creative nonfiction

CREATIVE NONFICTION / Ink, jasmine, and the ghost of Ma: Unlearning my father

When it comes to our fathers, especially the ones who try to be good men, a rampant affliction known as patriarchy has left us with no language to imagine them outside of what they were to others. Strip away the roles, and what’s left?

CREATIVE NONFICTION / Nani’s salt

Her voice, thin as a whisper, sharp as a blade, sliced through the kitchen air thick with mustard oil and regret.

KHERO KHATA / The morgues are full

In Gaza, the names of the martyrs slip through silence, lost to a world too distracted to listen

CREATIVE NONFICTION / Something smells fishy

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,

CREATIVE NONFICTION / The tall and short of it

It feels like only two days ago that my dadu was still here, worrying I’d always be too short like her.

CREATIVE NONFICTION / Not waiting for answers

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?

CREATIVE NONFICTION / PeaceCity alley

The Notorious Loverboy, Slum Boy and Millionaire’s Daughter, My Bride or My Mother, My Mother’s Body in a Wedding Saree,

CREATIVE NONFICTION / Of moms and balcony gardens

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a mom in Dhaka must be in want of a balcony-garden

CREATIVE NONFICTION / Patuatuli and a young girl’s love for glasses

My love affair with spectacles has long been regarded by my mother as nothing but a symptom of my dramatic nature.

June 15, 2025
June 15, 2025

Ink, jasmine, and the ghost of Ma: Unlearning my father

When it comes to our fathers, especially the ones who try to be good men, a rampant affliction known as patriarchy has left us with no language to imagine them outside of what they were to others. Strip away the roles, and what’s left?

June 14, 2025
June 14, 2025

Nani’s salt

Her voice, thin as a whisper, sharp as a blade, sliced through the kitchen air thick with mustard oil and regret.

April 5, 2025
April 5, 2025

The morgues are full

In Gaza, the names of the martyrs slip through silence, lost to a world too distracted to listen

November 23, 2024
November 23, 2024

Something smells fishy

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,

September 28, 2024
September 28, 2024

The tall and short of it

It feels like only two days ago that my dadu was still here, worrying I’d always be too short like her.

August 17, 2024
August 17, 2024

Not waiting for answers

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?

July 13, 2024
July 13, 2024

PeaceCity alley

The Notorious Loverboy, Slum Boy and Millionaire’s Daughter, My Bride or My Mother, My Mother’s Body in a Wedding Saree,

February 18, 2024
February 18, 2024

Of moms and balcony gardens

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a mom in Dhaka must be in want of a balcony-garden

January 6, 2024
January 6, 2024

Patuatuli and a young girl’s love for glasses

My love affair with spectacles has long been regarded by my mother as nothing but a symptom of my dramatic nature.

November 25, 2023
November 25, 2023

Of faith: Mother and memories

Back in 2006 at the age of 11, I was introduced to faith, in the most domestic way possible.