Shamsad Mortuza

Normally, you and I would not see fairies or hear them singing. They exist in a world where we fear (or do not care) to tread (anymore). Even if we do, we will not admit it in public.

It reads like a Netflix blurb of a horror movie. A young man took a machete from a street coconut seller, uttered his last words: “please forgive me”, and then slit his own throat in front of Dhaka Medical College Hospital.

At a preparatory meeting for ULAB’s planned virtual convocation, I suggested that we use the iconic image of Keanu Reeves dodging many bullets in the Matrix trilogy as our promotional campaign.

During the latest rerun of the biblical David and Goliath narrative in a changed context, the age-old conflict between the Israelites and the Philistines has come alive.

The holiday lethargy has caused me self-loathing. Let me count some of the factors as to why I am beginning to hate myself.

A breath of fresh air: the University Grants Commission (UGC) has decided to allow public universities to hold online examinations.

Ah! May Day. It’s here. Our newspapers will carry a close-up shot of hardworking men or women in action (e.g., breaking bricks, carrying loads, or manning the machine) to draw our attention to the tears and sweat of a largely overlooked mass whose discomfort ensures the comfort of the rest.

A good story is hard to find. Niaz Zaman, the editor of The Demoness: The Best Bangladeshi Short Stories, 1971-2021 (Aleph Book Company, 2021), has found 27 “best” short stories to create an appetite for Bangladeshi fiction.

There have been changes in the way we live and the way we die. We have learned to live carefully during this time of the pandemic, yet we have been dying carelessly.

The onslaught of Covid-19 shows no signs of relenting. While the infection-death curve has been arrested by some countries, our one is still climbing, as if it wants to put a flag of our collective irresponsibility at a greater summit.

The cargo vessel involved in a hit and run incident in Narayanganj on Sunday, leading to the capsize of a passenger launch that killed at least 34 people, was seized at a dock in Gazaria, Munshiganj.

Covid-19 is back and it is back with a vengeance, as if to puncture the false confidence we were assuming about the antidotes.

"Why do they even try? They don’t sound like us!” My mother was referring to the “bong” accents emulated by some of the Indian actors who occupy our living rooms every evening. That does not stop these characters from becoming regular guests of our evening party.

News of the pandemic waves of Covid-19 and political waves of the three-fingered protest is making the rounds.

The footage is harrowing. A speech-impaired girl is pushed off a running bus for not being able to pay her fare. She was wearing a note saying that she did not have any money on her.

During a trade dialogue held at the Ministry of Commerce on February 17, the UK envoy to Bangladesh announced that at least nine British universities are keen on coming to Bangladesh and opening their campuses.

There used to be a TV advert in which a husband was rebuked by his judgmental wife for not being able to kill even a mosquito that was sitting on her cheek.

In academia, the status of English is often contested in the Bangladeshi context. Is it a second language or a foreign language? There should not be any such question about our first language, our mother tongue in our everyday life. Bangla is our number one language.

Dhaka is growing right before our eyes. Every day it is birthing new projects.

Five students of a private university went to a restaurant at Uttara to get a drink.