FLASH FICTION / Chand raat at Mohakhali

A convergence of religions through Dharma, not swords. Friendship as an expression of political resistance.

I am up early today. It's a brilliant morning and I can hear the chirping of new birds.

While I'm editing my novel, I find it helpful to read something entirely unrelated. Young Romantics by Daisy Hay, subtitled The Shelleys, Byron and other tangled lives (Bloomsbury 2011), tells the story of a group of radical English writers over a period of a dozen years in the early nineteenth century.

People my age are one of the last few generations that grew up in Dhaka without twenty-four hour television or the Internet. We would read.

They had set sail in hope in dinghies or rickety boats,

I would love to be proven wrong that day,

This week Shahpar Selim does a double take on a childhood favourite, reminding us that while we are ‘LOLing’ at the world around us (or in our computers), we must remember to laugh at ourselves too.

Grace MacBride and the other five partners of her software company, Monkeewrench, have created a new game titled “Serial Killer Detective'' where the good guy always catches the bad guy.

In the opening, the book printed by Madhyama Media and Publications points to the fact that publishers in this country – though slowly but are finally becoming skilled. Hat’s off to the publisher.

The pages are full of references to modern Chinese political history and its cultural and social practices.

The Epic of Gilgamesh is both a spiritual treatise and a decisive effort of ancient literature.

AN affectionate biography of a much-maligned king who had the misfortune to be on the throne when the East India Company decided to usurp him.

From my balcony I look down at

I wept endlessly the day I turned twenty-two,

I wish I could, Fly for 22 days like a bird!

Here are the winners of our latest SLR writing competition.

He seemed to be in a paradoxical state of discomfort and pleasure. “It's as if you've never tasted anything spicy before,” I said. “You have to pay for that, mind you.” “Of course I will,” he grinned. Soon enough, the hot sauce began its attack and he began to draw in cool air to soothe his burning tongue. “Oi, give me a cold Coke!” “All right, hold your horses.” I replied, walking over to the refrigerator. A few minutes later he had emptied the bottle. I shook my head at him wearily.

The beeps of the monitors were mute for him. Everything was fading away.

Many years had passed since I last saw him. He used to sit under the bridge during the hot summer days; the quintessential jhaal-muri-wala.

Amit Chaudhuri writes on nothing in particular. His novels scarcely have any plot. They are written in a relaxed manner, with almost each line containing delightful descriptions that are meant to be read slowly, in leisure.