Star Literature
Cosmopolitan Dream
I see you, with whatever half awake, sleep drifting irises, I see you. Dusted in the shelves of unread books, I see you and I know you, They will never know you but I do, in ways you are afraid.
The archive of Dhaka beneath the city
You were chosen because of your heart. Because of the incredible love you carry, despite the cruelty of this hungry city. Because of the strength you have, forged by the trials and tribulations of Dhaka.
The ticket line
Shiraj’s only consolation was that he was almost at the end of the line. Just the couple in front of him, and then he would finally be free. Otherwise, he was fuming. Someone had picked his pocket.
INTERVIEW / ‘Bangladesh has failed to foster an environment that encourages creative and intellectual freedom’: Badruddin Umar
How writers and their consciousness evolve in a country is largely dependent on that society’s intellectual development, their freedom of expression, and if their intellectual development is encouraged or discouraged.
FICTION / Catching lilies
“Listen, I have a plan but you have to say yes,” said Naya as her eyes traced Noorie’s computer screen, checking to see if she finished typing the rest of the sentence. With a last click on the full stop, Noorie bent backward to see Naya’s face gleaming.
Shimul
The girl stared back at her and asked a question that made Mrittika’s heart beat faster. “Don’t you recognise me?”
Fiction / An aftertaste
“Can’t a man even get payesh and shemai on Eid in this house?” Altaf Shaheb screamed from the drawing room while watching the news, “There used to be so much joy in this house. It used to feel like Eid. But your mother has grown so sluggish now, Saadat! She used to be such a good cook. Our neighbours back in the old neighbourhood were crazy about your mother’s chicken bhuna. But now I can’t even get a plate of payesh the night before Eid.”
Poetry / Cog against the machine
you spend what you make to make what you spend, and you do it today to do it all over again
for my weeping mother
her heart was a two seater unfit for a family so big i grew to be a woman mirrored in her shadow when she was younger
“Fragile Things”: How ghosts and spirituality make it into writing
Participants, including the show’s hosts and guests, picked up discarded pebbles, photo frames, children’s artwork, and other knick knacks—all fragile things collected and displayed by the author.
POETRY / Dark, blue night
Like wild leopard's skin, I spread out my hair The dark night uncurls with his roaring fleet; I pounce on his chest, bare foot, like Kali–
Cormac McCarthy: A great American novelist
For a nation that cannot boast of a Cervantes or Rabindranath, there will always be a need to find an All-American, a unifier who assures them of their place in the hallowed halls of literature. Cormac McCarthy, more than any other writer of his generation, was equipped to shoulder that title.
Baba
try my best to paint the place blue Pouring all the sorrow after you With no colour left in my palette, As though the canvas breathes its last
Will-o’-the-Wisp
The sky to the west and overhead is mired in darkness; but to the east, light is gleaming out like a jasper stone, as clear as crystal.
Begum Rokeya and Begum Sufia An enduring “mother-daughter” bond
Begum Rokeya Sakhawat Hossain (1880-1932) and Begum Sufia Kamal (1911-1999), two icons in Bangla literature and culture, were not kins but kindred spirits.
All she ever wanted
Elen would tell you how her hatred for her sister was so intense that she didn't know who she was without it.
In Extreme Need of Guidance
On summer days when the sunlight falls through the trees it scatters into a play of light and shadows on the ground. My memories of Fareed are like that.
Can we process trauma through writing?
Iffat Nawaz, together with The Daily Star’s Books & Literary Editor, Sarah Anjum Bari, will discuss the act and impact of processing traumatic memories through writing.
The once and future bedes & ‘Gypsies?
Szilvia Reif, a student of mine from the (indicatively named) Gandhi School in Pècs, Hungary, wrote a poem that tells what it feels like to be a ‘Gypsy (properly Roma).
Meursault rediscovered
Mother sold him and he never knew a father; Born adult, as though he never had a childhood.
