Star Literature
Fiction / The Melancholic Man
The whole courtroom held their breath, waiting to hear Nizam's answer. As he nodded in affirmation, the enraged audience got off their seats to beat up the accused.
Poetry / Lunatic Crow
Lacerating the unfortified,/ Picking at the flesh for bad blood to find
REFLECTIONS / Friday flavours and feels
There were always some guests who would drop by on Friday mornings and in those days, there were no pre-visit calls to check if it would be alright to drop by.
Fiction / Wings Across A City Wall
Shimu and Tushar had grown up together on an alley in the Mirpur area of Dhaka city. Their neighbouring houses were separated only by a brick wall, about two meters high. The branches of a tree growing beside Tushar’s house overhung the wall, its foliage shading a part of Shimu’s courtyard.
Of hills, lakes, and loss
Bury your feet where its green And when the air is thin you will see
FICTION / White-eyed Corpse
The beast bellowed below Mushfiq’s bedroom window, propelling rushes of tingles within him. He smiled.
FICTION / Chess Grandmaster
My father reasoned that he had grown up in a poor land that had been plundered by the colonial powers and he was not going to give away another national treasure
Reflection / When your fictitious version gets the happy ending
If you’re someone who tends to pay attention to details, you will find a CliffsNotes for The Bell Jar on the coffee table next to Heather Chandler’s dead body in the 1988 cult classic,
POETRY / Inside
She’s as real as my meandering/ As tangible as tinkering.
The Palestinian crisis, Holocaust production, and ‘Maus’
This is part of a grand narrative that, offensive as it is, asks why the Jewish people let themselves be killed, instead of asking why the system enabled it to happen–the same narrative also exists in the cases of colonialism and slavery.
What’s in a name?
He had been practising saying his name out loud every night before going to sleep so that his ears remained accustomed to hearing his own name
Losing An Arm
It said, my body was no longer needed. / “This is the age of freedom. Let me go, and explore.”
Mr Moti
The monsoons have passed. Moti has grown so healthy, so strong and so big that no other cocks even dare to be near him.
I, Whore; I, Birangona1
Would it be too much to ask you/ To forgive me for the carnal sin I did not commit?
Genocide, ecology, and Zahir’s ‘Life and Political Reality’
As we remember the joys and the agonies brought forth by 16th December 1971, we often forget or, rather, neglect the nuances embedded in the struggle
Stargazing with the Bossanova man
“It’s a type of Brazilian music, this elevator is playing The Girl From Ipanema.”
