During the harsh conditions of war, many men left their families, joined the war, and never returned. Women were left behind, enduring the harsh conditions of poverty and scarcity of food. Most of them endured starvation along with their children.
And if, during these times, a new member was born to be fed, the mother became helpless. Some women's misery did not end even after falling victim to rape. They had to bear the burden—the child—of the rapist.
Some were strong-willed enough to endure all this. But some... were not. Abortion was a facility that could be considered a luxury. A child squeezed out nutrition from its starving mother only to be... dumped.
"Let's not talk about this and give this unfortunate one a proper burial."
Well, he was unfortunate—unfortunate to be born in a nation where humans are least valued, unfortunate to be nurtured inside a woman who had suffered enough.
The final shelter of the unfortunate one was under a cycas tree, probably planted to enrich beauty—but in a country filled with misery, it hardly got appreciated.
The following proceedings went smoothly. The factory was forced open. Liton checked machines, and others did the heavy work. Nobody had the mood to talk—just work.
They followed the same procedures in Chittaranjan Mill—a mill established in colonial times, far before Adamjee itself.
The scar of the war was visible, but what caught their interest was a young man breaking down a machine into small pieces.
Mr. Liton approached and silently watched him taking some valuable parts.
"You look like a factory worker, boy. Wanna join us?"
The young lad jumped, startled by the voice behind him. Seeing them armed, he begged,
"I was... just doing my job. Don't... kill me."
All of them sighed, seeing him chicken out like that.
"You've got skill but no courage at all. We are a bunch of thieves, just like you."
Mr. Liton didn't bother to justify their work. Excuses only made things worse.
"Feel free to take whatever you want. The owner left the country even before the war started."
Well, capitalists are like that. They love their lives and money so much that they flee at the first sign of a storm.
"We also need some workers. How about you join us?"
Baffled by the sudden offer:
"Why are you joking, sir? You people are clearly soldiers—I can tell from a glance—and there's no active textile factory I know about."
"We just thought about running a factory. You don't have to concern yourself too much."
Skeptical but too fearful to refuse, he begrudgingly nodded.
"But I've got a family here," he whispered, fearing a beating.
"Do we have space for people in the truck?" Liton asked Jakaria.
"They can ride on the roof. Kids can stay inside for safety."
Well, strange as it is, people in Bangladesh sometimes ride on rooftops—be it trains, buses, trucks, or whatever. Transportation vehicles can't keep up with the overpopulation. Though there's always a risk and accidents happen, we adapted to it.
"That's the deal. Pack up your things and inform other workers if you can."
Though he didn't outright refuse, he remained skeptical. "About the pay?"
"You think too far ahead. It's best to think about the present in grave times. You'll get two meals a day. Then we'll decide pay after the company starts running."
Liton dismissed it. Payment was too much to think about now. The majority of people couldn't get enough food. Having two meals a day was considered a luxury.
"I'll go then," he said with a smile.
"What's your name again? I forgot to ask."
"It's Kaysar." (A Bengali name—not the German "Kaiser")
After watching him depart, Liton quickly marked the checklist in his hand.
"He behaves like a coward but is a skilled man nevertheless."
After some time, Kaysar and his wife came near the factory, anxious.
Fear of the unknown and uncertainty gripped them. Their newborn's cries wouldn't stop if they remained hidden out of fear.
In contrast to the lad, his wife had a tough face with resolve glowing in her eyes. The harsh conditions of the past few months had even made our women hardened like men—or perhaps they were tough to begin with and only became pathetic after the age of globalization.
Seeing a child in the woman's lap, everyone had mixed emotions.
Mashrafi was the first to approach the child and pat her head.
"What's his name?"
"It's not a he, it's a she. She's Farzana."
From the calm, intellectual face of the child, Mashrafi had falsely assumed it was a boy.
"Can she eat or is she still nursing?"
"She can," the woman replied in a reassured voice.
Mashrafi brought a biscuit with him. Though he hadn't eaten for half a day, he couldn't watch a child with a dry face. Could he?
The biscuit was a bit damp. Its paper cover couldn't save it from the water. All the biscuits were crushed into powder. Well, it's all you could find in a post-war situation.
Farzana ate the biscuit slowly since her mouth was dry. She coughed a bit but didn't spill the food.
Her focus was on the giant man in front of her—taller than her parents. Curly hair, deep black eyes, some cuts here and there on his face, and lastly, a pleasant smile that matched perfectly with the blue, distant sky.
At the end, a warm smile broke out on her calm, stoic face. A touch of adoration awakened the pure, imaginative, and happy child within her.