Listen to the swish of the waves. Feel the breeze whisper caresses. See the mangroves stretch

What is the sadness that with

The Emperor wrote a lonely note. In exile, he wept for a grave in his Native land. Colonials

Now that I am old and have time,

It can often feel hopeless to be an activist seeking social change on an issue where most people seem opposed or at best indifferent to it. However, according to a new book by Professor Cass Sunstein,

Late nights calls are risky, reckless.

Home? Of course, I have a home! In fact I have two—one is a conventional brick-veneered house in a suburb of a Victorian country town in Australia.

The map I dream drawing every day, Bangladesh, is yours.

N. S. Vinodh’s newly published book A Forgotten Ambassador in Cairo is the outcome of a fortuitous event. In March 2018, the author was taken for an unscheduled visit to the tomb of an Indian Ambassador, in Cairo’s “City of the Dead.”

the postman plods his weary way eternal bag slung over shoulder comes up to me at the unearthly hour when evening azan brings dusk tumbling down like playful children somersaulting

He walked on an inaccessible path filled with thorns. Looking back he saw that a million of unblinking eyes were watching him. Boundless optimism reflected from those eyes and filled the traveler’s heart with an intoxicating pride. He asked with a gratified smile,”So tell me, what is the source of the unbound encouragement of your look?”

In December 1921, almost a hundred years ago, Kazi Nazrul Islam wrote what would be his most iconic poem: “Bidrohi.” The poem would transform him from the Soldier Poet to the Rebel Poet.

It happened sometime in the winter of 1959. There was a ripple of commotion in the ‘kancha bazaar’ (kitchen market) in Dinajpur town. Someone gave a clarion call, “The gypsies are here. Allah save us! Secure your things.” It was as if a calamity had descended on the small town. Sajeed our domestic servant came running home from the bazaar and excitedly broke the news.

After savouring English and world literature for quite a while, I developed an interest in South Asian literature. This led me to study writers of this literary tradition.

In the song-lyric numbered 230 in Gitabitan, Rabindranath Tagore’s comprehensive compilation of such verse, we find his delight at capturing the loveliness of the world outside his window in a song-lyric: “I’ve caught uncatchable loveliness in rhyme’s binds—/The loveliness of a distant night-bird/Singing at a late hour of the night/ Wings crimsoned by ashoka flowers of a departed spring/And a heart filled with the fragrance of fallen flowers” (my translation).

How often would I lose myself thinking I would bare my heart at your feet? I would fancy holding on to it tightly And confessing: “I love you passionately!” But I would think too: a heavenly angel— How could I show my love so openly then?

Clouds pile upon clouds And the world darkens Why keep me waiting by the door then, All, all alone?

In “Gandhi and Nehru: The Uses of English,” an essay written by Sunil Khilnani from the 2010 collection of essays edited by Arvind Krishna Mehrotra, A Concise History of Indian Literature in English, we are told about how the two leading figures of Indian independence not only used the English language to write back against empire, but played important roles in “the long, uneasy and interminable task of making English an Indian language.”

A backstreet, wet at nightfall — a silk sari unfurled. Iridescent black. Autumn leaves — Splashes of gold under streetlights. Rain in Lund Is the same as in a Dhaka backstreet.

From the tree I’ve climbed only once Years ago, at the height of childhood innocence I scraped and bruised my way to the top Monsoon soaking my skin To survey this timeworn town Of rusty tin huts and clay I listened to the storm-created symphony on the roof Nature’s old-fashioned xylophone And as the storm grew heavy,