In Gaza, the names of the martyrs slip through silence, lost to a world too distracted to listen
The large green pond of Dhanmondi Lake was probably the first source of natural water that I had witnessed. It sheltered a huge number of people who have lived,
It feels like only two days ago that my dadu was still here, worrying I’d always be too short like her.
How long does a corpse of a hero take to rot? 50 years or more? What about the corpses of martyrs? One week? 10 days? The 40-day mark to blow the candles of funeral fires?
The Notorious Loverboy, Slum Boy and Millionaire’s Daughter, My Bride or My Mother, My Mother’s Body in a Wedding Saree,
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a mom in Dhaka must be in want of a balcony-garden
My love affair with spectacles has long been regarded by my mother as nothing but a symptom of my dramatic nature.
Back in 2006 at the age of 11, I was introduced to faith, in the most domestic way possible.
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.
In Gaza, the names of the martyrs slip through silence, lost to a world too distracted to listen
The large green pond of Dhanmondi Lake was probably the first source of natural water that I had witnessed. It sheltered a huge number of people who have lived,
It feels like only two days ago that my dadu was still here, worrying I’d always be too short like her.
How long does a corpse of a hero take to rot? 50 years or more? What about the corpses of martyrs? One week? 10 days? The 40-day mark to blow the candles of funeral fires?
The Notorious Loverboy, Slum Boy and Millionaire’s Daughter, My Bride or My Mother, My Mother’s Body in a Wedding Saree,
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a mom in Dhaka must be in want of a balcony-garden
My love affair with spectacles has long been regarded by my mother as nothing but a symptom of my dramatic nature.
Back in 2006 at the age of 11, I was introduced to faith, in the most domestic way possible.
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.
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.
