Star Literature
POETRY / Saree
The yard in this noontime is buzzing with/ The white aroma of the guava flower
FICTION / The man who dug his own grave
Everyone gathered around the east end of the Shashipur to watch Sharafat Miah dig his own grave. The local kids lurked around Sharafat’s old hut, keeping a watch on the progress of the grave until their mothers came to pick them up after Maghrib.
ESSAY / Intertextuality in Shahaduz Zaman’s ‘Prithibite Hoyto Brihaspatibar’
Shahaduz Zaman stands out prominently as a significant figure in the contemporary Bangla literary landscape, utilising intertextuality throughout his works, and infusing various texts and genres into his narratives.
POETRY / Heartache
I’m going through a heartbreak
POETRY / Cyan is my name when I talk about you
I'm tired of living with this nagging thought that we'll cross paths someday, /You and I
FICTION / The chasm
At around 2 AM he was awoken by the sound of Shahidun’s sniveling cries on her prayer mat. As grating as it might have sounded, he felt grateful for it to have woken him up.
FICTION / Konokbari
Reya looks out the window of the bus, the glint of sunlight falling across her oval face makes her olive skin shimmer.
POETRY / The hills
They say the hills have eyes Iridescent, all knowing, and deathlike.
POETRY / A Desire or death eats away at my corpse. You are basking in the sun
Do you want my hands/ Will they be enough to keep you warm
Saree
The yard in this noontime is buzzing with/ The white aroma of the guava flower
Heartache
I’m going through a heartbreak
Intertextuality in Shahaduz Zaman’s ‘Prithibite Hoyto Brihaspatibar’
Shahaduz Zaman stands out prominently as a significant figure in the contemporary Bangla literary landscape, utilising intertextuality throughout his works, and infusing various texts and genres into his narratives.
The man who dug his own grave
Everyone gathered around the east end of the Shashipur to watch Sharafat Miah dig his own grave. The local kids lurked around Sharafat’s old hut, keeping a watch on the progress of the grave until their mothers came to pick them up after Maghrib.
Cyan is my name when I talk about you
I'm tired of living with this nagging thought that we'll cross paths someday, /You and I
The chasm
At around 2 AM he was awoken by the sound of Shahidun’s sniveling cries on her prayer mat. As grating as it might have sounded, he felt grateful for it to have woken him up.
Konokbari
Reya looks out the window of the bus, the glint of sunlight falling across her oval face makes her olive skin shimmer.
The hills
They say the hills have eyes Iridescent, all knowing, and deathlike.
A Desire or death eats away at my corpse. You are basking in the sun
Do you want my hands/ Will they be enough to keep you warm
Shrines
Words have crashed onto your shores,
