It is not for nothing that Dhaka is called a “jadur shohor”—a magical city. No, I don't say this to exoticise a city from the Global South out of any unconscious colonial hangover. I believe in the city's “special” abilities that are crucial in defining the urban pathology and behaviour it generates.

Like humans, gods too die. Gods are not immortal. They do not die as frequently as humans do but they die after all—in centuries. Through the ages, thousands of gods have died or rather been forgotten. A god dies when there is no worshipper because the relevance of any god is sustained by the number of devotees.

I was chasing a new light led by a star a couple of years ago. Born and raised in Naogaon, I later migrated to Dhaka. Shaken by the gravity, I started exposing films on a plastic medium format camera and a mechanical SLR. Negatives were full of evaporated, burnt memories. I loved experimenting with multiple camera types and different film formats and making it into one visual narrative.

Lighthouse

Charity is becoming an urban verb much like the word Google. We Google. We Uber. And in a similar vein, many of us Charity. It is such a cool thing to do. And it is such a cool tool for paving our way to social acceptance. Just like Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie.

A few days ago, I came across a viral video by Mikko Foundation, an organisation run by a brother-sister duo from Seattle with a “burning desire to give back to community.” The video showed the founder, who is white, trying to persuade locals in Gulshan neighbourhood to wear t-shirts designed by the organisation, supposedly as a humanitarian gesture of giving back to a struggling community.

“Apa, please come in,” a young man gesturing to his small print and copy shop in Nilkhet's Bakushah market. “What do you need—term paper, project report, master's thesis, internship report, research monograph? Just name it,” he asks swiftly.

A quick visit to the six no. Fisheries Ghat in the busy tourist town of Cox's Bazar and you will be greeted with the intense smell of the town's sludge flowing into the sea, and busy fishermen screaming their lungs out auctioning off their day’s catch of sea fish in all shapes and sizes.

One morning I read an article, published in one of the most widely read newspapers of Dhaka, suggesting that all the negative news on Bangladesh's garments sector damages not only the owners but workers too. That afternoon, I decided to visit a garments factory in Mirpur—a small factory with 400 workers. My intention was to inquire about the status of maternity benefits and what exists in practice.

In November 2015, a 14-year-old girl in the Central African Republic (CAR) said that two peacekeepers attacked her in November as she was returning home near Bambari airport. Peacekeepers at the United Nations Multidimensional Integrated Stabilisation Mission in the Central African Republic (MINUSCA) base were stationed there to guard the airport and allegedly committed numerous such acts of sexual abuse and exploitation.

We know that education is the backbone of a nation. But sadly, in our country things don't quite go as said. The 2018 HSC examination were no different. During the Biology 1st paper exam, a number of

Last year Dolly Rani was working as a helper at a ready-made garments factory in Jiranibazaar of Savar when the advent of a machine made her useless. “I used to cut thread,” says Rani. She worked in the finishing section, and was one of the women who stood at the assembly line snipping away the loose ends of threads from finished products for hours on

I am distraught by the latest news of the deaths of Rajib and Rozina who succumbed to their injuries in gruesome road accidents. Victims of such fatal road accidents regularly appear on social media and newspapers

Simulacrum

Jerusalem

Smells evoke emotionally charged memories. Like the smell of freshly picked green mangoes after the season's first Kalbaishakhi or the smell of clothes washed with Chaka Ball soap and laid out to dry on the wires running along the village front yard. However, Beautiful Bangladesh—our tagline for tourism—has its inimitable share of horrible smells that also manage to etch themselves into our memories.

I am a Bangladeshi born of a Muslim family. My ancestors were Hindus and, somehow, I have inherited their philosophical instincts. Although professionally I am an engineer with advanced degrees from the USA, and remain a practicing Muslim, at some point in my life I was drawn to the Indian philosophy and devoted myself to studying Hindu and Buddhist scriptures, seeking to understand the fabric of life.

Ayesha Karim (not real name) was working in a reputed bank in Dhaka—a job coveted by many. Two years ago, she gave birth to her first child. Since then, she had to juggle two different worlds between rearing

This phrase will soon be on T-shirts, mugs and fan art. Because Lost in Space reboot is a killer show. It features the Robinsons, a family of five who have left earth as it will soon become unliveable and is devoid of proper sunlight.

Jiboner Bone Bone (In the Forests of Life) is a heartfelt autobiography written by Nuruddin Ahmad (1920-2010), one of the first Bengali-Muslim officials of the Indian Forest Service (IFS). The tales of his eventful life take in the growth and coming to being of Bangladesh, his observations on Bengali middle-class society and how he worked his way to the top of the Forest Department in the midst of hostile British and Pakistani governments.