In a time where spectacle often overshadows sincerity, where art sometimes forgets its heart, Lojithan Ram offers a whisper. A blue whisper. And in that whisper, you may just hear your own name
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?
Her voice, thin as a whisper, sharp as a blade, sliced through the kitchen air thick with mustard oil and regret.
In Gaza, the names of the martyrs slip through silence, lost to a world too distracted to listen
The large green pond of Dhanmondi Lake was probably the first source of natural water that I had witnessed. It sheltered a huge number of people who have lived,
It feels like only two days ago that my dadu was still here, worrying I’d always be too short like her.
How long does a corpse of a hero take to rot? 50 years or more? What about the corpses of martyrs? One week? 10 days? The 40-day mark to blow the candles of funeral fires?
The Notorious Loverboy, Slum Boy and Millionaire’s Daughter, My Bride or My Mother, My Mother’s Body in a Wedding Saree,
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a mom in Dhaka must be in want of a balcony-garden
In a time where spectacle often overshadows sincerity, where art sometimes forgets its heart, Lojithan Ram offers a whisper. A blue whisper. And in that whisper, you may just hear your own name
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?
Her voice, thin as a whisper, sharp as a blade, sliced through the kitchen air thick with mustard oil and regret.
In Gaza, the names of the martyrs slip through silence, lost to a world too distracted to listen
The large green pond of Dhanmondi Lake was probably the first source of natural water that I had witnessed. It sheltered a huge number of people who have lived,
It feels like only two days ago that my dadu was still here, worrying I’d always be too short like her.
How long does a corpse of a hero take to rot? 50 years or more? What about the corpses of martyrs? One week? 10 days? The 40-day mark to blow the candles of funeral fires?
The Notorious Loverboy, Slum Boy and Millionaire’s Daughter, My Bride or My Mother, My Mother’s Body in a Wedding Saree,
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a mom in Dhaka must be in want of a balcony-garden
My love affair with spectacles has long been regarded by my mother as nothing but a symptom of my dramatic nature.
