creative nonfiction
CREATIVE NONFICTION / The tall and short of it
It feels like only two days ago that my dadu was still here, worrying I’d always be too short like her.
CREATIVE NONFICTION / Not waiting for answers
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?
CREATIVE NONFICTION / PeaceCity alley
The Notorious Loverboy, Slum Boy and Millionaire’s Daughter, My Bride or My Mother, My Mother’s Body in a Wedding Saree,
CREATIVE NONFICTION / Of moms and balcony gardens
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a mom in Dhaka must be in want of a balcony-garden
CREATIVE NONFICTION / Patuatuli and a young girl’s love for glasses
My love affair with spectacles has long been regarded by my mother as nothing but a symptom of my dramatic nature.
CREATIVE NONFICTION / Of faith: Mother and memories
Back in 2006 at the age of 11, I was introduced to faith, in the most domestic way possible.
CREATIVE NONFICTION / Homeward
When I was born, my skin was dark, like my grandfather’s, in whose arms I discovered my first home. Relatives old and new, whose disappointment was being nursed by my parents’ fair complexions, looked from afar as my rotund cheeks melted into the sleeves of my dada’s discolored half-sleeve shirt.
CREATIVE NONFICTION / Of love, longing, and music that make us
My mother’s house is beside a lake that separates the rich and mighty of the city from a little isle of people who work for them.
CREATIVE NONFICTION / The graveyard in Banani
Love is the enormous mango tree growing directly from an ancient grave, so old that no headstone remains at all.
The tall and short of it
It feels like only two days ago that my dadu was still here, worrying I’d always be too short like her.
Not waiting for answers
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?
PeaceCity alley
The Notorious Loverboy, Slum Boy and Millionaire’s Daughter, My Bride or My Mother, My Mother’s Body in a Wedding Saree,
Of moms and balcony gardens
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a mom in Dhaka must be in want of a balcony-garden
Patuatuli and a young girl’s love for glasses
My love affair with spectacles has long been regarded by my mother as nothing but a symptom of my dramatic nature.
Of faith: Mother and memories
Back in 2006 at the age of 11, I was introduced to faith, in the most domestic way possible.
Homeward
When I was born, my skin was dark, like my grandfather’s, in whose arms I discovered my first home. Relatives old and new, whose disappointment was being nursed by my parents’ fair complexions, looked from afar as my rotund cheeks melted into the sleeves of my dada’s discolored half-sleeve shirt.
Of love, longing, and music that make us
My mother’s house is beside a lake that separates the rich and mighty of the city from a little isle of people who work for them.
The graveyard in Banani
Love is the enormous mango tree growing directly from an ancient grave, so old that no headstone remains at all.
Anjuman and the stories of the mango people
My father’s ancestors were Ayurvedic medicine men from a remote corner of the North Bengal. A few generations ago, one of them had cured a long-lasting ailment of the Raja of Taherpur and had received, as a reward, a large chunk of agricultural land or “joat” next to the mighty Joshoi Beel.