Foyez took the cigarette and began searching for a lighter. The older man next to him struck a match and lit his own cigarette.
"Enough about me," Foyez said after a moment. "What about you? What's your name? 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 treetops as if they held memories.
"My family fled to Tripura during the crackdown. Refugees... like millions of others. What about your family? Don't you want to know where they are?"
Foyez looked away.
Captain Reyaz, with his tired eyes and weathered moustache, struck him as a man hardened by duty but haunted by worry—especially 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 killed just as many.
India, despite being poor itself, had taken in over ten million refugees. That act alone was kind. Still, Foyez couldn't ignore how they were often treated—not as victims, but as burdens.
The worst part, he thought, 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 seemed like a shell—a body that bent only to the will of powerful nations.
He brushed off Captain Reyaz's question with a careless shrug.
"I can't remember a thing about my family," he lied. "And honestly, I doubt I ever will. Maybe they're alive. Maybe not."
Reyaz raised an eyebrow, but didn't press further.
Foyez sighed, thoughts drifting to his parents from his previous life.
They had placed their hopes in him—dreamed of their son studying at the best university in the country and landing a stable, respectable job. A life better than theirs.
And he had tried. He did get into one of the top universities—not that it meant much globally, where it wouldn't even rank in the top 1000.
But in the end, he had become nothing more than an unemployed graduate tutoring schoolchildren. Before he could give anything back, before he could repay their sacrifices, he died... in a protest no one would remember.
Fate can be 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?