FLASH FICTION / Chand raat at Mohakhali

Wilson hasn’t written a retelling from the perspectives of the subjugated but has rather been true to the original, although she doesn’t shy away from acknowledging the sheer misogyny of the Homeric period.

A question that comes to mind is why does a book even need a playlist? There are two solid answers.

Most of the students from Dhaka University did not know about the fair and simply happened to pass by.

the moon watches over you, when whales beach themselves, the tides wash them back home; the moon looks down

When I was born, my skin was dark, like my grandfather’s, in whose arms I discovered my first home. Relatives old and new, whose disappointment was being nursed by my parents’ fair complexions, looked from afar as my rotund cheeks melted into the sleeves of my dada’s discolored half-sleeve shirt.

She stands in front of the canvas and stares.

Perhaps the book's biggest fault is that it ends up being (unintentionally or not) a response to Nabokov’s Lolita.

A visit to any bookshop today will attest to the reading public’s fascination with crime (and criminals).

Reading Rahad Abir’s Bengal Hound, despite the novel being written in English, felt a lot like reading in Bangla. While no two languages can ever truly be compared, there is much to be said about seeing Bangla and Bangladesh through an English language lens.

Sameer’s mother looked at her husband before quickly stepping in and attempting to defuse the situation. “You know it’s just a heritage thing. We’re not really Biharis".

After our spiritual journey to the Old City and West Bank, the realities of life caught up to us.

News from Gaza rips the heart open/ Idlib is burning too

We highlight seven nonfictional books that allow us to understand the history and discourse around the struggle better.

He told the Norwegian public broadcaster NRK that he was “surprised but also not” to have won.

We might never know how it feels when your whole existence is denied or the loss of homeland, but we can get a little glimpse of their suffering.

Eurydice, his beloved,  lost to the shades, In the underworld's depths,  where darkness pervades.

This week, then, we're thinking: music and books, music and literature. In print and online, we're dreaming in tunes, dancing with words, daring to merge the two.

35000 spectators turned out amid the colourful shamianas and flags to watch the one (and only) unofficial Test in Dhaka in January, 1977.

Once on a particularly smothering hot day, on a CNG ride to work, I was stuck in the most heinous traffic for over two hours. Over the yelling drivers, honking cars, and incessant cursing over why the CNGs were trying to overtake the expensive cars, I was listening to my usual cycle of songs. As coincidence would have it, David Gilmour in his seraphic voice posed the question: “So, so you think you can tell/ Heaven from hell?”

Who is the one playing such a plaintive tune on a flute