The Goldfinch—the written version, Donna Tartt’s third literary triumph—opens upon a Christmas day in a hotel in Amsterdam. The “I” that speaks offers a brief recap of his murky dreams and departure from New York; what but he really (quickly) wants to get to is setting up the scene for us.

When my niece Mubasshira and her husband Morsed told me that they had moved from East London to Kent, I had little idea of the area in which they relocated. Prior to my two-week trip to the UK this year, they gave me their address which contained the name of

Please for once do not judge -

Aqua blooming ripples of ocean, wisping hair

I sing the sea

When the twelve-year old Kusum was returning home, she stole a glance at the setting sun for one last time. It was dipping over the heads of tallest coconut trees lined along the furthest edge of horizon. She let out a sigh — for some indefinable reason she wanted to

Atia crossed over to the window and looked out into the rain-soaked streets. A rickshaw-puller had taken refuge under the mango tree and was huddled in the passenger seat.

Writing entices me. But every time I get down to writing something, I feel like a bumbling idiot. Nothing emerges. Ideas evaporate. Thoughts tangle. Language languishes. My frustration mounts.

There was a faint sound of an old dog crying somewhere. It was as if a blind man was trying to play an ancient untuned violin. Its shrieks turned Rubi’s blood cold. She almost fell asleep but woke up at the howling sound.

We had gone on a package tour to South East Asia and on the last day of our trip we spent the whole day in Bangkok, the capital of Thailand.

My copy of Zadie Smith’s Autograph Man is special for a number of reasons. Firstly, it’s the only one of my favourite author’s books that I haven’t read in its entirety.

The total number of guests adds up to forty-odd. It is too many, yet Nishat and I are not prepared to drop any. I have just finished my PhD and we are leaving America to take up my new job in Saudi Arabia. It is time for celebration, it is time to say goodbye.

And we two—a lovey-dovey couple, get married one day. Always be true to the truth, be honest to each other—we harmonized on that point. Years later, it is our fifth marriage anniversary evening. She dresses up gorgeously, stands before me and asks, “How do I look?”

We had just moved to Kolkata for our schooling. Not that we thought Kolkata schools were better than mofussil ones. Schools are the same everywhere—cast in the same mold. All schools force-feed lessons but sadly no one becomes educated; and even if they do, it is

Oh, a rainy day Drips of water Falling from the sky

After a heavy shower the city life sighed a breath of relief. I can still hear the clogged up rain water streaming down the rooftop and beating against the exhaust machine of the air cooler, affixed right outside the hospital cabin where my mother has been admitted.

I see starlight on my walls in dark nights I see it on my windows.

Once oysters are nowhere to be found, he searches for shunks. 130 Indian rupees for an hour of diving.

Al Mahmud lived a long life, witnessed an eventful past. One of the most renowned contemporary Bengali poets of his time, he spent a lifetime writing and appreciating poetry.

What is poetry? Before I answer this question, I want to address the question of whether language came after poetry or if poetry came after language. I am not going to check this by reading history books but rather by making a statement: poetry existed before language. But how could this be? Before I answer this I have to explain my view of what poetry actually is.