Flipping the pages of a textbook often makes me feel like I’m trapped in the US. We studied economics from an American lens, using American textbooks,
Even at this moment when Google is under threat of being taken over by Artificial Intelligence and you may search for anything online,
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.
We might never know how it feels when your whole existence is denied or the loss of homeland, but we can get a little glimpse of their suffering.
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.
Once on a particularly smothering hot day, on a CNG ride to work, I was stuck in the most heinous traffic for over two hours. Over the yelling drivers, honking cars, and incessant cursing over why the CNGs were trying to overtake the expensive cars, I was listening to my usual cycle of songs. As coincidence would have it, David Gilmour in his seraphic voice posed the question: “So, so you think you can tell/ Heaven from hell?”
As an Anglophone writer in Bangladesh, I’ve frequently faced the rather inane question of why I write in English.
I became an ardent admirer of Amrita Pritam, the maverick Punjabi author, an outspoken critic of the Indian patriarchy and discriminating social practices, three decades back in New York when I was putting together an anthology of world feminist poems in Bangla translation.
Much of the reminiscences in The Murti Boys encompass the grittiness of staving off the Pakistanis with little weaponry and a great deal of quick thinking.