Media today has transformed into a spectacular performance focused on visibility.
What is perhaps more insidious than the acts themselves is the language that now surrounds them. The lexicon of liberation has deliberately opted for expletives.
We need to change our mindset and up our game to improve our universities’ standing.
The collective numbness contradicts the spirit with which the masses stormed the streets in July last year.
Central to the formation of the panel is the objective of minimising political interference in the selection of top university managers.
Central to the JnU crisis is a list of broken promises.
It’s easy to dismiss Dhaka as an unliveable city. The challenge is to replace that tantrum with the determination to make the city better.
On a day like this, 33 years ago, I became a man. To be precise, on November 28, 1987 at 12:10 pm in the emergency ward of Dhaka Medical College Hospital (DMCH), I became a man.
I woke up with a colleague’s hesitant post on Facebook wishing his friends well on the International Men’s Day. The comment thread is filled with issues ranging from locker room banter to the high theory on the dominant form of masculinity.
One more circular. One more extension. The opening of the educational institutions is further delayed; this time up to December 19.
Have you ever put your ear to the rail to listen to the rumbling sound of an approaching train? I have. Many of us have.
You have near perfect vision, or 20/20 vision, if you can see the letters of an eye-chart from a 20 feet distance. 20/20 is an exciting cricket game if you can add two ounces of cricket with one ounce of baseball and garnish it with pom-poms.
As the old joke has it, there is no lid in the mouth of hell where the Bengalis are kept.
In his Ode to the Onion, the Chilean Nobel laureate poet Pablo Neruda praises onions as “the miracle” that happens under the earth.
The title alludes to a very famous folk song by Abdul Alim, Premer Mora Jole Dobe Na. The song pits true love against so-called flings, suggesting that mere water cannot drown the “body” who is in love.
English professors are known for being sticklers for rules. Even if I try to disassociate myself from the grammar Nazis, there are times when I have to wonder about the usage of certain words.
“And my last ask is: if you’re someone’s sister, the next time you see your brother, please hug him… as tightly as you can, for as long as you want, because that’s all I want to do every time I see those photos. But I will never be able to hug Fahim again.”
