It is a rather rare feat to find poetry composed in Bangla and compiled in the writer’s only published book that has propelled both the poet and book of poetry to the height of fame and immortalisation, that too in the poet’s own lifetime, as Helal Hafiz’s Je Jole Agun Jole has done.
A lonely soul treads on the street cultivating the sweet pain of defunct love; like a solitary artist, he rambles through the alleys of the city and paints the
It was the shade of the ashwath that vanquished all one’s weariness from the fiery heat of Choitro. Or else it was not possible for fatigue to be eliminated so quickly.
In the psyche and schema of the average transnational Bangladeshi, rape is visible and legitimate only when it takes spectacular forms—violent, brutal, deadly.
For educators: My go-to text on 1971 is Jahanara Imam’s Ekattorer Dinguli. It’s a deeply personal and powerful memoir that I believe every student should engage with to truly feel the emotional and human cost of the war. The way she documents her experiences, especially the loss of her son, is heart-wrenching and offers a perspective that transcends history—it becomes deeply relatable and unforgettable.
I weave Hibiscuses in your hair and Along with them I softly weave the strings of my I love you’s. Your eyes are closed as you soak in my touch and Your lips are pressed thin as if imprisoning yours.
In classic Bengali fiction, the kitchen is a central site for conflict and community bonding.
I fell asleep to the chatters of cicadas on a quiet summer night
Pale, aristocratic, seductive forces lurking in the dark—when we think of vampires, we often perceive them through a western lens
The night after the story got published, Jamal stormed to my home at around 11 PM, drenched in the rain. That was the first and only time Jamal raised his voice against me
The large green pond of Dhanmondi Lake was probably the first source of natural water that I had witnessed. It sheltered a huge number of people who have lived,
One sits silently. Her eyes blink sometimes. Sometimes her lips tremble a little, or they don’t tremble at all.
My heart is an oligarch: A staunch, pot-bellied, knuckle-cracking middle-aged man lounging carelessly, lazily in his sitting room with his limbs spread out on a settee
Pale, aristocratic, seductive forces lurking in the dark—when we think of vampires, we often perceive them through a western lens
Behind the bangles that jingle ominously in the dark, there is a voice—a voice that has long been silenced
