Rahad Abir

And we two—a lovey-dovey couple, get married one day. Always be true to the truth, be honest to each other—we harmonized on that point. Years later, it is our fifth marriage anniversary evening. She dresses up gorgeously, stands before me and asks, “How do I look?”

Kusoom twiddles her thumbs again, her nineteen-or-twenty-year-old face pale and gloomy. She is small, short and near neckless in a kameez with denim pants.

Nineteen ninety-nine. Dhaka, Bangladesh. My college is over and I am having the pre-kingly hours of my life—waiting for results before applying to a university.

Arriving at Heathrow Airport made Robiul fidgety. He'd been waiting over an hour to pass the immigration desk. Back home, he'd heard a few unpleasant stories, where immigration officers would refuse entry to anyone they were not satisfied with, even if that passenger had a visa.

It had been raining lightly since morning. During the monsoon, the North-Eastern Bengal Haor wetland areas would go under deep water, the water remaining for half of the year. Boats would become the prime mode of transportation.

I am Bengali. I am a writer.

Imagine a world where you are the creator and the decider. And where you are the king in a kingdom of critters. It's a dream land, of