“Chotto Kaka, I’m not afraid of the bogey-bug (coronavirus) when I have a tummy full of ice cream.” When my seven-year old nephew made this demand, I thought, he could really have taken a leaf out of Ulysses – a masterpiece by the great Irish maverick, James Joyce.

“Have you met Mr. Skunk? In case you have not, he is a short black and white fellow that you might often see at the bottom of the stairs, or near the dumpster.” Joe paused for breath.

Mashrur Arefin’s 2019 novel, August Abchhaya, is full of moments that evoke the blood-stained memory behind the language of conflict.

Numair Atif Choudhury’s Babu Bangladesh is a tour de force of a novel. Exuberant, extravagant, learned, zany, ingenious, whimsical, irreverent and provocative, this is a work of amazing merit.

Today, on the first day of 2021, I open the 71st chapter of my memoir written – not sure when – probably before time. I want to read what lies ahead. There are only a few more chapters left before I happily reach the final episode.

In the desolation of today, I hang on to the promises of tomorrow: When life will be in harmony And struggles gone.

Many centuries ago, Chinese pilgrims came up the Bay of Bengal on their way to Buddhist sites in the Subcontinent. We have no record of their conversations with the people of Bengal but it was the accurate accounts of early Chinese travellers that enabled archaeologists in the 19th century to rediscover the lost Buddhist sites like that inside a hill at Paharpur.

I forbade the clouds to sprawl around this flood plain- the clouds unendingly somersault around my windowpane at the beckoning of drooping hillocks though.

with its fortress of mahals, brimming with Earth’s treasure, gardens and illusions from the eye of the vulture’s flight, past the roadside dhabas, past the colossal statues and solitary temples, dotting the horizon resting comfortably atop Bygone mosques,

The scents and colours of the morning arouse the wetness of the night. The dewdrop splendour awakens the dawning sunrise drenched in colours

The wind afire

I couldn’t get to my university hostel. From Petaling Jaya to Pantai Hill Park, KL Central and Mid Valley, changing one bus after the other; no one knew where my hostel was.

In the farthest end of the horizon across the river by the edge of a forest surrounding the dark hills sat a cottage made of dried palm leaves and rattan sticks in which lived an old woman.

Music has the power to delve into the heart of the listeners and create decision affecting moods. During the liberation war, songs became a weapon to influence the mood and morale of the nation.

Eminent researcher of Bangla folk culture and writer Sudhir Chakravarti died in a private hospital in Kolkata. He was 86 years old.

December 09 marks both the birth and death anniversaries of Rokeya Sakhawat Hossain (1880-1932). The Rokeya Day in Bangladesh also falls on December 09. Indeed,

Dr. Saikat Majumdar, a professor of English and Creative Writing at Ashoka University, India, is an acclaimed writer, academic, critic and commentator on current debates.

When Waqar A Khan, Founder, Bangladesh Forum for Heritage Studies, requested yours truly to take a look at a book written by a nonagenarian academic from the UK named Eric Rahim,

The chestnut tree in my courtyard is in full bloom,

The two- storeyed house stood lonesome with paddy fields behind it. A big pond lay on the opposite side of the narrow alley. Taltoli is still a quiet neighborhood, yet to be devoured by the urban landscape because of its situation.