I do not write. I am not a writer. I am an active thought, willing to reveal through words the enigmas of human lives and the perplexities of women's stories.

The next day, Lebu had really blasted a peto at the party's office. Well, he had tried to. The peto had fallen off his maimed hand, right in front of the table. It didn't bounce — rather sort of slumped — like a ball in a slow spin. Everyone shrank in fear. Babluda, the secretary, had pulled his legs up on the bench. He pressed his palms against his ears and stared, wide-eyed.

-“Wonder! What a wonder!”

On Wednesday, October 10, 2018, the much awaited longlist for South Asian Literature 2018 was announced by eminent historian and academic Rudrangshu Mukherjee, the chair of the jury panel for the current year for the distinguished prize.

Neil Gaiman ticked all the boxes on the “celebrity author” checklist long before he garnered mainstream fame. He guest starred in two episodes of “The Simpsons”, wrote multiple bestselling novels, penned one of the greatest comic book series of all time, and (what he considers to be one of his greatest achievements) scripted an episode of Doctor Who.

Two years ago, on a cool afternoon in November, driving towards the cantonment gate at the intersection past Radisson on the Dhaka-Mymensingh highway, a sign caught my attention.

They decorated her way with hibiscus,

The alley is dark. Dim streaks of light trickle down from the street lamp at the turn.

Baul songs, stuffed with enigmas and codes, sum up the existential philosophy of deha tatta (Truth in the Body), probably the central theme of Baulism, outlining the aphoristic concept according to which 'whatever is in the universe is in the receptacle (the body).'

Lālan Sā̃i, also known as Lālan Fakir or simply “Lalon” (d. 1890 CE) was a non-sectarian poet and mystical philosopher who lived in the historically undivided Nadia district of Bengal

There the City of Mirrors lies, Within a stone's throw of my place, I have a neighbour living there, Oh, I've never seen his face!

It always amazes me how a simple illiterate man—'sahaj manush'—from the rural nineteenth century Bengal could have had such a magnanimous vision to assimilate in his songs the core ideas from the Vedic, Upanishadic, Vaishnavite, Buddhist, Tantric, and the Sufi philosophy.

The Storm is a tale of multiple compelling characters from around the world but all tied back to a crucial time and place in South Asia—a storm based on the real 1970 Bhola cyclone.

The saga of courage is gradually coming to an end. O poet, once

What's the point in counting years, While the intensities are wasted, In bickering, fame and money matters?

It was Ramadan. It was hot. Even though I was sitting inside an air-conditioned car, I could feel the heat. I was dozing and counting minutes and wondering how much time we Dhakites waste everyday in commuting.

Our weapons were taken away the day the General discovered the note I had written to Aumita. I could sense his disappointment, but luckily he cared more about the indignity of having to give up his arms over a subordinate's love affair with a foreign girl.

Last weekend I went in search of my Nanna's bungalow. Seventy years ago, during World War II and in the years just after it, my mother and I had stayed with her mother in her bungalow in Erith, a small Thameside port, now part of Greater London.

I woke to the sound of a storm--The Wind howled like a wounded animal, Violating the trees. The leaves danced in a manic rhythm, Branches swished to a primal beat: the mighty thunder.

After a long day of work, Selim was returning home, tired and disgruntled by the unalterable toils of his life. He longed to reach home, take a lengthy shower, have a good meal and sleep like a log for the next seven hours.