Just as Bengali women played an important role in the Liberation War, they also played a fearless role in the movement for the Bangla language before it, participating alongside men as fellow warriors.

In addition to today’s transnational corporations and the global explosion of their advertisements, the works of William Shakespeare and Karl Marx keep teaching us a great deal about the relationship between money and language.

For years, speculative dystopian fiction has trained readers to expect the worst: scorched planets, collapsing governments, ruthless technologies, and futures where survival is the only victory left. Solarpunk pushes back against that narrative. Instead of asking how the world ends, it asks a far more radical question: what if we fix it? What if cities worked with nature instead of against it? What if technology served communities, not corporations? And what if hope wasn’t naive, but necessary?

Kazi Nazrul Islam’s Bangla poem “Bidrohi” (first published in January 1922), in Bijli magazine during British colonial rule, is more than just anti-imperialist literature—it is a striking philosophical rendition.

In a wilting summer swelter of 1797 in London, a name was born twice–mother Mary Wollstonecraft wound the clock of daughter Mary Wollstonecraft (Godwin)’s life, for the very first time.

Fiction has long chronicled that women have always worked more than what is counted, felt more than what is acknowledged, and lost more than what anyone will ever quantify.

If the girls we read about could speak today, their voices would be both sharp and unflinching.

To understand the deep-seated relevance of this modern debate, we must embark on a journey into the heart of Sarat Chandra’s literature, where these battles first found voice.

I first heard Taylor Swift’s song “The Fate of Ophelia” on the radio during a road trip to New Hampshire the day after it was released on October 3.

My readings of the two books—the subject of this write-up—happened to be on two momentous occasions, set two decades apart in utterly contrasting ways.

Heathcliff portrays a very unique strain of masculinity. It is not one that comes from being a man in a patriarchal society, nor from one being amongst majority women.

It’s very likely that Substack will become the “drawing room” of intellectuals and creative elites.

Before he was “Leonard Cohen—the celebrated singer”, he was “Cohen, the poet”.

The refusal to write beautifully is often justified in the name of neutrality, of detachment, of discipline.

Where Babitz is like the intimidating older sister you could only listen to in an obsessed quiet, Ephron feels more like a friend translating my internal monologue into the perfect words.

In the mist-covered hills of Ooty and the famine-ravaged villages of Bengal, they speak of ghosts. They whisper of a Zamindar’s phantom haunting a grand manor and a shape-shifting shakchunni preying on a crumbling estate.

Farhad Mazhar has long stood at the unpredictable intersection of poetry, politics, and philosophy.

Some poets arrive like rain on parched soil—needing no defense, only recognition. Al Mahmud (1936–2019) was one of them. And yet, in the usual crookedness of history, we have found ourselves having to defend what should already have been canonised. There was a time—not long ago—when his name uns

For today’s feminists, the focus isn’t just on challenging or breaking social norms, but also on asking, who gets to break these norms? And to what extent?

In "Daddy," the speaker's inability to speak is not merely personal trauma but a symbol of women's historical silencing.