Kazim stood frozen.
In front of him, their tin house—fragile yet filled with memories—was almost completely wrecked. The tin sheets were twisted and torn apart, some blown away, others scattered across the muddy yard. A part of the roof had caved in. The bamboo fence had fallen. It no longer looked like a home.
Shock gripped him.
Then something struck him like lightning—Bhabi!
He rushed forward, stumbling over debris, heart thudding louder than his footsteps. "Bhabi!" he shouted.
And then he saw her.
Selina was sitting silently in the mud, her saree soaked, hands resting limply on her lap. Her eyes stared blankly at the broken wall in front of her. She didn't cry. She didn't scream.
She had gone beyond tears.
Kazim dropped to his knees beside her. "Bhabi... what happened? Who did this?"
Selina said nothing. Her silence hung in the air like smoke after fire.
Kazim swallowed his rising pain. His voice cracked, but he forced calm into it. "Okay... I won't ask anything. Just stay strong, Bhabi. Please."
He gently extended his hand to her, offering not just help to stand—but the silent promise that she was not alone.
Selina tried to stand. It was difficult—her body trembling under the weight of her seventh-month pregnancy. Her legs wobbled, her balance faltered, but she pushed herself up with quiet determination. Kazim immediately supported her, holding her gently yet firmly.
Kazim looked around at the ruins of their home—no walls, no roof, no safety. Just open sky above and broken memories below. He didn't know where to go. The village had turned its back on them. They had no family left. No friends. No place.
But then he remembered something.
A temporary shelter had been built outside the village—created for those who had lost their homes during the war. A place for the forgotten. Maybe... they could go there.
"Come, Bhabi... we'll find a way," Kazim said softly.
Slowly, they began to walk—step by painful step. Selina's breath grew heavier. Kazim's heart ached watching her, but she never complained. The road was long, but fate showed mercy.
By some miracle, no one at the shelter recognized them. It was far enough from the village to escape the weight of their name. The people there, humble and broken like them, welcomed the two without question.
Days passed. Wounds rested. Silence became their companion.
But one night— A scream pierced the quiet.
"Aah... Kazim... help..."
It was Selina.
Kazim rushed to her side. Panic filled his chest. Her hands clutched her belly. The pain was unbearable. It was too early. She was only seven months along. Birth wasn't supposed to come yet—not for two more months.
He didn't waste a second. With the help of the shelter's people, he carried her to the nearest hospital. Time blurred. Roads felt endless. But they made it.
Two hours later, a doctor emerged from the ward.
"Congratulations!" he said, a tired smile on his face. "You're a father. It's a baby boy."
Kazim blinked, confused. He gave an awkward smile.
"Um... Doctor, I'm not his father. I'm his uncle."
The doctor scratched his head, a bit embarrassed. "Ah! My apologies."
But then his expression changed. The smile faded. His voice dropped low.
"I'm sorry, Mister... You brought her in time. The child is stable. Weak—but breathing. But we... we couldn't save the mother."
Silence.
It felt like the world stopped.
"She's... she's gone."
Kazim stood there—his arms by his side, fists slowly tightening. His eyes burned, but no tears came. A scream built inside him, but he swallowed it.
One life lost. One life born.
And the war's shadow continued to take... even after peace.
Kazim returned to the village, the weight of loss heavy on his shoulders. Inside the ambulance lay Selina's lifeless body, wrapped with care. Beside her, in a nurse's arms, slept the newborn—tiny, fragile, unaware of the sorrow that surrounded his first breath in the world.
Though ambulance services were usually costly, the hospital made an exception after hearing they were from a refugee shelter. A quiet act of kindness in a world growing colder.
As they reached the village, Kazim didn't hesitate. He went straight to the mosque, holding onto a faint hope that faith would be kinder than people. There, he found the Imam—an aging man with gentle eyes.
Kazim explained everything, voice low, spirit drained.
The Imam listened quietly, then placed a hand on Kazim's shoulder and said, "As a Muslim, it is my duty to lead the Janazah, regardless of what the world says. Allah knows the truth."
Those words gave Kazim a moment of warmth.
After Asr, just before sunset, Selina's Janazah was held in the mosque courtyard. But unlike others, there was no crowd—only silence, wind, and the soft rustle of leaves. No neighbors came. No women whispered prayers behind the curtains. Just the Imam, two or three elderly men, and Kazim himself.
The village had judged her not for who she was, but for who they thought her family was.
After the final prayer, they buried Selina in the village graveyard. No flowers, no farewell words—just soil over sacrifice.
Now, Kazim had only one person to call family. The tiny child who clung to life like a flame in the wind.
He named him Shahjalal.
That's how Miraz's father was born—into a world of silence, shadows, and quiet resistance.
After Selina's death, Kazim left his village and moved to Dhaka with Shahjalal. Despite starting anew, the shadow of his family's identity as "Rajakars" never left him. It clung to him like an indelible mark, reminding him of the past that he could never escape.
Kazim, however, was strong—like his late brother Mosharrof. He worked tirelessly, his physique a testament to years of hard labor. His strength allowed him to carry the burden of three men at once. Yet, despite his abilities, Kazim always received lower wages than his fellow workers. When he tried to protest, his employers reminded him of his identity, saying, "You're a Rajakar's brother. You should be thankful you even have a job."
Kazim never gave up, though. He worked day and night, earning just enough to support Shahjalal and raise him into a capable young man. Shahjalal, inheriting his father's god-gifted strength, was also blessed with a sharp mind. Kazim enrolled him in school, where Shahjalal excelled both academically and physically. However, even with his brilliant results, Shahjalal was never able to secure a government job. The stigma of his family's past was a heavy chain, pulling him down despite his accomplishments.
As the years passed, Kazim grew older, his body slowing down but his spirit remaining resilient. He never married, constantly preoccupied with the well-being of Shahjalal. Kazim's love for his nephew was unwavering, and he dedicated his entire life to his care. Yet, despite the years of sacrifice, Kazim's thirst for justice—especially for his brother Mosharrof—remained unquenched. The betrayal by Aman, the false accusations, and the loss of his brother lingered in his heart like a fire that refused to die.
Kazim eventually wrote a book—a story based on his life and the struggles he had faced. The book received acclaim from many readers, but no one truly knew the pain that had gone into writing it. Shahjalal understood, though. He knew his father had been a hero, and he knew the sacrifices Kazim had made.
As time went on, Shahjalal married and had a son—Miraz. However, tragedy struck once again. When Miraz was only four years old, Shahjalal and his wife died in a car accident. Kazim, now in his later years, was devastated. The thought that Shahjalal, the only family he had left, could be taken from him so suddenly was too much to bear. Kazim couldn't help but feel that the accident had been no accident at all. It seemed like a carefully planned attempt to take away his last remaining hope.
But no one investigated the incident. Shahjalal and his family's identity, much like Kazim's, made them invisible in the eyes of the authorities. The world didn't care about them.
With Shahjalal's death, life became even more unbearable for Kazim. Though he had grown frail with age, the weight of the past and the absence of his beloved nephew crushed him. Yet, as he gazed at little Miraz, he knew that his life was not yet over. The boy—his last remaining family—needed him.
Kazim hoisted Miraz onto his back, whispering, "You are not alone. Not while I'm still here."
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