Kazi Fazlur Rahman
T H E
L A S T
E N C O U N T E R
A rough push by the soldier propelled Rashed into the room. He stumbled. The Pakistani officer standing in front of the table caught him. He ordered the soldier out and untied Rashed’s hands. Then he moved behind the table and sat in the chair facing Rashed. “Sit down.” Rashed blinked. Even the pale light of the winter afternoon was too harsh for his eyes after the long hours being blindfolded. He rubbed his eyes without seeming to have heard the officer. The enemy officer was of his age or perhaps a little older. He was fair-complexioned and of rather slight build. Under the broad forehead, his eyes had a hint of blue. And those eyes, Rashed could not help noticing, did not have the taunting look of the captor for the captive. The eyes were tired, and the face heavy with fatigue.
