It is a rather rare feat to find poetry composed in Bangla and compiled in the writer’s only published book that has propelled both the poet and book of poetry to the height of fame and immortalisation, that too in the poet’s own lifetime, as Helal Hafiz’s Je Jole Agun Jole has done.
A lonely soul treads on the street cultivating the sweet pain of defunct love; like a solitary artist, he rambles through the alleys of the city and paints the
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
Pale, aristocratic, seductive forces lurking in the dark—when we think of vampires, we often perceive them through a western lens
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
I plead but I know there is nothing I can do. Akbar, in a rare fit of courage, tries to intervene. But the old man does not budge. Maybe he knows about Mina and me.
Sumedha replied with annoyance, "I will make him say the words. It's so simple, 'Apni kemon achhen, bhalo?' Why can't he say it?"
Hold on to the hand of your lover. Because when the baton falls it will be between the spaces where we stand.
The village folk remembered the moon of that night, and they described it.
These are our shared dreams that inspire a sense of community–we are all in it together.
