Kaiser Haq

I had decided to write a brief review of Selima Chowdhury’s book when it was first published, but what with one thing or another making me put it off, a couple of years rolled by, and we found ourselves caught up in a pandemic with no end in sight.

At the Hay Dhaka Literary Festival of 2012 the celebrated Indian writer Vikram Seth, after reading some of his fine translations of Chinese poetry, remarked that he found it odd that his fellow South Asians were incurious about the great civilization north of the Himalayas.

A book may look like a house or a coffin But a maker of books cannot be contained between ordinary covers. Between the Muses’ minions, stodgy academics, Smarmy marketing men and discount-hungry retailers He waves a baton to conduct a chorus That threatens to collapse any moment into cacophony, Yet keeps the show going,

Amitav Ghosh’s passionate engagement with the Sundarbans has brought out his best as a socially conscious fashioner of narrative in The Hungry Tide (HarperCollins, 2004) and Gun Island (John Murray, 2019); enriched his intervention in the discourse on ecology, The Great Derangement: Climate Change and the Unthinkable (Penguin, 2016); and perhaps most felicitously, has brought to light the poet hiding behind his voluminous prose.

I have already spent the biblically allotted three score years and ten on this planet, and of these, roughly two-thirds have been associated with Dhaka University, first as a student and then as an academic.

the postman plods his weary way eternal bag slung over shoulder comes up to me at the unearthly hour when evening azan brings dusk tumbling down like playful children somersaulting

Ms Banalata Sen is mentioned thrice, at the end of each 6-line stanza, and each time the effect, in the context of the stanza’s affective and ideational development, is climactic.

The process of reading is consummated in rereading. It is sure to deepen and broaden our understanding of the work and its author, and quite possibly of ourselves as well.

I am sure it was sometime in 1965 that a classmate at St. Gregory’s, Muhammad Ali Rumee, piqued my curiosity by describing a new movement in letters launched by some friends of his elder brother.

Thanks to Google I have, at a click of the mouse, discovered that in our time around 165 members of the literary professions have

Just a few months into the war of liberation it became clear that the guerrilla operations would eventually have to be accompanied by warfare conducted by troops organised in regular units.

VS Naipaul, to use his most common appellation, died at his London home on August 11, six days short of his 86th birthday.

This is no doubt one of the most enjoyable stories in Anderson's collection – brief, uncomplicated, hilarious. It's only recently that I began to have doubts about its purported significance. Let us begin by reminding ourselves of the salient features of the tale.

Every year around this time, I get a phone call from someone or the other of the loose fraternity of Sector 7 veterans to remind me that May 6 is Lieutenant Colonel Quazi Nooruzzaman's death anniversary; he passed away in 2011.

As Bird flocks take wing at the rattle of sten guns

Let us say you dream of a woman,

The Partition of the Indian subcontinent in 1947 has become indissolubly linked to horrific, haunting images of armed gangs or mobs attacking helpless groups of men, women and children trying to cross a border that had just been scratched on the map. Literature registers the shock in works that make harrowing reading.

been buggering around this goddamn city

“… they shall inherit the earth.”

No, I've never been to Santa Fe.