The memoir situates Roy’s personal story alongside her public life as an outspoken critic of state power, globalisation, and inequality.
Being a musician who grew up singing and listening to Kazi Nazrul Islam’s songs, I was quite familiar with his writing, particularly his diction, figures of speech, and sundry themes.
I was born too late for CBGB’s, too offline for MySpace and too far away from dive bars. I came to all of it two entire decades late so The Strokes wasn’t exactly the soundtrack to my reckless twenties but a band I happened to stumble into during a mid-pandemic spiral.
Similar to how the play starts, it also ends with the colourful, subtle image of the butterflies flying spontaneously, creating a strong symbolism encapsulating Paul's dream of freedom, nature, and his ambition of becoming a writer
In Thorns in My Quilt, Mohua Chinappa offers readers a searingly honest and emotionally resonant series of letters addressed to her late father. But before these letters unfold, we are led into a history that anchors the personal in the political—a story of displacement, privilege, and loss that stretches from Dhaka to Shillong.
Don’t mistake A Death in Shonagachhi for a murder mystery, or you’ll be setting yourself up for disappointment. Some moments will remain unexplained, threads will refuse to tie neatly, and certain ends will stay frayed. Strictly speaking, Rijula Das’s explosive debut can be classified as literary noir. More poetically, it is a soul-baring depiction of a community built in the most unexpected of places—a testament to resilience in the face of crushing blows, and a promise that love can overcome the agony of circumstances beyond one’s control.
Bengal was partitioned twice. First in 1905 when the heightened protest against this reunited Bengal in 1911.
Elif Shafak has adroitly balanced the story between Peri’s suffering as a woman and religion’s role in mending our relationships and lives.
Ahmed shared his journey with Netra News and his undercover work for them shedding light on the countless enforced disappearances that took place in the country during Hasina’s regime.
The quote above seems to capture the heart of this novel set in a near-future dystopian Kolkata rendered uninhabitable by political corruption, inequality, and the ominous package of climate crisis–floods, famine, overheating.
Approximately 105 people die every minute globally. This is nothing but data until in some specific wretched minute, someone dear to us adds a plus one to that digit. When those we love die, their losses dig enormous holes in our beings. Though invisible to the physical eye, these freshly cut hollows ache like any deep wound would, they bleed out more blood than we carry in our veins. A severe soreness spreads over us without any remedies, without offering us a recovery timeline. There is no telling when grieving ends or if it ever actually does.
Review of ‘Jodi Lokkho Thake Otut: Shafolyer Khola Koushol’ (Anyaprokash, 2025) by Asif Iqbal
Review of Mitali Chakravarty’s ‘From Calcutta to Kolkata: A City of Dreams: Poems’ (Hawakal Publishers Pvt Ltd, 2025)
“Art is empathy,” Fredrik Backman writes. So is friendship—the kind that stays with you long after the summer ends.The kind you find when you’re 14 and everything is breaking and beginning at once. The kind of friendship that becomes a map back to yourself, years later, when you’re lost in grief, guilt, or even just the quiet ache of growing up. Fredrik Backman’s My Friends is a love letter to those friendships.
A stunning meditation on some of the concepts that haunt our present moment—humanity and moralism, Zionism today, democracy and imperialism and perhaps most significantly, the question that lies at the very heart of the human condition: what does it mean
Every year, on June 20, World Refugee Day calls on us to remember and hold in our hearts the millions displaced by conflict, persecution, and political upheaval around the world.
These paternal characters are not easy to love, nor can they love faultlessly themselves. Yet it is precisely this contradiction—their awkward tenderness, silent failures, and undeniable devotion—that makes them so achingly human
The cats don't always understand the human specifics, but they recognise sadness. They notice routines. And most of all, they stay
The Asia regional winner of the 2025 Commonwealth Short Story Prize, Faria Basher, in an interview with The Daily Star, opens up about her journey from lifelong reader to emerging writer.
In one of their most recent episodes, Dhaka Sessions featured three young artists from Bengal Parampara Sangeetalay to perform in the intimate and literary, lush space of Bookworm Bangladesh
Now, two decades later, the question lingers: Did "Guts" really cause waves of fainting spells, or did the legend grow legs of its own?
Throughout my school years, Ammu would assign a different writer for me to read during each vacation
In a lecture, Rabindranath proclaimed, “I hope that some dreamer will spring from among you and preach a message of love and therewith, overcoming all differences..."
All Quiet on the Western Front (Little, Brown and Company, 1929), a semi-autobiographical novel authored by a German World War I veteran, Erich Maria Remarque, is one of the greatest anti-war works of literature—one that was published nearly a century back and still holds relevance today
Trigger warning: self harm, sexual and physical abuse “For a hundred million, Omar, are you ready?” said the host, with his everlasting grin.
The automated blinds of the penthouse in Gulshan, an upscale area, rise with a soft hum, revealing a picture-perfect Dhaka morning.
Every night, a market forms near the mill gate. When it’s time for that market to close, Fulbanu stands on the high bank of the pond, waiting for her husband’s return.
Saiyara didn’t wave a flag to voice her rights on the streets. She had never marched in a protest line, never chanted beneath the dark blanket of smoke-heavy skies. Her revolution was quieter, and it carried a little soul swaddled in a bassinet beside her, traces of milk on her lips and dreaming
Mira presses her thumb on the cracked power button of her phone.
As Fulbanu waited for Syed Ali, she thought about her only son, Suruj. She remembered that Suruj was the first man among five neighbouring villages to acquire his bachelor's degree
When Mr. Vik Roman looked at the time with flinching eyes, it was around 3:30 am.
Ami chiratare dur-e chole jabo.(I will go far away forever).I’ll go far away forever—.yet I won’t let myself be obliviated..I’ll turn air to knot your hair.when the bun gets loose..Immersed in your tune.when the sky dozes, wind weeps,.with teary ey
“What will come out of all this?” The day starts with the devil flying overhead,
Do you remember the sunset on the 18th of July? What colour was it?
The memoir situates Roy’s personal story alongside her public life as an outspoken critic of state power, globalisation, and inequality.
Some poets arrive like rain on parched soil—needing no defense, only recognition. Al Mahmud (1936–2019) was one of them. And yet, in the usual crookedness of history, we have found ourselves having to defend what should already have been canonised. There was a time—not long ago—when his name uns
Ami chiratare dur-e chole jabo.(I will go far away forever).I’ll go far away forever—.yet I won’t let myself be obliviated..I’ll turn air to knot your hair.when the bun gets loose..Immersed in your tune.when the sky dozes, wind weeps,.with teary ey
I was born too late for CBGB’s, too offline for MySpace and too far away from dive bars. I came to all of it two entire decades late so The Strokes wasn’t exactly the soundtrack to my reckless twenties but a band I happened to stumble into during a mid-pandemic spiral.
Being a musician who grew up singing and listening to Kazi Nazrul Islam’s songs, I was quite familiar with his writing, particularly his diction, figures of speech, and sundry themes.
Similar to how the play starts, it also ends with the colourful, subtle image of the butterflies flying spontaneously, creating a strong symbolism encapsulating Paul's dream of freedom, nature, and his ambition of becoming a writer
Trigger warning: self harm, sexual and physical abuse “For a hundred million, Omar, are you ready?” said the host, with his everlasting grin.
“What will come out of all this?” The day starts with the devil flying overhead,
This cracked, restless earth beneath our feet— granules of memory grinding,
Bengal was partitioned twice. First in 1905 when the heightened protest against this reunited Bengal in 1911.
