Aman continued his speech, his voice steady, but his words venomous.
"That day… Senior Mosharrof turned on us. He betrayed our mission. He attacked his own men. And not just him—his two subordinates, Shurjo and Jahangir, were traitors too. Rajakars in disguise."
The crowd gasped.
"By the grace of luck," Aman added, pausing dramatically, "the reinforcement arrived just in time. Mosharrof managed to escape... but we captured Shurjo and Jahangir. They were sentenced to death for treason."
Kazim's world shattered in an instant.
He had come here with hope in his heart, expecting to hear his brother's name honored with pride. But instead, every word felt like a dagger, twisting in his chest. He stood frozen, trying to breathe, trying to make sense of what he was hearing.
Then it happened.
A man in the crowd suddenly pointed at him and shouted, "Isn't that Mosharrof's brother?!"
Every head in the gathering turned toward Kazim.
Dozens of eyes stared at him—some wide with disbelief, others burning with hate. It felt like the air had been sucked out of the place. It was no longer a ceremony—it was a trial. One where the verdict had already been decided.
Kazim's heart pounded so loudly he could hear it in his ears. His hands trembled. Drops of sweat rolled down his forehead, spine, and palms. The pride he had felt before coming here... now felt like a cruel joke.
Just then, Aman raised his hand, commanding silence.
"No one," he said, "no one shall say anything to Kazim. He is innocent. He has no part in this. The real monster… is Mosharrof."
The crowd broke into cheers.
They clapped and roared for Aman, celebrating him as a hero. Little did they know… the real monster stood before them in white Panjabi and tupi, cloaked in false glory.
And in that moment, Kazim understood a harsh truth—the truth does not always roar the loudest. Sometimes, it gets buried beneath applause.
Then the whispers began to ripple through the crowd like a slow, creeping fire.
"I think Mosharrof left the Pakistan Army just to spy on the Muktibahini," one man muttered.
Another added, "Yes… I heard the same. He wore the false mask of a freedom fighter… but deep inside, he was still theirs."
Kazim stood there, still and silent.
No one looked at him. No one acknowledged him. It was as if he had become invisible—just a shadow among the crowd. The same people who once greeted him with smiles and respect, who proudly claimed his brother's name, now offered only cold glances and silent judgment.
The man who once walked with his chest high, proud to be the brother of a freedom fighter, now carried only a weight of disgrace on his shoulders.
Hatred. Just hatred. And nothing else.
Slowly, quietly, Kazim turned and walked away from the gathering. Not a single soul tried to stop him.
As he disappeared into the distance, the wind began to howl—a cold, eerie gust that swept across the village ground. A shiver crawled down everyone's spine. It was as if the very wind itself was cursing them… as if it carried the silent wrath of a soul wronged.
Kazim reached home, opened the creaky door, and stepped inside.
"I'm back," he said, his voice low and lifeless.
Selina looked up, her eyes filled with quiet curiosity and concern. "Kazim… what happened there?"
Kazim didn't answer. He quietly walked to his room, sat down, and let out a deep, tired sigh.
"What should I say to Bhabi? How can I crush her hope even more?" he thought. "This isn't the right time. I need to wait… I have to wait for a better moment."
The next morning, as Kazim walked to the bazar, he could hear the whispers again—this time louder, more confident.
People huddled in corners, exchanging rumors like they were currency.
"That Mosharrof… what a shame. He fooled all of us."
"I heard he betrayed the Muktibahini for money…"
"I always had a doubt about him, you know. No one's that perfect."
Kazim clenched his fists as he walked, his eyes burning—not with anger, but with pain.
The world had turned upside down.
And truth… truth was nowhere to be found.
Kazim walked steadily towards Uncle Amzad's house, his mind a swirl of emotions. Since his brother Mosharrof's tragic death, Kazim had felt nothing but a burning desire for answers and justice. The world had turned against Mosharrof, and now, with Aman's lies running wild, it seemed like everything was falling apart.
Uncle Amzad, once a confidant and close ally of Mosharrof, had risen through the ranks in the post-independence government. His newfound influence in the Bangladesh government made him a powerful figure—a man who could help Kazim clear his brother's name and perhaps even restore their family's honor. Kazim had no idea how Aman had managed to manipulate the narrative, but he hoped that Uncle Amzad, with all his connections, could make a difference.
Kazim stepped into the familiar, yet now colder, house of Uncle Amzad. He hadn't visited in years, but he still remembered the warmth of the place, the laughter they shared in times before the war. But now, everything felt different—unwelcoming. He sat down on the sofa, the air thick with the weight of the conversation that was about to unfold.
Uncle Amzad, sitting across from him, didn't greet him with his usual warmth. Instead, he studied Kazim silently, waiting for him to speak. Before Kazim could begin, the sound of a sharp voice interrupted them.
"Amzad! Why is this Rajakar's brother in our house?" The voice came from inside the house—Amzad's wife. "What will people think of us?"
Kazim's heart sank at the words, but Uncle Amzad remained calm, as if used to such outbursts. He waved his hand dismissively. "Ignore her," he said, turning back to Kazim. "Now, what is it that you want?"
Kazim took a deep breath. "Uncle... I need your help. After everything that's happened to Mosharrof... the lies... the betrayal... I don't know who to turn to. You've always been close to him, and now, with your position in the government, I thought maybe you could help us. Maybe you can help clear his name. He was a hero. The people need to know the truth."
Uncle Amzad's face hardened. He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. There was a long pause, and then he spoke slowly, his voice cold. "Kazim, do you know what position you're in now?"
Kazim blinked in confusion. "What do you mean, Uncle?"
Amzad's eyes were sharp, his gaze piercing. "You're still alive, Kazim. You should be grateful for that. I don't think anyone will believe your lies. You are the brother of a traitor. A Rajakar."
The words hit Kazim like a slap across the face. The man who had once walked beside Mosharrof, the man who had shared his wealth and status before the war, was now calling him a traitor's brother. His mind spun with disbelief. "What... what are you talking about, Uncle?"
Amzad closed his eyes, his tone dripping with contempt. "I don't believe you, Kazim. Do you think I would risk my position to help someone like you? Someone related to a traitor? You should have known better."
Kazim's chest tightened. The man who had once been a trusted ally, a mentor of sorts to Mosharrof, was now turning his back on everything they had been through together. He couldn't understand it. Was Amzad always like this? Kazim thought. Did he always have this cold side to him?
Amzad leaned forward, his voice now a low growl. "Leave, Kazim. Leave my house now before I'm forced to throw you out."
Kazim's heart shattered as the realization set in. He had come here with hope. Hope that Amzad would help him expose the truth. But now, it seemed, there was nothing left. The man who had once stood beside his brother in the past was now an obstacle in Kazim's path.
He started to laugh—at first, quietly, almost in disbelief. But soon, the laugh grew louder, more bitter. He clapped his hands slowly, mocking. "Nice... Nice, Uncle Amzad. You always followed my brother when he had wealth and status. You were his closest ally, weren't you? And now? Now, you turn your back on him. You turn your back on me."
Amzad didn't say a word, but the anger in his eyes was clear. Kazim, however, didn't care anymore. He turned on his heel, leaving the house. As he walked out, the wind hit him like a slap to the face, cold and unforgiving. It was as if nature itself was mocking him, reminding him of the bitter truth that he was now facing
Kazim walked slowly along the village road, his heart heavier than ever. Dust clung to his sandals as his mind wandered through a storm of confusion and grief. He had come to the bazar to buy groceries—but now, he couldn't even remember why he came.
The words from Uncle Amzad echoed in his mind like a cruel drumbeat. A man who once stood proudly beside Mosharrof before the war, who shared smiles, meals, and respect—had now shut the door on his face.
This is the rule of this world, Kazim thought bitterly. The liars rise, the good ones fall. Truth dies quietly, while falsehood parades in medals and speeches.
His eyes blurred, but he didn't let the tears fall. Bhaiya… was this your dream? You left your status, your power in the Pakistan army… for this? For betrayal, for disgrace?
But then, he stopped. He clenched his fists.
No… I can't let myself break. If I fall apart, how will Bhabi survive? I have to be strong. For her. For your child. For your name, Bhaiya.
He reached their house, head low, shoulders heavy. But as he looked up, something made him freeze.
He hadn't stepped inside yet. He was just in front of the house.
But something felt… wrong.
The silence wasn't normal. It was too deep. Too cold. The air itself felt still, like it was holding its breath.
Kazim stared at the house. His chest tightened. A strange unease crept into him.
He didn't know what had happened.
He gripped the grocery bag tighter, but his hands trembled slightly.
And a quiet thought whispered in the back of his mind:
Why did I leave?
He stood there, frozen, in front of his home