The people we meet in Elif Shafak’s The Island of Missing Trees (Viking, 2021) are haunted by terrible tragedies from several years past, by a beautiful island divided into two.
I have evaded wreaths of venomous, moving flowers that have invaded the dilapidated manor, writhing and sliding up and down the walls like snakes, ready to strike any moment. I had to tread carefully down the corridors, staying as far away from the walls as possible.
Even though we moved out of our grandmother’s house in Dhaka more than a decade ago, my sister and I still associate the word “storm” with the smell of the unripe mangoes that the kalboishakhi would force down from the trees in her backyard. There are many other quirks we share, things that might seem insignificant to someone who was not a part of our lives back then. But to us, the house with its long corridors and leafy backyard, and a front yard that turned into a badminton court each winter, is nothing short of a wonderland, a place that nurtured us even as it introduced us to the harsher realities of life, a place that remains a living, breathing character in the many dreams and nightmares that we have.
“She is a feminist – a man hater,” an acquaintance says while talking about a certain person.
Knowingly or unknowingly, men enjoy these privileges in every sphere of life.
Why is it that there is a kind of hypocrisy among people when it comes to women smoking?
“If there is a women’s day, why can’t there be a men’s day as well?”
"Not All Men" alters the course of discussions, accomplishing nothing except making things worse and hindering progress.
Ridesharing services have recently become a popular alternative to public transportation. As such, I have encountered a wide variety of drivers through ride sharing services that gave me quite an insight into human nature.
My cousin gave me a beautiful notebook for my eighth birthday. The pages had a woody fragrance and looked like the parchments we see in the Harry Potter films.
There is a window in this room, And outside a chestnut tree alive and happy.
Clouds have darkened the otherwise blue sky, like unwelcome guests, making it impossible for the sun to have its way. It is a relief to think that the scorching heat that usually makes its way through the bustling Dhaka streets won't torment anyone today.
My family and close friends know me as an incorrigible over-thinker. According to them, I always tend to make a mountain out of a molehill.
There is fog here, I cannot see.
A camera captured it, My smile and yours, Ten months ago —
Grey uniform, Speaking gibberish.
