Chapter 2 - Comrades

Foyez took the cigarette and began searching for a lighter. The old man next to him struck a match and lit his cigarette.

"well, Enough about me," Foyez said after a moment. "What about you sir? Where are you from?"

The man blew out a puff of smoke. "Name's Reyaz. Captain and commanding officer of this unit. Though you may not remember, I trained you. Taught you and the other boys how to handle a rifle. I was just a sergeant in the East Pakistan Rifles. Got the rank of captain because of the lack of military personnel."

He paused, staring at the distant sky as if they held memories.

"My family fled to Tripura during the crackdown as Refugees."

After a pause he shifted his face at fayez,

" What about you? Don't you want to know about your family and where they are?"

Foyez looked away.

Captain Reyaz, with his tired eyes and proud moustache, struck him as a man hardened by duty but haunted by worry for the family he hadn't seen in months.

In 1971, many families had fled to Indian states like Tripura and West Bengal. Not everyone died from bullets or bombs. Hunger and untreated illnesses was also a merciless psycopath.

India, despite being poor itself, had taken in over ten million refugees. That act alone was symbol of kindness despite their political reasoning. Still, Foyez couldn't ignore how they were often treated—not as victims, but as burdens.

The worst part was the United Nations, an institution meant to prevent wars, uphold peace, and offer aid, had done next to nothing. No real help. No urgent negotiations. Just silence. People praise the UN as a peacekeeper, but to Foyez, it was just a shell, a puppet organization that bent only to the will of powerful nations.

He brushed off Captain Reyaz's question with an emotionless face.

"I can't remember a thing about my family," he lied. "And honestly, I doubt I ever will. Maybe they're alive. Maybe not.Only Allah knows"

Reyaz raised didn't press further.

Foyez sighed, thoughts drifting to his parents from his previous life.

They had placed high hopes in him—dreamed of their son studying at the best university in the country and landing a stable, respectable job. A life better far than theirs.

And he had tried. He did get into Dhaka University one of the top universities .

But in the end, he became nothing more than an unemployed graduate home-tutoring school-children. Before he could repay his parents sacrifices, he died... in a protest and no one would probably remember him.

'Fate can be quite cruel', he thought.

"I'll walk the road ahead on my own," he said quietly. "I survived the war. That's enough for now."

Captain Reyaz nodded slowly, trying to lighten the mood.

"Victory's here," he said. "But there's still a mountain of work to do. For now, get your rest."

Even as he spoke, Foyez noticed the captain's eyes drifting into the distance. His lips pressed into a thin line. Clearly, he was still thinking about his family.

'Are they safe? Are they still... alive?'

________

The next morning, Foyez found himself standing outside his tent when Captain Reyaz approached him in full military uniform. His face was serious and manner was formal.

Foyez stood up and saluted.

"At your service, sir."

Captain Reyaz nodded.

"Volunteer Faisal Ahmed... the war is over. But There's much things needed to be done now. You've done your part—more than enough. There's no need to keep you here any longer. On behalf of the group, I officially discharge you from duty."

He pulled out a folded paper.

"For your contribution, I present you this certificate of acknowledgement. There's a good chance that you'll get yourself a medal"

"Thank you, sir," Foyez replied quietly. He took the certificate without emotion. He didn't fought the war to begin with.

"So... what are you planning to do now?" the Captain asked.

"I'll try to make a living," Foyez said.

"I have a big ambition for the future."

Reyaz looked at him with curiosity.

"You young boys are full of fire. Keep that fire burning. This nation is in your hands now."

He didn't say anything more. Just gave a sharp salute, turned, and walked away.

Foyez returned the salute in silence. A freedom fighter... and yet, just a teenage boy. He didn't feel proud—he felt hollow.

He didn't know why, but after being reborn, his brain was in a complete mess.

It felt pointless to stay in the military camp. He changed into a plain white shirt, formal pants, and kept the military badge loosely pinned on his chest.

He began to check his belongings .What really caught his interest was the revolver. He didn't know much about guns,. Without a word, he tucked it into his bag beneath his clothes.

Just as he was leaving, a brown-skinned man with disheveled clothes and an unshaved face stepped into his path, paan juice coloring the corner of his mouth. He looked at Foyez with a bright smile.

"I just heard about your discharge," the man said, chewing slowly. "And now you're already heading out? What's the rush? Take some time to heal."

"My wounds are already gone," Foyez replied quietly. "I think I should go. I can't just keep freeloading forever." He hesitated, then asked, "It might be rude to say, but... who are you, sir?"

The man replied with an awkward expression. "Well, I heard about your memory loss. I'm just a rickshaw-wala from Dhaka—name's Shiraj. After the war started, I volunteered for the guerrilla army. The Pak army killed my brother and his wife. I had to do something."

His voice was steady, but there was a grief deep inside his heart.

"Anyway," he continued, "I know I can't stop you. But take this ." He handed Foyez a gun which seemed to be assault rifle AK-47.

" I know it's illegal to hand out weapons to discharged fighters... but you left this behind on the battlefield. Take it as a memento of the war."

Not finding anything else to say , he tired to give advice like an old of his age should do.BUt there was sincerity in his voice.

"The war is over, peace has come... the newborn nation will be prosperous By young men like you... you're the ones who'll lead this nation toward a better future."

Shiraj stepped back, gave a honorary salute to the discharged man, and said one last thing before turning away.

"Joy Bangla."

Foyez stood in place, holding the revolver. The certificate was tucked under his arm, the words still unread.

The war was over. But for the people of Bengal, the struggle was far from finished.