It is not an easy task to be a visual field reporter.

Why would I say that?

For starter, I am hardly moved by deaths anymore unlike I used to react when someone would pass away some ten years ago.

In my shorter-than-a-decade-old full-time career as a journalist, I probably have witnessed over a thousand deaths.

And my heart barely shook when I see another body.

I have just returned home from a heartwrenching assignment at Rupganj industrial town where a deadly fire killed at least 52 people.

The worst part about this dreary day was that most of the missing workers are youngsters -- aged between 13 and 20 -- according to the dozens of perplexed and anxious relatives waiting outside whom I met.

I was wading through ankle-deep warm water leaking out from the blazing six-storey building on the road last night while the firemen were struggling with their telescoping water cannon, trying to douse the indomitable flame.

Thirteen-year-old Saiful, a worker who narrowly escaped the fire, told me there are over 40 people trapped on the third floor. The doors on that floor were locked. They would turn into charcoals.

That's what he said. I did not want to believe. Factory supervisors cannot be that stupid, I thought.

But again, I forgot for a while, I witnessed Rana Plaza, Tazreen garments, and a dozens of factories' safety systems. Many of the owners strongly mocked the watchdogs imposing the expensive fire control systems on them.

This morning, I just finished spoken to Pakhi Begum, mother of 19-year-old Parvez who was inside the factory's third-floor.

Pakhi talked to her son last evening. He wanted to eat jack fruit. The single mom said she would buy one on Friday morning.

'But my Parvez did not return,' the widow bursted out in tears.

She kept saying one thing -- 'Please return my 'Shona Manik's body so I can bury him properly. Please oh please don't throw him in the cement bags (body bags) and take him away from me!'

My eyes were wet. Heart was bleeding. But I kept working.

Yards away, I met Sharmin. lamenting over her 15-year-old missing sister Shahana. Same story she shared amid her continuous hiccups -- 'Oh brother, please don't take photos anymore. Bring back my little sister.'

I kept walking and reached an ambulance parked outside the factory gate. I was not ready to see what would I see next.

Firemen and volunteers started bringing out bodybags from inside the building. The bodies inside those plastic bags were all curled up, like the shrimps we usually fry in hot oil.

I was so close to the ambulance that my doubled coronavirus protection facemask couldn't stop the strong burnt flesh stench. I, for a jiffy, thought I'd throw up.

But I didn't.

'What's wrong with me?' I thought.

After counting 49 bodies being loaded in five different ambulances, I slowly left the premises and headed to the main road. There I found Selim, who was looking out for his 15-year-old nephew Ripon who was a worker in the factory.

I eavesdrop on him speaking to somebody on the other side of the phone. He said -- 'He's not in any of the hospitals? Okay, return to the factory. He must be inside.'

The sleepless eyes of the teenager's uncle was very tired. But he strongly wanted to make himself believe that nephew may still be living.

I walked inside the car to edit my story and video. I ate a pack of biscuits and a bottle of fizzy drink.

And finally I wondered. Again.

What's wrong with me?

Is it at all me? Or those heartless factory owners who'd employ child labourers in a locked factory standing allegedly without proper fire safety?

I'm not sure. But being a father, I cannot put my daughter's face on any of those charred bodies I have seen today.

I wonder, can they portray it?

-- SAM JAHAN, JOURNALIST | Unedited thoughts after covering a fire that killed 52, many of whom are minors