Shiraj’s only consolation was that he was almost at the end of the line. Just the couple in front of him, and then he would finally be free. Otherwise, he was fuming. Someone had picked his pocket.

“Listen, I have a plan but you have to say yes,” said Naya as her eyes traced Noorie’s computer screen, checking to see if she finished typing the rest of the sentence. With a last click on the full stop, Noorie bent backward to see Naya’s face gleaming.

How writers and their consciousness evolve in a country is largely dependent on that society’s intellectual development, their freedom of expression, and if their intellectual development is encouraged or discouraged.

The girl stared back at her and asked a question that made Mrittika’s heart beat faster. “Don’t you recognise me?” 

her heart was a two seater unfit for a family so big i grew to be a woman mirrored in her shadow when she was younger

you spend what you make to make what you spend, and you do it today to do it all over again

“Can’t a man even get payesh and shemai on Eid in this house?” Altaf Shaheb screamed from the drawing room while watching the news, “There used to be so much joy in this house. It used to feel like Eid. But your mother has grown so sluggish now, Saadat! She used to be such a good cook. Our neighbours back in the old neighbourhood were crazy about your mother’s chicken bhuna. But now I can’t even get a plate of payesh the night before Eid.”

Participants, including the show’s hosts and guests, picked up discarded pebbles, photo frames, children’s artwork, and other knick knacks—all fragile things collected and displayed by the author. 

'In Extreme Need of Guidance', the book being serialised here, captures the first 16 years of writer Sultana Nahar's life. "A Bomb Falls" is the 10th chapter in the book.

Suddenly, the shadow became larger on the wall. At that exact moment, something felt heavy on Farid’s chest–and got heavier by the minute. Everything was still, and in that silence, a silhouette slowly grew over Farid’s  body. 

The trader decides not to return home. He sends a message to his wife: "Do not worry about me. I am going to the capital of Kishkindha with Devraj horse. I will return with a sack full of money in 15 days."

The farm had transformed overnight into a spinning wheel of fear and intrigue. The mother cows' hushed grunts weaved an elaborate tapestry of tales.

Memory is a winding range Of coniferous mountain pine Catching the fiery light

Like wild leopard's skin, I spread out my hair The dark night uncurls with his roaring fleet; I pounce on his chest, bare foot, like Kali–

The fact of the matter was this: the poem had been written, the call had been answered, and as lofty as it sounds—at that moment there I was, as Frank O'Hara put aptly—"the center of all beauty! / writing these poems!/ Imagine!".

I was losing myself gradually, and that is when I decided to seek out freelance writing.

For a nation that cannot boast of a Cervantes or Rabindranath, there will always be a need to find an All-American, a unifier who assures them of their place in the hallowed halls of literature. Cormac McCarthy, more than any other writer of his generation, was equipped to shoulder that title.

try my best to paint the place blue Pouring all the sorrow after you With no colour left in my palette, As though the canvas breathes its last

Begum Rokeya Sakhawat Hossain (1880-1932) and Begum Sufia Kamal (1911-1999), two icons in Bangla literature and culture, were not kins but kindred spirits.

Spirit breaks at home along with love mingled with innocence.