Star Literature
FICTION / The hawk and the mice
Bolstered, the six little mice lead their army up–up–up the trunk of the poor, ravaged oak they were so desperate to save.
FICTION / Ira in my town
After many years, Ira has returned to my town. She hops four towns to get here. We are supposed to meet today. I’ve been ready since morning. We will meet by the lakeside.
POETRY / The ghost of Arun Das
Raise no alarm, if on a night dimly lit,
ESSAY / A surreal graphic novel by Subimal Misra
As I read Subimal Misra–I was therefore seized by the urge to bring out his stories, or "anti-stories", in graphic form
POETRY / October: An unfinished poem
Glamorous lightweight raindrops from the October sky keep
POETRY / Silence
A star fell on the ground in the windy night
ESSAY / On the national anthem of Bangladesh: An apologetic discourse (part two)
The question here should be: Why does the nationality of the poet matter if the sentiment and emotional dimensions are the central focus that keeps the dynamic of a national anthem active?
POETRY / Republic of the dead
As if playing a game of chess / Still the world waits for the next dawn
REFLECTIONS / Utpal Dutt and the new dawn
The audience for the jatra was all any Marxist theatre director in Kolkata could have wished for.
Storm child
The majority of my early childhood was spent in a big house filled with endless possibilities. At least, that’s what my preteen self thought at the time.
burnt honey
i quite like the smell of cloves, even more when they're burning/ turning charcoal in front of my eyes
Raw Magnolias
This is a garden, these are my petals; this is my armoring plant
The searing beast
Sweat beads upon my brow, my shirt begins to cling/ The vile monster's tendrils reach out, adhesive
I've seen love
I've seen love/ Rolling down from a mother's eyes/ As she picks her lean child, bathed in innocent blood
A means to an end
go further than/ what the hills have seen/ through their ice pick scars
How to exist
When there’s a lull in the air, I get the feeling that I’ve scraped the bottom of my fleshy insides.
A childhood memory
Dust patterns have gathered around my landline phone, huddling around the maroon. my fingerprints take some dust off of it, and they rejoice.
Hair cream
The mosque committee was quite displeased with Rashed, their young muezzin.
A building, a tree, and a kid
Buckets of water I pour on my head; my vision gets blurry./ "The blurrier, the merrier", my mother said.