It was the shade of the ashwath that vanquished all one’s weariness from the fiery heat of Choitro. Or else it was not possible for fatigue to be eliminated so quickly.
In the psyche and schema of the average transnational Bangladeshi, rape is visible and legitimate only when it takes spectacular forms—violent, brutal, deadly.
For educators: My go-to text on 1971 is Jahanara Imam’s Ekattorer Dinguli. It’s a deeply personal and powerful memoir that I believe every student should engage with to truly feel the emotional and human cost of the war. The way she documents her experiences, especially the loss of her son, is heart-wrenching and offers a perspective that transcends history—it becomes deeply relatable and unforgettable.
I weave Hibiscuses in your hair and Along with them I softly weave the strings of my I love you’s. Your eyes are closed as you soak in my touch and Your lips are pressed thin as if imprisoning yours.
In classic Bengali fiction, the kitchen is a central site for conflict and community bonding.
I fell asleep to the chatters of cicadas on a quiet summer night
The night after the story got published, Jamal stormed to my home at around 11 PM, drenched in the rain. That was the first and only time Jamal raised his voice against me
A long stretch of time / passed in prison
One sits silently. Her eyes blink sometimes. Sometimes her lips tremble a little, or they don’t tremble at all.
Healthy water-bodies are sunk by envy-blind waste’s outburst
It feels like only two days ago that my dadu was still here, worrying I’d always be too short like her.
teardrops trickling down / the valley / mingling with the static— / hollow waves of Kaptai lake
Maa, you are an endless exhibition / of sweet-sour happiness
His final sentiments were etched into the table before he succumbed to his final rest: "I found solace in the mountains. They demanded nothing and remained steadfast by my side."
Was it a spectacle—filmed the whole incident? / Why didn’t you withstand? / Why didn’t you try to desist?
As I turn back, my eyes catch sight of what appears to be hands, but of a tan, furry kind, feeling its way inside the sliding doors
It is perhaps not an overstatement to say that humans are, at their core, wanderers.
Rose-tinted glasses are just red, and I have painted myself with the color now that the hollow of your eyes isn’t there, now that
