Chapter 13: The Heist
"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"
Back in Tejgaon, a soldier was walking through the alley with a sly expression on his face. Within a short while, he met his comrades.
"The cotton warehouse got robbed just a while ago. They even gave me 100 taka. It's our chance. There's only two old dudes from the Tongi Regiment. If we can snatch it away from them, we can make at least 1000 rupees selling it in India. Most importantly, no one will suspect us later on."
"You're sly like always, Mokbul. But are you sure about this? We can't create a skirmish. We might end up on the front page of an international paper reporting internal struggle among Mukti Bahini."
One of them replied with concern. If things got out in the media, the outcome might be dire. Soldiers around the nation were doing whatever they pleased, but Dhaka was off-limits—too many journalists, military officials, and the Indian Army.
"Let's give it a try. We can just coerce them to leave all those cottons with us in exchange for sparing their lives. I don't think those old men have the balls to fight back when outnumbered," Mokbul insisted.
"Very well. We don't have any other choice. My family is still stuck in a refugee camp, and here I am, completely penniless. You bastard got your hands on 100 taka while we're broke. We need to take this risk,"
A young soldier named Ahmed replied with a gloomy face. He was an idealistic, educated man with a sense of morality. But times were hard.
Soldiers had risked their lives every day to win the war, without being paid a single penny. After the war, it was the politicians who reaped most of the benefits, while the soldiers remained unpaid, living miserable lives. Many turned to illegal means to survive—selling military equipment, robbing abandoned properties, and more.
"Let's do it. We'll block their path outside of Tejgaon. Let's ambush them near Uttara since it's the only route back to Tongi," Ashik suggested, analyzing the situation.
The four of them got into a truck and headed for north-west Dhaka.
Mr. Monish was driving the truck with a relaxed expression.
"You bureaucrats are quite cunning, I give you that. I really got panicked when that soldier shouted at us. But as soon as you gave him 100 rupees, he changed into a completely different person."
Mr. Reza laughed it off.
"Bureaucrats, soldiers, politicians—in Bangladesh, all are the same. As soon as you give them a bribe, they'll lick your boots."
Instead of laughing, Monish suddenly slammed the brakes, causing both of them to hit their heads.
"Why the hell did you stop so abruptly?" Mr. Reza shouted, holding his nose which had begun to bleed.
"Look in front of you. You'll realize why."
A war-torn armed truck was blocking their path. Three soldiers stepped out, weapons slung across their shoulders. One of them shouted:
"Surrender peacefully. We'll guarantee your safety as fellow comrades."
Mr. Monish, now sweating, tried to smile but failed miserably.
"Now old folks like us need to fight? Is there any way around this? Or should we just surrender?"
"Fighting is out of the question—we'd just die in vain. But surrendering here would be humiliating."
Reza said with concern, then suggested:
"Let's get out of the truck first. It's not like they'll shoot us down in the middle of the street."
They slowly stepped out of the truck, hands unarmed, hearts pounding.
"We can negotiate small things like a fellow comrades, right?"
Mr. Proposed Negotiation with a dried voice.
One of the armed soldiers—Mokbul—approached with a crooked grin. " We're not here to kill anyone. Just hand over the cotton, and no one gets hurt. It's the best negotiation"
Monish looked around. The road was eerily empty—no witnesses, no escape. He glanced at Reza, who nodded ever so slightly.
Reza stepped forward. "We're all brothers here. The war's over. Let's not start another fight among ourselves.
How about this? some of come forward unarmed to have a proper conversation"
Mokbul's smile faded. "Brotherhood doesn't fill empty stomachs. "
After a pause while dropping his gun- " very well. we'll respect your suggestion as comrades."
Ahmed, and another younger soldier named bablu followed the suit.
Bablu said without a bit of interest " I don't like this robbery thing personally .We came this far—we're not leaving empty-handed. Let's wrapped this thing up peacefully"
The tension calmed down a bit as they agreed for negotiation.
trying to test the water Mr.reza said-
" This cotton is meant for hospitals. You'd be stealing from the wounded."
Mokbul laughed it off-
"You guys can't lie at all. There's no hospital in tongi. And the number of wounded shouldn't be much. You guys really have another motives. Are you trying to smuggle the cotton in india?"
Being comepletely seen through,;. Reza pulled out two hundred-taka notes and admitted the truth.
" we're trying to reopen a textile. You know how much cotton is needed there. Let's cut off the chase. You keep another 200, we keep the cotton . Both are happy."
Ahmed and Bablu swayed by the offer. Fighting here, smuggling cotton India was too much of risk. It's best to keep some money without doing anything.
"well.... you guys are intellectual for sure. we didn't ever though about taking over and running factory."
Ahmed was .... impressed .
"we don't care what the hell you guys gonna do with those cotton. Give us 500 just half of that cottons worth and flee"
Mr. Reza pretended searching his all pockets and took out another note of a hundred.
" We only got a 100 left. You can keep it"
They looked at Monish who shrugged-
"I am just a truck driver. You can check me if you want.'
"Very well. We'll collect those 200 rupee from you guys later. Your captain will pay us later"
Bablu thought Captain Reyaz was the real mastermind, can't blame him though.
Bablu took the money while Mokbul said-
"You have ten minutes.We'll visit you guys soon enough"
Without wasting a second, Monish and Reza jumped back in the truck and drove off, hearts pounding, leaving behind four soldiers in a cloud of rising dust and crumbling morals.
"That bastard was really dangerous. He took the bribe only to rob us later"