FLASH FICTION / Chand raat at Mohakhali

Say this, don't say that.

I was never an autograph hunter. Never felt the urge, or the thrill, or the bragging right, or any of the rapid heart-thumping emotions

“Up there he floats,

Living in Germany made it possible for me to pamper two of my deadliest indulgences: my addiction to chocolate and travelling.

“Are you interested in spiritually inclined younger men?” My recent tinder match asked.

Darkness had fallen upon the graveyard of thousand lives, along with a cold breeze which swept away the rotten stench of dead flesh.

If we eventually are

Pasty green doesn't suit you. White makes you look darker. Why would you even dare to wear black? That's forbidden. Don't even think

“The book is a memoir, not a history, and makes no claim to a historian's detachment or research.” With this statement, A G Stock

racing ahead

I know of Capt. Banerjee, Military Observer, only because he wrote feature articles for the Times of Saigon, edited by my father,

Recently, I have come across a significant number of Bangladeshi online journals, diligently invested in literatures in

Through her poetry anthology 'Elegiac Songs', Eeshita Azad does a wonderful job at describing the several stages of love, loss, joy and grief. The elegies reflect the contemporary style of her writing. The emotions conveyed in her poems are raw and presented without any sugar-coating. The book starts with a brilliant opening piece that grips the readers from the get-go.

Like every landmark day of every other country, Bangladesh's Ekushey February, or the 21st of February, 1952, has its roots decades

Refugee, migration and relocation have played prominent roles in literature and public spheres alike. In recent times for Bangladesh, it

At this moment, when thousands of Rohingya refugees are sheltering in Bangladesh, the word 'refugee' gains new significance in the

We loved and respected Professor Ahsanul Haque as a teacher. He taught us in the Department of English, University of Dhaka, in the

It was beginning to get a little warmer. The sun came up early in the morning. The buds were sprouting from the bare branches of the trees in the backyard.

He did not look at me once. Or even if he did, I doubt he saw me. His eyes were engrossed in deep thought; to me he seemed to be dipping in the deep waters of memory. Bent with age, he sat at his desk.

The subtitle of the book proposes it all: fourteen writers reminisce about their own, or their dear ones' experiences immediately prior to, or during, or at the end of the Liberation War of Bangladesh.