It is enough— Enough to be here, Beneath the bulb of a wonton shop.
I know of my feeble frame of its graying at the edges.
migratory animal Are you looking for a home?
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.
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
"That’s why I have jars of jealousy, anger, sadness, monotony, but this – it’s important."
I will not even begin with the skies
One sits silently. Her eyes blink sometimes. Sometimes her lips tremble a little, or they don’t tremble at all.
Behind the bangles that jingle ominously in the dark, there is a voice—a voice that has long been silenced
For wounded soldiers rarely feel, Of throbbing hearts and broken skin.
Not even the asters accepting your gaze.
I would remember a face like this if I had seen it around.
I am a photo of a person, printed in black and white, in a newspaper.
The sound of your voice is a song.
Where could they live happily for the rest of their childhood?
The creatures of the dark feed on fear. And hot sauce.
One-quarter grilled chicken. Naan. And a hell of a story.
One day I was playing cricket with my friends near a field of my house. That day the game was exciting and fun-filled but unfortunately it started raining, we had to stop playing and we took shelter under a tree.
The third death anniversary of prolific author, dramatist, screenwriter, playwright and filmmaker Humayun Ahmed, who mesmerised his fans with his strong works for four decades, is observed amid unabated downfall all the day.
