Rubana Huq

Humanity is supposed to have progressed. A Harvard University professor, Steven Pinker, argues in favour of it in his new book Enlightenment Now: The Case for Reason, Science, Humanism and Progress. On maximum standards of well-being, we are apparently faring way better than we did ever before.

Most of us want to live forever. Peter Thiel, the billionaire co-founder of PayPal, hopes to live to be 120. Dmitry Itskov, the Russian internet billionaire, aspires to live to 10,000. Larry Ellison, co-founder of Oracle, finds the end of life “incomprehensible,” while Sergey Brin, co-founder of Google, hopes to “cure” it.

I loved Morgan Freeman. Somehow, that beard and that skin always used to give off a sincere feel. Having a penchant for films that

I spent eight hours on the road, trying to go to and return from Banglabazar in Gazipur. A few months back, Bashir, our ever-smart driver, took 40 minutes to reach Banglabazar. Yesterday he took 3.5 hours to reach the place, and another four hours to return. For both the trips, he deserves to be placed in the Guinness book of records.

Anniversaries are scary. They are reminders. While one celebrates life and bonds on anniversaries, in no time one also becomes a chip of a mosaic laced with memory.

In a discussion of inclusive growth two days ago, someone across the table brought up the topic relating to new employers coming into the F-commerce (Facebook commerce) and asked if they would be subjected to labour standards as well.

Winds of change have hit us. In a recent trip to the West, I missed Spring. A bitter cold wave was then sweeping all across Europe. Even Madrid had snow-capped mountains. It seemed as if the weather was all set for a change. Every flight that I took, in and out of Europe, was more turbulent with unexpected cold air hitting aircrafts with intolerable cruelty.

Your realities are being separated today. In social media, you have the option of being offered in the newsfeed over public news. What you read and what you write are on two different planes. You read what is being fed and you write about who you are. The focus has shifted from the public to you. You can now broadcast your own self. You can write your own opinion editorial, and also choose your readers.

Being a woman meant landing in Tokyo at 6:30 in the morning, catching up with a dear friend over a coffee in her car while being picked up from the airport, ending up at the Hotel at 9:00, only to run straight to the restroom to change and hurry out with luggage, not even having time to check in, and ultimately carrying the same bag to the conference, without being able to leave it with the concierge in the absence of a room number.

The response of your columnist to the question “How are you?” usually ranged from “Dhuro” back in the teen years to more currently “Could be better”/“Couldn't be better”/“Couldn't have asked for more.”

Somehow, we are not reacting fast enough. Somehow complacency is setting in.

I have an advisory council at home, which has unilaterally elected my son as the president, my daughter as the VP, my daughter-in-law as the general secretary, and my eldest daughter who lives abroad as my remote assistant.

Stepping into unknown spaces,

My husband's death was one of impeccable timing. With the many programmes that he anchored, he knew how to spot climax, maximise on love and then suddenly one fine morning, he would just decide to end the season. That is how Annisul Huq decided on his last bow and left the audience in awe.

Shirin has been with us for 12 years, Mahmuda for nine, Rakib for six. The number of workers who have worked for us in one particular factory for over 10 years is massive. Most live in Khilkhet, where we have one of our factories.

As my husband is strapped to his own world, disconnected from workplace clatter, the fresh cha, the noise, the arguments, the stress, the pride, the remorse, the sense of failure and momentary ease, I find myself wondering whether life is a worthy price to pay for passion. To me, the answer is “yes”.

A critical examination of our trade balance with Japan brings in a few interesting statistics. While the Japanese import of apparel had shrunk to JPY 2,910 billion in 2016, Bangladesh remained amongst the top four exporting countries.

These days, one has to keep all the “right” answers ready for questions one has no answers to.

When I hear hardened words from trade union leaders, instead of critiquing, I try and reason, and pose a critical question to myself and most of my more self-aware colleagues: Do they sound the way they sound because of their years of dissatisfaction or disappointment? Perhaps.

Like me, many haven't lost faith in adult education yet. In fact, I just read about a 74-year old PhD scholar. The oldest doctoral graduate of Sichuan University conducted his doctoral dissertation defence at the age of 74.