyone was surprised to learn that he was a student of a top university.
After lunch, the eight of them gathered for a meeting. Fayez laid out a map of Dhaka and the surrounding regions.
"We have three important missions:
Safeguarding the Tongi Jute Mill — There shouldn't be any military retaliation. Just ensure to guard the place before reopening.
Collecting cotton from a warehouse near Dhaka — Be cautious. If bribery solves the problem, don't hesitate. Avoid direct conflict otherwise we'll receive too much attention.
Acquiring textile machines and hiring professional technicians from Narayanganj — Avoid central roads. Take the forest route. Mr. liton will personally assist with this."
He added, "There's also a crucial mission — smuggling grain from india through north-western regions near Dinajpur. A famine might be coming. Its best to stockpile grains."
The term of famine used to be an unknown concept for the people of Bengal. once the land which was called the 'Granary of the East' was devastated by rulers who prioritized profits over people. From the Turks to the British — each regime worsened the situation. The 1770 famine killed one-third of the population. The British further crippled our industries and forced farmers to grow indigo ruining fertility. The 1943 man-made famine, caused by British during WWII, killed tens of millions.Even though Japanese never invaded us . We became the worst sufferer of war.
After 1947, Pakistan exploited East Bengal just the same. If this continues, another famine will strike in 1972–73.