Marzia Rahman

After many years, Ira has returned to my town. She hops four towns to get here. We are supposed to meet today. I’ve been ready since morning. We will meet by the lakeside.

the bullet hole/ in my brother's chest/ unfolds like a pandora's box

Three-year-old Maria asks  her nine-year-old brother, Ibrahim.

justice—where is justice?

If you travel on a bus, always take the window seat.

Is it true that when we migrate, we lose a few people from our past?

JHALMURI (Puffed rice chaat) Preparation time: 2 minutes

My plane landed in Dhaka at 2:30. By the time, I went through customs, it was 4 o’clock in the afternoon. I became restless. How long would it take to go home? No one lived there now. My house stood alone, empty. I left it one month and thirty days ago. I locked the door before I left.

Hermit-crab fiction use ready-made templates such as recipes, shopping lists, meeting minutes and other forms and is a great way for experimenting with form in short fiction.

Keep relatives at a distance, they will never visit but will always give untimely advice or spill half-true family secrets. 

The man set out for town at the wake of dawn. It was the month of Phalgun. A nip of chill was still in the air. Wrapping himself in a tattered shawl, he started walking. He had a long way to go, a small river to cross. And then, the town would come into view.

A Sonata has three major parts: exposition, development and recapitulation.

The year Dadi died, monsoon came early. Days of incessant rain, nights with loud thunderstorm. And when there was no rain, my friend Mira and I sang rain songs and floated paper boats in the puddle.

Late nights calls are risky, reckless.

I got a visitor today. My mother. It was a bright morning, one of those days when you get a feeling that something good will happen. And then mother came. And mother looked perturbed. And I realised it will be like any other day with nothing but madness all around.

It was a big window, like an arched doorway. It creaked loudly the first time I opened it. It sounded angry, upset. I wondered why?

It’s late June and it’s hot. It’s nine in the morning and it’s hot. It’s so hot in Dhaka that after a while feelings turn somewhat numbed, vision blurred. And taking advantage of the overcrowded vehicle, when a guy pinches Shila Chakma’s buttock after a futile attempt to grope her breast, she wants to scream: Stop it, you pervert.

After finishing college, I wanted to stay in the city a bit longer, to look for a job, read more books, hang out with my friends. But most importantly, I wanted to find out whether Daniel was ready to take the next step.

I cannot write. For a month, it lingers. Every morning, I sit in front of my laptop and hope to write something new, something noble. But nothing comes out. Not a word, not a sentence. As if the sea of creativity has dried up.

Here, we stand in silence;