"We should take him with us," Fayez suggested, and everyone agreed.
"Can you walk on your own, boy?"
The boy didn't respond. He kept staring off into the distant tree.
"We need to carry him," said Fahmid.
"You guys aren't doing well. Let me carry him back," Ahsan offered, concerned about the others.
Ahsan took the initiative. The four of them departed, this time bypassing the bloody pond.
Meanwhile, Mr. Monish and Mr. Reza were heading toward the Tejgaon Industrial Zone, bypassing Dhaka Cantonment and the heavily armed areas.
Within an hour, they reached their destination.
Tejgaon was a highly developed region that had progressed during Pakistani rule. There were factories, mills, and warehouses—once owned by the Urdu-speaking minority. But right now, there was no legitimate ownership.]
Among the many warehouses, there was one filled with an abundance of cotton. They found the cotton warehouse quickly.
Just as they were about to enter, a soldier shouted:
"Hey! What are you two doing here? This isn't a place to mess around!"
The two men remained calm—they had experienced this kind of situation many times during the war.
"We're soldiers, just like you. We've been assigned by our captain to collect medical equipment to treat the wounded," Mr. Reza lied with a straight face.
"Where's the written order? Show us," the soldier demanded.
Mr. Reza casually handed over two fifty-rupee notes.
"Your documents are valid," the soldier said with a grin. "Take as much cotton as you need."
Just like that, the mission was accomplished. They entered the warehouse.
Upon entering the warehouse, they noticed stains of blood on the floor. But it didn't shock them—they were well aware of how the Pakistan Army had captured innocent civilians and the horrors they endured inside places like this.
"Don't think too much about it. Let's do our job and get out of here,"
Mr. Monish said quietly, his face dark with gloom.
They quickly gathered the cotton and loaded it into the truck.
Amidst the silent streets on the outskirts of Dhaka, Mr. Jakaria was driving a worn-out truck. Mr. Liton, sitting beside him, glanced at the road ahead with concern.
"It's going to be a tough mission, to say the least," Liton said, his voice low. "We'll have to go through Tejgaon, Motijheel, Jatrabari... places considered the heart of Dhaka. I don't know if there'll be any checkpoints."
"You're worrying too much," Jakaria replied casually. "After the surrender, I bet most of those soldiers are too busy celebrating to check a passing truck. And even if they do, we can just tell them we're freedom fighters."
Jakaria seemed completely unconcerned.
"How long do you think it'll take to reach there?" Liton asked.
"Well, it's about 35 kilometers," Jakaria replied. "But with the broken roads and damaged bridges, it might take us around two hours."
As they entered Motijheel, they grew cautious. The area, once the commercial and administrative heart of Dhaka, was still heavily guarded. But it didn't look like a war zone anymore—soldiers lounged around, laughing, chatting, sipping tea. It felt more like a holiday than a military post.
No one stopped the truck.
When they reached Jatrabari, the real chaos began. The transport gateway between Dhaka and the southern districts was already jammed with people—civilians walking on foot, carrying sacks and bundles, trying to return home after months of displacement.
A lone soldier stepped in front of the truck and raised his hand.
Jakaria stopped.
"Where are you headed?" the soldier asked, glancing at the dusty vehicle.
"We're former Mukti Bahini fighters," Jakaria replied confidently. "Taking supplies to Narayanganj."
The soldier nodded, waved them through, and didn't bother to search the truck.
Jakaria smirked. "Told you. they won't bother to search us through"