The only way they chose to do this was probably written or imprinted in our genes–a wild frenzy of carnal expressions filled their faces.

Years later, when I would no longer live in my parents' room and grow to have my own,/ I would disregard all the hours I had spent by the window staring at beetles hiding.

That was the first time in my life I’d smelled charred meat. I could tell it was different from the kind you’re supposed to eat, and my mother had to hold me as I threw up violently on the side of the street.

For once, can love look like a Sunday morning; filled with warmth, calmness and motionless?

Lacerating the unfortified,/ Picking at the flesh for bad blood to find

What happens when your desire Lies in being alive?

Bury your feet where its green And when the air is thin you will see 

His five sons/ Were killed and the books...

The beast bellowed below Mushfiq’s bedroom window, propelling rushes of tingles within him. He smiled.

She’s as real as my meandering/ As tangible as tinkering.

Her Kohl-rimmed eyes, dangling earrings,/ The chiffon scarf, the satin silk shirt

We’re still alive/ but they wanted to die a natural death

This is a translation by Md. Abu Zafor of Bimal Guha’s “Kalo Biral” from the collection ‘E Kon Matal Nritya' (first published in 2022).

Time to set sail for a new cruise, oh dear voyager Sindbad!

A story of an ordinary man and his very ordinary journey.

Time, heavy as a thousand suns combined,/ Bends mothers, smaller than the ones they bore,

Your tea in the kettle, piping hot water/ No sugar, so that you can really taste the tea on your tongue

This universe’s heart is hollow now for humanity has died inside it.

Back at home, food used to narrate stories. Here, food does not travel far to the nooks and crannies of Velutha’s heart; it only reaches his stomach well enough to leave him looking healthy and strong.

The hush of dawn and the whispered breeze,/ that caresses nature's resting face