Shaidul is bowling.
He's charging in, eyes blazing, full of rage. The stadium holds its breath. Is this going to be a wicket… or a six?
On the other end stands Shakib — the pride of Bangladesh, cool and composed, ready to face the storm.
[World Cup — Match 1.
Live on TV.]
It's night outside.
The air buzzes with the familiar chorus of insects. The neighborhood looks like a slum — but not quite. It's more like a low-income colony, worn yet still alive with stories.
Outside, the aunties are gathered as usual, their gossip louder than the TV inside. Their voices pour through the open windows like public announcements.
Inside the small, dimly lit room, an old box TV hums with static as the match plays. The glow from the screen flickers on the walls, casting dancing shadows across the floor.
On that floor sits a man — late twenties — leaning against the cracked, faded wall. He wears only a lungi, his upper body bare, glistening slightly in the dim light. Not out of style or arrogance — but comfort, heat, maybe even hopelessness.
His body is unreal.
Chiseled, lean, ripped in a way that would shame even elite MMA fighters. Every muscle, every vein speaks of hardship, of pain turned into power.
And yet…
He sits quietly. Smoking a cigarette. Eyes distant. Expression hollow.
He looks like a man who once dreamed of shaking the world — but now can't even shake off the weight in his chest.
Depressed.
Detached.
The fire that built that body still burns somewhere deep inside — but tonight, it's buried under ashes.
[This man is Miraz.]
The pride of a forgotten colony.
He walks these narrow alleys like a shadow of greatness. Children stare. Mothers whisper. Fathers nod in silent respect. Not because of what he's done — but because of what runs in his blood.
His grandfather was Mosharrof Hossain.
A name that time couldn't bury.
A name still spoken with trembling pride by the elders who lived through war.
Mosharrof was a man carved from steel and sacrifice — a high-ranking officer in the Pakistan Army. In a system built to crush men like him, his brilliance couldn't be denied. While most Bengalis were choked under the glass ceiling, Mosharrof was already halfway through it.
The top brass eyed him for Major. Unheard of. Unbelievable.
But greatness has a price.
When the war drums beat in 1971, Mosharrof didn't hesitate. He burned his uniform. Abandoned rank. And disappeared — only to reappear months later, wearing the green flag stitched with red. He had joined the Liberation Army.
July 23, 1971.
He came home.
Two long years had passed. His mother's hair had greyed. His younger brother was a man now. But most of all — Selina. His wife. Still waiting.
[Two Years Was Enough To Change Many Things]
She opened the door. And for a moment, time stood still.
She didn't ask where he'd been. She didn't question why he looked older, or thinner, or why he smelled like burnt gunpowder.
[In Just Some Month Mosharrof Changed A Lot]
[Mosharrof Don't Know How,But His Family Already Knew...He Was in War, War to Earn Their Freedom, Freedom of their Nation]
She just held him.
That night was the last peaceful one they'd share.
The next morning, Mosharrof rose before dawn. The call to war was louder than the call to comfort. He stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the first light of day.
"I have to go," he said softly.
Selina didn't cry. Not then. Her lips quivered, but her voice didn't.
"Promise me you'll come back," she whispered. And then, placing a hand on his chest, she handed him a small book of Surahs. "Read these. Every night. Before you sleep."
He kissed her forehead.
And walked away — straight into the fire of history.
Months passed. The war raged. Cities fell. Blood soaked the soil.
Then, victory.
The radio announced it first: "Bangladesh is free."
The streets exploded with joy, but inside Mosharrof's home — there was only silence.
Selina stood still, hand trembling on the wooden frame of the window. Then suddenly, she ran outside. Barefoot. Crying. Laughing. Praying. She looked up at the sky, and for the first time in years — it looked different. Brighter. Lighter. As if the heavens themselves were celebrating.
She dropped to her knees.
Pressed a hand to her belly.
She was pregnant.
And she knew — deep in her soul — that this child would carry Mosharrof's fire.
"Your father will hold you," she whispered to the stars. "He'll see the country he lived for… and the child he desired ."
But fate is crueler than any war.
A few days later, a letter arrived. Folded. Dirty. Heavy with silence.
She recognized the handwriting.
But it wasn't Mosharrof's.
*"Bhabi,
This is Jahangir. Mosharrof's brother-in-arms.
We fought together. We saw the sky tear open and the earth bleed.
I lost a leg in the last fight… but that's not why I write today.
Bhabi… forgive me. I couldn't face you. I couldn't bring myself to walk through your door and break your heart.
So I wrote instead.
Mosharrof is gone.
He didn't make it."*
The paper slipped from her hands.
The world slowed. Sounds faded.
Selina sank to the floor, her breath caught between a scream and a sob. Her hand still on her belly.
And just like that — the sky turned dark again.
A few days had passed.
The house still wore silence like a funeral shroud. The air felt heavy, as if it, too, mourned.
Then— Knock, knock.
A firm knock echoed through the old wooden door.
Kazim, Mosharrof's younger brother, opened it. His eyes widened.
A man stood there in worn military fatigues. Dust clung to his boots. His face bore the weight of war — tired eyes, but standing tall with pride.
"I'm looking for the family of Senior Mosharrof," the man said, his voice steady but filled with reverence.
Kazim stepped back, stunned. "Y-Yes... I'm his younger brother."
The man offered a firm nod. "I'm Shurjo. Junior to your brother in the Liberation Army. I fought beside him."
Kazim's lips parted in awe.
Shurjo stood with a soldier's posture, but there was something deeply human in his tone — something soft, something broken.
"I owe your brother more than words can say," Shurjo continued. "He saved my life... more than once. I wouldn't be standing here if not for him. I came to... speak with Bhabi. If she's able."
Kazim hesitated. "She... she's not well. She hasn't spoken much since the news. But if it's important, maybe it'll give her some peace."
He stepped aside.
Inside the house.
The old fan creaked overhead. Selina sat on the edge of the bed, still as a statue. Her eyes stared forward, but they saw nothing. Her hands rested on her lap, folded over her belly.
She looked like she had aged ten years in a week.
Shurjo entered slowly.
He didn't dare sit on the bed.
Instead, he picked the lowest stool in the room and lowered himself onto it, bowing his head slightly as if in the presence of something sacred.
A quiet passed between them.
Then, gently, with deep respect, Shurjo spoke:
"Bhabi... I'm here because there's something you deserve to know. Something about Senior Mosharrof… something that wasn't in the letter."
He looked up, and for the first time, saw Selina's eyes twitch.
Still empty.
But listening.
Shurjo took a deep breath. "Bhabi… I know this will be hard—maybe the hardest thing you'll ever hear. But you have the right to know. That's why I came. Senior Jahangir gave me a message… something you deserve to hear."
He looked down. His eyes refused to meet Selina's. The pain in his chest made it too heavy to speak. But he continued.
One Month Ago
Bang! Bang!
Gunfire roared through the forest. Smoke and dust covered the sky like a thick curtain of death.
"Hyah! Jahangir! Stay on guard!" Mosharrof shouted, pulling his comrade out of the line of fire. "If I was even a second late, you'd be a corpse by now!"
Jahangir let out a breathless laugh. "Haha! Mosharrof, what are you saying? As long as you're here, death itself runs the other way. You're a living nightmare to this Hanadar Bahini."
Mosharrof didn't laugh. His expression hardened. "We didn't come here to be heroes. We came to earn our freedom. Don't lose focus."
He reloaded his rifle in a blink and began firing again. His aim was godlike. Each bullet found its mark. One shot. One kill.
A distant voice screamed over the gunfire. "Fall back! Retreat! We can't defeat this man! He's not human!" The Pakistani captain shouted in panic, dragging his troops away like scared dogs.
"Cowards…" Mosharrof muttered, lowering his weapon. "If you're going to run, why did you even come here?"
He turned to face his remaining comrades. Five men stood with him. Once, they were over twenty. Now, only five breathing warriors remained.
"Senior…" Shurjo's voice trembled, his eyes scanning the bodies sprawled across the ground. "We've lost more than ten of our brothers today…"
The silence that followed was heavy. It wasn't just the silence of loss. It was the silence of sacrifice. Of men who chose death so a nation could live.
Mosharrof slowly scanned the battlefield again—his sharp eyes now soft with sorrow. Amidst the smoke and silence, he saw a young man hunched over, panting heavily, his chest rising and falling like waves in a storm. It was Aman—the youngest of them all.
His face was covered in dust and sweat. His rifle trembled in his hands. His spirit was brave, but his body was nearing its limit.
Mosharrof's heart clenched.
Four months ago...
He remembered the day Aman came to him—his eyes burning with determination. "Bhaiya, let me fight… I want to protect our country."
Mosharrof had refused him at first. Aman was too young. Too innocent.
But Aman didn't back down. He came again. And again. Until finally… Mosharrof relented.
Not because he believed the battlefield was a place for boys like Aman. But because he knew—the boy's spirit had already become a warrior.
Aman wasn't just another fighter. He was like Mosharrof's own little brother. Before they left, he had looked into Aman's mother's eyes and made a vow.
"I'll bring him back. Alive. That's a promise."
Back in the present, Mosharrof wiped sweat from his brow and walked over to Aman. He knelt beside him, pulled out a bottle of water, and gently placed it in the boy's hands.
"Here," he said, his voice low but firm. "Drink this. You need it."
Aman looked up, exhausted but still trying to smile.
Mosharrof ruffled his hair with a rare softness.
"This… this is the age for boys like you to eat, play, laugh… chase kites in the sky. Not chase death in forests filled with bullets."
He sat beside him in silence for a moment, watching the boy gulp the water.
Deep inside, he knew—war had stolen something from all of them. But from Aman… it had stolen what he hadn't even lived yet.
"Hey… everyone, take a breath," Mosharrof called out, his voice rising above the fading echoes of gunfire. "Rest as much as you can. In one hour, we move again."
His comrades turned to him, exhausted but ready.
"We're attacking the Hanadar Bahini's main camp tonight. They'll finally taste the poison they've been feeding our people."
A few quiet cheers followed. Nods of grim approval.
Mosharrof looked over the group, then walked toward Aman.
He knelt beside him again, this time with a heavier look in his eyes.
"Aman," he said gently, "you're staying behind this time. The next assault is too dangerous. We're going in deep… right into the enemy's den. The reinforcements will arrive soon—go with them instead."
Aman shot up, eyes blazing.
"Bhaiya… I'm not a kid anymore."
Silence fell between them.
Mosharrof stared at him for a moment. His expression was unreadable. Then, slowly, a proud smile formed on his face.
He placed a hand on Aman's shoulder.
"No… you're not," he said softly. "You're a man now—not just in body, but in soul."
Aman didn't reply, but in his silence was a fierce resolve.
Mosharrof gave him a firm nod. It was the nod of a leader… but also of a brother.
The wind rustled the trees around them. A moment of stillness before the storm.
And then—once again—they prepared for war.
As the group braced themselves to attack, something they weren't prepared for unfolded before their eyes. A well-prepared team—nearly forty strong—emerged from the shadows, weapons aimed directly at them. In an instant, the sound of gunfire filled the air—Bang! Bang! Bang!
Three of Mosharrof's comrades from Team 9 of the Mukti Bahini fell, their bodies crumpling to the ground, lifeless. These were the last survivors who had joined their cause—brave men who had fought for freedom, who had given everything to the mission. Now, they were gone, leaving only four left, including Mosharrof.
The weight of loss hit Mosharrof like a sudden storm. His eyes darkened with the brutal reality of war, and in that moment, he knew—there was a traitor among them. It was a sneak attack mission, but somehow, Hanadar Bahini knew their every move. The betrayal cut deep, but Mosharrof had no time to dwell on it. His instincts kicked in.
Without hesitation, he took action, his training and experience making him a monster on the battlefield. He darted toward the enemy, firing with precision, taking down one soldier after another. His movements were fluid, deadly, as if he were born for this fight. His comrades watched in stunned silence, unsure whether to run or to fight. Mosharrof was a force of nature, and in that moment, it seemed like he alone could wipe out all forty members of the Hanadar Bahini.
"Everyone, run!" Mosharrof shouted to the others, his voice commanding and fierce. "Don't waste time here—go join the reinforcements!"
But then, something unexpected happened.
Aman, who had been standing beside Mosharrof, looked at him with determination in his eyes. "No, I won't leave you," Aman said, his voice firm, though his hands shook. He grabbed his gun, aiming it not at the enemy—but at Mosharrof himself.
The sight of Aman, aiming his weapon at Mosharrof, shocked everyone. The world seemed to freeze in that moment.
Shurjo, Jahangir, and even Mosharrof himself were taken aback, unable to fully comprehend what was happening. Why would Aman—someone Mosharrof had treated like a younger brother—turn against him now? What had happened to their bond?
Mosharrof's heart raced, but his face remained unreadable, a mixture of confusion and rage simmering within him. "Aman... what is this?!" he shouted, his voice breaking through the chaos around them. "Why are you pointing that at me?"
Aman's eyes burned with emotion, the pain and conflict evident in his face. But behind it all, there was something else—a cold determination.
"I'm sorry, Bhaiya," Aman said, his voice shaking with regret. "But I've been given orders. I have to do this."