Come, if you may, with swords or guns. Remember, I won’t cry and run; I will rise from the depths of the land.

She wakes up suddenly from her unnatural beeline posture, slowly and ever so gently, like a chained demon would after just hours of calculated slumber. I never look.

I was nine years of age the first time I set eyes on a Dhaka street. I received my first welcome from a group of beggars tapping on my car window.

When I think of the thick limestone walls of the house now I think of the essence of the generations of our family that it has absorbed.

Are ghosts real? This was the question Mollie, a little 8-year-old girl who lives at the end of our street asked me in a–real–letter she wrote me recently. I had apparently included a book of ghost stories in a bag of books I had given her.

Break me into numbers and spirals, and blood and flesh make me all that I don't wish to be.

Someday, I will write about those places, the cities, monuments, and faces.

But I understand. I am part of a historic pattern. So not everything is personal. I can't help but fall into some of the traps and become prey to some of the vultures.

Showers and storms give way To a surge of sunlight A fragrance of hope floats in On morning breeze

Delicate like butterfly wings, And yet as strong as boulders Her mind is a divine place, Eternal peace on her shoulders. 

Rahman emerged from his grave in the middle of the night. His return from the dead took place in no more than 10 days after his passing away.

Seek if you must If you believe the truth shall set you free And then? We heal.

I don’t remember when they took it down. We asked the building supervisor, the cleaners, anyone who would listen, but nobody had a clue.

Football, bloody hell! Like the chapters of a book, slowly unfolding towards the eventual climax, this edition of the World Cup has been nothing short of breathtaking. From gorgeous goals to late drama, with a few major upsets sprinkled throughout, this year’s World Cup has probably been the most spectacular iteration of football’s greatest tournament.

It's June–the first day of Summer, You have never come home empty-handed, And I stand by our apartment door, Eye the lift as it totes between floors.

December 24 had always been one of the most awaited days of the year for us. The grand birthday cake for Jesus' birthday, the roasted sausages and meatloaves, and finally, a house-favourite, narrating the story of the Three Wise Men–that is how I had spent Christmas Eve for as long as I could remember.

Catch more ghost stories like this from the winners of 'Winter Night Ghost Stories' competition all throughout winter, every weekend, here.

I saw a leaf falling yesterday. The wind took the leaf on its back then disappeared.

Luna strode then to the river’s bank, her loose-fitting blouse and petticoat flapping in the breeze that had speedily arrived. Her nupur, fashioned from mollusk shells, sounded in the wind like wind chimes, and more so when she moved.

Thoughts of a devoted poet