When it comes to our fathers, especially the ones who try to be good men, a rampant affliction known as patriarchy has left us with no language to imagine them outside of what they were to others. Strip away the roles, and what’s left?
We'll put up feigned politicians / And their fake promises instead
What if our Eid table had a few extra chairs reserved not for guests from our world but from that of the books we’ve loved throughout our life?
In Gaza, the names of the martyrs slip through silence, lost to a world too distracted to listen
Being a Dhakaite, your Eids in childhood were spent in mournful longings for something to happen.
S.K. Ali and Aisha Saeed (eds.)Amulet Books, 2020
On the evening of February 10 the curtain fell for the last time on a performance that, over the preceding days, had cast an enchanting spell upon its audience.
Tell me about this life you live behind the curtain…
Mohsin would burst into laughter, saying, "Justice for rape? Is that even a crime worthy of justice?" Rabeya, laughing alongside him, would add, "People expect justice for rape these days? I'm speechless at their naïveté!"
Pebbles strewn pavement Keep drawing me back
Before returning to Australia, I felt a quiet urgency to visit my elderly and ailing relatives in Dhaka. Not just a social obligation—it was something deeper, a whisper from within. I heard such visits were acts of virtue, but for me, it was more about connection, memory, and respect..A fe
Long, long ago, when the world was younger, wiser, softer, when the animals were braver and the people were gentler, when art lived and music sailed, and the skies were a true, honest blue, there lived a man who loved a woman, and they lived in a little house they loved very much. How they met o
This cracked, restless earth beneath our feet— granules of memory grinding,
Children pulled from rubble in Gaza, dust-white faces against red bricks—
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.
The bus stop was empty as usual, I sat waiting for a sight of one. Then he came. A man in a faded red shirt with a bag hanging on his back, running as if the devil himself had taken out a lease on his shadow.
Scorching in a way the April sun never was. / Scorching in a way a fever never feels. / It wasn't just grief
In a time where spectacle often overshadows sincerity, where art sometimes forgets its heart, Lojithan Ram offers a whisper. A blue whisper. And in that whisper, you may just hear your own name
Her voice, thin as a whisper, sharp as a blade, sliced through the kitchen air thick with mustard oil and regret.
Like little boys racing against red-orange hues against dark, dark blue to spread the day’s news;
