Chapter 14: Cruelty of war
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.
The truck entered the Adamjee area, named after the tycoon Adamjee family who once owned the nation's most significant mill, "Adamjee Jute Mill," which was also the largest jute mill on Earth back then.
The once prosperous place now only whispered about its golden past. Like most others, it was founded by Pakistani capitalists in 1951. From then onward, millions of tons of jute arrived from across the country for processing.
The pleasant climate of Bengal is highly favorable for jute. Farmers across this blessed land cultivated it with smiles on their faces. The golden color of jute embraced the fields like fine jewelry. Farmers received money worth their endless hard work. Boatmen delivered the raw jute to factories, where it was processed and exported abroad, earning valuable foreign currency.
The place was eerily silent. Muddy roads made it harder for the truck, which jolted up and down.
Mashrafi noticed the river beside them.
A horrifying fragrance was coming out of the river. The red water terrified him. Hands, legs—even faces—were visible on the water's surface. Each carried its own story of pain and suffering. Most of them were factory workers, dumped here after the Pakistan Army established its camp inside the factory.
A woman's face was visible there—eyes wide open, lips as if trying to say something, and a big hole in the middle of her forehead.
"May Allah bless them with Jannah (Heaven)," Mashrafi whispered.
"Those bastards really painted the river red," Mr. Liton said.
Jakaria spoke up. "Is it a good idea to enter Adamjee Mill? Many people are vying for machinery. Won't we just jump into unnecessary conflicts?"
His concern was justified. Adamjee was the largest and most prosperous jute mill. Its machines were highly valuable. Even after being nationalized, officials continued selling off its parts.
"Let's just avoid this place for now. Our main goal is textile machinery anyway."
While crossing the jute mill, they noticed large groups looting the factory. Nearby, Mukti Bahini and a few Indian soldiers stood by. Everyone was getting their share of the pie—a win-win situation.
As for the factory itself, it was bound to doom. After nationalization, one couldn't expect it to make a profit. The situation would end up far worse than in the Soviet Union. The regime nationalized abandoned factories to consolidate power, but it would backfire. Corrupt politicians couldn't run a factory!
After nationalization, the national economy plummeted 84% compared to pre-war Bengal, resulting in the deaths of nearly 1.5 million people by starvation (no exaggeration). The dire situation made Bengal the poorest country, with 90% of its fiscal budget coming from foreign aid. From the granary of the East, we became parasites of the outside world. What a humiliation!
A brawl broke out among the looters. Not wanting to waste time, Liton said,
"There should be a textile mill nearby. Its name should be Gul or something like that. Drive there."
Many industries had grown near Adamjee Jute Mill, the main reason being the Shitalakshya River. It was just a sub-river but still wide enough to transport goods easily. Within 15 kilometers, it met the Padma, making it an easy transit point for export.
That's why, near Siddhirganj, the Adamjee EPZ would be built. The Adamjee belt was a crucial location.
In front of the factory, the truck stopped.
"There aren't many people here. It's better this way. Let's finish things up quickly."
The three of them came out of the truck. Jakaria stayed behind to look after it.
"You two go ahead, I gotta release pressure," Rakib said with an awkward smile.
Mashrafi and Liton didn't care and focused on breaking the gate.
Rakib went near the river and unzipped his pants.
Just when he was about to relieve himself, a scene made him scream loudly.
An innocent face of a small child—perhaps an infant—was floating. There were scars on its neck.
Rakib screamed, and the others rushed over.
"What's wrong with y—" Before Liton could finish, he noticed the child.
"God forbid," Mashrafi muttered as he gathered the courage to pull the child out.
"Did those Pak bastards not even spare an infant?" he said, his voice heavy with anger and resentment.
"No... it might be the child's mother who did it,"