When it comes to our fathers, especially the ones who try to be good men, a rampant affliction known as patriarchy has left us with no language to imagine them outside of what they were to others. Strip away the roles, and what’s left?
These paternal characters are not easy to love, nor can they love faultlessly themselves. Yet it is precisely this contradiction—their awkward tenderness, silent failures, and undeniable devotion—that makes them so achingly human
Her voice, thin as a whisper, sharp as a blade, sliced through the kitchen air thick with mustard oil and regret.
Dr Babul Biswas’s Theaterer Kagoj Jotorokom Daay is a thoughtful and detailed study of the evolution of theater in Bengal and Bangladesh, through the lens of theatre-focused little magazines.
Eid-ul-Azha is right around the corner, which entails delicious meals, family gatherings, and a little extra downtime between all the Qurbani preparation and feasting.
Imagine that a 104 years after its inception, the Department of English of Dhaka University wakes up on a July morning to see its rain soaked campus abuzz with young men and women walking past the Aparajeyo Bangla,
The Asia regional winner of the 2025 Commonwealth Short Story Prize, Faria Basher, in an interview with The Daily Star, opens up about her journey from lifelong reader to emerging writer.
When he was handing over the money to Naimuddin, their father, Kalam silently cried, holding Dholi’s neck in the yard.
So go in peace, be free, be kind.
I know my engine is dying. I know that, by the time the next Eid rolls around, the busy little humans will have taken me apart to create something new.
These stories subtly highlight how even within patriarchal structures, men, too, are shaped, sometimes twisted by the systems they benefit from.
Storytelling is not easy, especially when a few words portray a character with depth and just enough strokes to etch the social milieu for certain classes and creeds and the outcomes of political ideologies in post-independent Bangladesh.
Ravindra's prose is brisk, smooth, and detailed, with numerous stories from traditional Nepali and Hindu folklore chipped in, adding layers as the story unfolds.
How does one write about history? Certainly, there is the straight-forward, head-on approach, where a historical period is confronted directly by populating it with historical/fictional characters and portraying the times through their eyes.
In a world where smart TVs, touchscreen tablets, and mobiles are always within reach, I feel grateful that my daughter, who is almost five and a half, often brings me books and asks me to read them to her for a quick, fun storytime
This year’s World Book Day theme, “Read Your Way,” invites readers to embrace their own paths, rhythms, and preferences regarding books
What if our Eid table had a few extra chairs reserved not for guests from our world but from that of the books we’ve loved throughout our life?
In one of their most recent episodes, Dhaka Sessions featured three young artists from Bengal Parampara Sangeetalay to perform in the intimate and literary, lush space of Bookworm Bangladesh
Now, two decades later, the question lingers: Did "Guts" really cause waves of fainting spells, or did the legend grow legs of its own?
Throughout my school years, Ammu would assign a different writer for me to read during each vacation
Remembering the stateless poet Daud Haider
'A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies'
Aparna Upadhyaya Sanyal’s 'Instruments of Torture' is a powerful literary collection that delves into the psychological and societal torments individuals endure, particularly focusing on themes of beauty standards and the representation of women. Each story in the collection is named after a medieval torture device, serving as a metaphor for the emotional and societal pressures faced by the characters.
Being a Dhakaite, your Eids in childhood were spent in mournful longings for something to happen.
I made my first kite out of white paper scraps; on my 16th birthday, it came to me that they needed a pop of color.
When Ullash decided to choose the cat for one of his experiments, our borobhabi, Ullash's mother, didn't raise a single objection
I rush to the mirror. My gums are pristine, no wound, no sin. But when I look back at the fruit, the truth reveals itself: the flesh is blackened, writhing with tiny, hungry mouths. The rot has teeth
Now, an automated metro-rail glides silently through the city. Conversations have become clipped, calculated. Efficiency replaces spontaneity. They call it peace. Rahim calls it absence.
It was not often that I received odd parcels. True, my job at the paper did occasionally warrant a few peculiar hate-mail or rebuttals, but this was nothing of that sort
In Gaza, the names of the martyrs slip through silence, lost to a world too distracted to listen
Mohsin would burst into laughter, saying, "Justice for rape? Is that even a crime worthy of justice?" Rabeya, laughing alongside him, would add, "People expect justice for rape these days? I'm speechless at their naïveté!"
I am not a single name. Not a single wound.
Grey chips of rough cement Rust rubble all around,
This was the way it ended: not with fire, But carried quietly under sleep-beds,
When it comes to our fathers, especially the ones who try to be good men, a rampant affliction known as patriarchy has left us with no language to imagine them outside of what they were to others. Strip away the roles, and what’s left?
These paternal characters are not easy to love, nor can they love faultlessly themselves. Yet it is precisely this contradiction—their awkward tenderness, silent failures, and undeniable devotion—that makes them so achingly human
Her voice, thin as a whisper, sharp as a blade, sliced through the kitchen air thick with mustard oil and regret.
I made my first kite out of white paper scraps; on my 16th birthday, it came to me that they needed a pop of color.
This was the way it ended: not with fire, But carried quietly under sleep-beds,
Dr Babul Biswas’s Theaterer Kagoj Jotorokom Daay is a thoughtful and detailed study of the evolution of theater in Bengal and Bangladesh, through the lens of theatre-focused little magazines.
Imagine that a 104 years after its inception, the Department of English of Dhaka University wakes up on a July morning to see its rain soaked campus abuzz with young men and women walking past the Aparajeyo Bangla,
I know my engine is dying. I know that, by the time the next Eid rolls around, the busy little humans will have taken me apart to create something new.
