If I die, leave the balcony open.

Saturday morning: on the brick plaza at the corner of Fourth and Catheri

Table of Contents

I am sure it was sometime in 1965 that a classmate at St. Gregory’s, Muhammad Ali Rumee, piqued my curiosity by describing a new movement in letters launched by some friends of his elder brother.

In a soggy London street he stood, shaking his dreadlocks like wind-struck branches of a willow and moving his weathered bow on the shiny strings of his broken violin.

This is a story without a beginning or an end. The story does not even relate to events that one can see. And yet, in some sense, there is a beginning and there is an end.

It’s late June and it’s hot. It’s nine in the morning and it’s hot. It’s so hot in Dhaka that after a while feelings turn somewhat numbed, vision blurred. And taking advantage of the overcrowded vehicle, when a guy pinches Shila Chakma’s buttock after a futile attempt to grope her breast, she wants to scream: Stop it, you pervert.

We could have never imagined that we would get Topu back. And yet he has returned and is amidst us. It is mind-boggling – the person whom we had seen for the last time at the High Court intersection,

There the tree tom-tomed its existential glory on the bank of the small river at a distance from the village.

Had I but an eternal life (“Ananta Jibon Jodi Pai Ami”)

Just as Azhar Kha was about to leave the room putting his shirt on, Lily made an entrance, “Baba, you promised!”

The Goldfinch—the written version, Donna Tartt’s third literary triumph—opens upon a Christmas day in a hotel in Amsterdam. The “I” that speaks offers a brief recap of his murky dreams and departure from New York; what but he really (quickly) wants to get to is setting up the scene for us.

Please for once do not judge -

Aqua blooming ripples of ocean, wisping hair

I sing the sea

When the twelve-year old Kusum was returning home, she stole a glance at the setting sun for one last time. It was dipping over the heads of tallest coconut trees lined along the furthest edge of horizon. She let out a sigh — for some indefinable reason she wanted to

When my niece Mubasshira and her husband Morsed told me that they had moved from East London to Kent, I had little idea of the area in which they relocated. Prior to my two-week trip to the UK this year, they gave me their address which contained the name of

We had gone on a package tour to South East Asia and on the last day of our trip we spent the whole day in Bangkok, the capital of Thailand.

Atia crossed over to the window and looked out into the rain-soaked streets. A rickshaw-puller had taken refuge under the mango tree and was huddled in the passenger seat.

Writing entices me. But every time I get down to writing something, I feel like a bumbling idiot. Nothing emerges. Ideas evaporate. Thoughts tangle. Language languishes. My frustration mounts.