Sarah Anjum Bari
Sarah Anjum Bari is a writer and editor, pursuing an MFA in the Nonfiction Writing Program at the University of Iowa where she also teaches rhetoric and literary publishing.
Sarah Anjum Bari is a writer and editor, pursuing an MFA in the Nonfiction Writing Program at the University of Iowa where she also teaches rhetoric and literary publishing.
The walls of Dhaka city represent the volume and chaos of thousands of people jostling for ever-shrinking space.
It's true, I feel differently about books that I previously disliked or enjoyed reading and books that I want as a physical presence in my life
It’s hard not to recall our many conversations about literature as I try to summarise Shah Tazrian Ashrafi’s debut collection of short stories. They were always short discussions, opening and closing off in spurts, as happens over text. Exclamations over a new essay collection by Zadie Smith, or a new novel by Isabel Allende.
In the foreword, I wanted to capture how I, as a child, grew up listening to different stories: ghost stories, mythical stories from both Sanatana and Islamic religious scriptures, and fairy tales from 'Thakurmar Jhuli', compiled by Dakkhinaranjan Mitra Majumdar. It was a time when there were no boundaries for my imagination.
Like many veterans, I joined a creative writing MFA program because I wanted to evolve as a writer.
Here was a woman who was but a dot amidst the throngs of people who watched the Bosphorus Bridge being opened in October 1973, as fireworks erupted over a Turkey that now seamed Asia to Europe.
I always tell the authors to make subjective, qualitative decisions. So many of my authors say no to higher offers from publishing houses if they don’t feel comfortable with the publisher or editor.
Last week, one of Dhaka’s oldest bookstores announced that they will be closing shop after running for 60 years
An adaptation of Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca seemed especially well-timed, with its theme of imprisonment at home, as well as the timeless pull of social expectations on one’s identity.
Rumaan Alam is interested in contradictions—our presumptions of who should own what, in the textures of modern life.
Bright and cold on a winter afternoon, in the hours leading up to lunch, the kitchen of a Bengali family sizzles with tension. Refrigerated meat is thawed and spices are crushed and pestled.
Something that has always fascinated me about Bangladeshi literature is it’s attachment to and exploration of space—be it in prose, poetry, or music, almost all Bangladeshi and even Bengali literary work engages with how we are impacted by land, home, country, season, and other natures of charged atmosphere.
A good book stays with a reader long after they’ve read the last word and placed it back on the shelf. It leaves an impression on the mind, whether because the action was exhilarating, the characters raw and real, or because reading it felt like coming back to a home you never knew you had.
Diversity can seem jaded when it is employed for the sake of appearing “woke”.
In the Palace Museum of present-day Beijing, 10 stones of about 90 cm height and 60 cm diameter contain some ancient Chinese symbols.
Shahidul Alam’s The Tide Will Turn (2019) is a book of absences. In the aftermath of the road safety student movement in 2018, those of us who followed Alam’s arrest and the ensuing global backlash will remember the letter he received from writer and activist Arundhati Roy.
“A nation that does not respect its mothers is destined for destruction.”
A glance at most of our newspaper and magazine pages, local art galleries, Facebook and Instagram communities, and even films and corporate campaigns reveals a thriving independent art scene.