Noora Shamsi Bahar

What makes them my favourites, if I can’t remember the names of the engrossing characters or the details of the intricate plots in some of my “favourite” books?

Why is Wordle so addictive and why are a lot of people so obsessed with it?

A few days ago, a video that went viral showed a young college-going girl beating her harasser on a bus, ripping his shirt in the process, and making him beg for forgiveness.

A nosy parker asks, “Why aren’t you having kids yet? You’ve been married for two years already! Why the delay?

We don’t normally think of toys from a critical perspective because, well, they’re just toys. But if one were to reflect on it, one might become easily disenchanted by these children’s playthings.

The most naïve boy of Dhabaldhola village had been murdered. The decapitated body lay on the demarcation line between the Bangari field and the Taro crop-field.

According to media reports, a 600-feet-long “safety zone” was recently allocated for women and children visiting Cox’s Bazar.

The recent rape and consequent death of a school-going, 17-year-old girl fills one with rage and helplessness.

The title of the story could have been “Tiger,” just “Tiger,” as, for a few days in 1971, a tiger had been the cause of a massive terror to us.

“I’m doing what I feel like doing. What’s that to you?” Aslam retorted. He opened the door and said, “Like mother, like daughter. Get lost.”

It’s been three nights that Aslam hasn’t been able to sleep. He has been trying so hard to fall asleep on the divan for three nights – the divan that he fancifully got carpentered and laid out in the study room of his gigantic apartment in Bashundhara, for the specific purpose of lying down to read and eventually doze off.

We lived in Pirojpur then. Barisal is the land of rivers and nullahs, and Pirojpur is no exception. Unless you have been to this Southern region of the country, you cannot claim to have really seen the country. We were not used to seeing such multitudes of rivers and

The next day, Lebu had really blasted a peto at the party's office. Well, he had tried to. The peto had fallen off his maimed hand, right in front of the table. It didn't bounce — rather sort of slumped — like a ball in a slow spin. Everyone shrank in fear. Babluda, the secretary, had pulled his legs up on the bench. He pressed his palms against his ears and stared, wide-eyed.

The alley is dark. Dim streaks of light trickle down from the street lamp at the turn.