So, Ma and I had our eyes glued to our screen while Reaz smeared toothpaste over his face and chanted slogans in front of his school.

On the chilly afternoon of January 10, Bookworm Bangladesh, in collaboration with Voices Shaping Society, hosted the book launch of The July Resolve, a collection of 36 narratives that depicts the strength and struggles of people from all walks of life during the Monsoon Revolution of 2024.

This story spans for two volumes, separated in 14 chapters. Yet the author deliberately gives the reader the insight into other characters, or rather the abettors before Hibari, the victim herself. It is only in the later chapters do we catch a glimpse of Hibari’s inner world, and it is heartbreaking.

There are two things that struck me the most in the book: firstly, Eranux's thoughts during the funeral, and secondly, her statement about her mother’s appearance after Alzheimer's Disease had gripped her.

A book talk on Zeba Rasheed Chowdhury’s latest work, the translation of the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam into Bengali, published by Matribhasha Prokashwas held on 27th December 2025, at Bookworm Bangladesh.The event was hosted by scientist and writer Dr. Abed Chaudhury.

The afternoon sun presses down on Dhaka like a heavy hand. Heat rises from the asphalt in shimmers; buses wheeze as though gasping for breath. Rickshaw bells jangle against each other in the thick, damp air.

Rest in peace, esteemed RKA madam. Your presence endures in the pages you wrote, the students you shaped, and the quiet brilliance you gifted to our literary world.

As the breeze takes on its familiar chill and exams finally come to an end, my favourite season quietly takes over the city. It is not the long vacation, nor the crisp winter air. It is wedding season. All I want from this stretch of the year is a fresh stack of invitations, each promising a feast for the senses and, of course, a plate of biryani.

North South University’s Department of English and Modern Languages (DEML) concluded its first-ever Winter Fest spanning December 10-11, bringing together literature, performance, film, and visual art in a two-day celebration of creative expression on campus.

Shimulia was a remote village. A girl from this village was named Madhurilata. The origin of this name remained a mystery to most of the villagers. Nevertheless, they affectionately referred to her as Madhu, which meant honey.

The Polish nurse at the rehabilitation center asks her to decide. Does Neela want to have an abortion or wait for the delivery? “You’re almost seven months,” the nurse says in English. “An abortion would be very risky.”

As we commemorate Begum Rokeya Day, Oborodh Bashini stands not as a relic of a bygone era but as a living blueprint for modern resistance. The stories she told are specific to a time, but the structures of silencing they represent are hauntingly familiar.

In a wilting summer swelter of 1797 in London, a name was born twice–mother Mary Wollstonecraft wound the clock of daughter Mary Wollstonecraft (Godwin)’s life, for the very first time.

Students at the University of Liberal Arts, Bangladesh (ULAB) crowded into a packed classroom on a winter morning on Sunday, November 30, awaiting the start of a program that would be part interview, part poetry reading. “Meet the Poet: Shaheen Dil—In Conversation with Dr Mushira Habib” organised by the Department of English and Humanities was an hour-long dive into the life and work of poet Dr Shaheen Dil, a Bangladeshi writer and retired academic, banker, and consultant living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

Fiction has long chronicled that women have always worked more than what is counted, felt more than what is acknowledged, and lost more than what anyone will ever quantify.

There is always a subtle tension when a story migrates across cultures. Some narratives travel with the lightness of wind, reshaping themselves almost effortlessly inside new imaginations, while others arrive heavy with the weight of the worlds that first produced them.

If the girls we read about could speak today, their voices would be both sharp and unflinching.

My readings of the two books—the subject of this write-up—happened to be on two momentous occasions, set two decades apart in utterly contrasting ways.

Translation is risk, and poetry is the highest form of risk

My nani’s nickname was Bokul—like the flower. In English, it’s called the Spanish Cherry or Mimusops elengi, though no translation quite captures its softness.