The article highlights four heartfelt stories about love, exploring themes of waiting, enduring affection, selfless care, and love for life. Each story captures love’s transformative power and emotional depth.
My father speaks in a dismantled language that goes up in smoke.
the bullet hole/ in my brother's chest/ unfolds like a pandora's box
I feel my rage, ma, a living thing;/ A beast, caged, like me
I skip talking to myself for hours / The “me time”, before going to bed
Shimu and Tushar had grown up together on an alley in the Mirpur area of Dhaka city. Their neighbouring houses were separated only by a brick wall, about two meters high. The branches of a tree growing beside Tushar’s house overhung the wall, its foliage shading a part of Shimu’s courtyard.
Being a woman comes to me naturally If not me, then who? I was never asked to be one I was never asked to cook
What’s life if a sense of darkness/ doesn’t connect night to sunlight
Let us raise our voices, let us be heard, / Justice for the dead, let their voices be stirred
And along with our bodies, the rage keeps on, / we chafe and bleed and clot and steer; / we go mad and nude
from my blood fangs, disarrayed cold / looting my sore body / that has done so much for me, while I ached
I wonder where God sits in that tower. I wonder whose cries are louder.
From moon beamed mountains To plains deltaic; In Diasporas–detached
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.
The burst of fragrant marigolds on the blanched porch of our old Calcutta home, free like sand, unbridled like the wind
To sit on thy laurels seems apposite, Yet to dig graves for perceptive pleasure resemble a breach Of lines bridging the things learned, unlearned.
We walk past the singing bells and our chambers, Blind to the perils beyond our walls.
I am from the 19 houses in 15 districts, none of which could become "my home, sweet home"
The motor car is always a thing of darkness, In the sun and lighted roads of day And in the luminous gas at night though
