The poems in this ambitious collection are by women poets writing in Bangla, who have emerged from the land that is now Bangladesh—having lived, or are still living here, or are now part of the first-generation diaspora.

Rokte Anka Bhor begins by depicting the events of the night of 25th March of 1971 and ends with Bangabandhu’s return home on 10th January 1972. Anisul Hoque has not merely recorded a series of historical events. History can become monotonous, but Rokte Anka Bhor becomes personal and meaningful through moving narration and fragments of history.

Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman was rooted in the land and loved Bangladesh’s natural features. He wanted them to be as they were—green, open spaces full of water bodies and flora and fauna.

All these years walls of our town stood tall, home to white-winged birds, nostalgic sun, tales too deep for us to tell; last night walls came down crashing,

Pita (Father), a novel written by Faiz Tauhidul Islam, is a saga of two fathers and their two estranged grown-up children. It is a gripping tale that takes the readers on a journey of anticipation and uncertainty. The plot line is full of twists and turns which make the reading often a guessing game and an engrossing experience.

Come, let’s smoke a cigarette together on a dark veranda and count how many flats

Approaching International Women’s Day 2022, the unnerving visual of the Ukrainian parliamentarian Kira Rudyk wielding a Kalashnikov that she finds both “scary and powerful,” is in reality a dynamic redefinition of women’s participation in national struggles.

My Facebook messenger tinkled a couple of times. All good on a Saturday morning. After all, while Facebook is a swirling fog of people’s achievements – someone got married, had a baby, passed a degree, landed a dream job, published a book, the messenger option offers some personal space sharing. 

DS. To some readers the title of your most recent novel The Middle Finger may sound controversial. But as I discovered while reading, it focuses on something very different. Why did you choose this title?

If I get to live forever— then forever, I’ll be all alone— If I return to the paths of the world, I’ll see green grass Sprouting—will see yellow grass scattering— the sky Whitening in the morning—like a tattered munia bird, Breast blood-stained in the evening—again and again I’ll see stars And view a strange woman untying braided hair and leaving Alas, her face devoid of traces of the setting sun’s soft glow

On Thursday, February 2, 1922, a young woman was pacing the platform of the Gare de Lyon while waiting for the express train from Dijon. At 7:00 am precisely, the train arrived, stopped slowly, the conductor got off, looking around for the young woman who rushed to him and took a package from his hands, holding it tight while running towards the boulevard below, where she hailed a cab, her heart pounding.

Be the autumn of my days. I am done with summers gone and springs to come or other rains. I’m the only season that remains.

A day unforeseen as such! None mourns the dead Nor do they fear death; Intrepid, what illumination Brightens their weary frames, and faces; steps Evince staunchness clad determination, ignite thus The tenacious resolve!

He did not look at me once. His eyes were engrossed in deep thought; to me he seemed to be dipping in the deep waters of memory. Bent with age, he sat at his desk.

The man set out for town at the wake of dawn. It was the month of Phalgun. A nip of chill was still in the air. Wrapping himself in a tattered shawl, he started walking. He had a long way to go, a small river to cross. And then, the town would come into view.

After so many years, more than a decade or so, when you pass my home, don’t forget to take a look at the humble roof of haystack and wattle if not the humble me waiting to have a look at your eyes for an epoch.

North Avenue beach was crowded with the Gold Coast moneyed, the downtown young and rich, the tanned, tight-bodied volleyballers, all of them white, and a healthy portion of the rest of the city’s masses, a United Colors of Benetton sampler, among which numbered the five of us. School was out for the summer, the next three months sprawled before us like the city from the Skydeck of Sears Tower.

Sirjaul islam Quadir is both an individual and a representative of his time says Prof. Sirajul Islam Chowdhury in his ever-eloquent words put together in the forward to the book.

Sometimes tears flow like rain for cakes that 

Nobody was around in the grey end of a Sunday. I strolled past the deserted park; the swings and slide failed to evoke the joy of old. The park looked cold, sequestered, and threatening in the dim light. It was strange and eerie to see not a soul there!