Sarah Anjum Bari

A glance at most of our newspaper and magazine pages, local art galleries, Facebook and Instagram communities, and even films and corporate campaigns reveals a thriving independent art scene.

Those of us who love literature are haunted by an ever-looming threat: that reading as a practice around the world is dwindling.

The soft light of the setting sun illuminates the entire section every time I walk in, mostly because I AM ALWAYS LATE. On one side white balloons hang, on another side a dart board.

Every November, Dhaka Lit Fest creates a hub of stimulating activities and conversations for the culturally inclined.

After six months of reading 151 books longlisted into 11, narrowed down further to six, the Booker Prize judges on October 14 announced this year’s winner—the “best novel” produced in English in the UK and Ireland (regardless of the author’s nationality) over the past one year.

Along the banks of the Sitalakhya river in Narayanganj, some 20 villages in Sonargaon, Rupganj, and Siddhirganj in particular, women villagers starch yarn in lime and toasted rice to make warp yarn—the vertical, lengthwise weaves that make up a fabric.

About one-third of the way through in Kabir Singh, which is now out on Netflix, the protagonist (Shahid Kapoor) charges into a college campus with his girlfriend Preeti (Kiara Advani).

Too often, we perceive books as invincible, inanimate objects. But their history is as ancient as it is ambiguous—what is a book

Seven thirty pm on Star World was when it began for me. I was young—too young to be watching Monica and Chandler kiss, to get

Just like the pools that drip from Abdallah's home into the longer al-Awafi alleys, these insightful, heartfelt snippets capture the lived experience of an Oman in transition over decades

A tiny red gate jostles for space among shops, apartments, and the flurry of traffic in Block F of Lalmatia in Dhaka. Like the name

When I think of Toni Morrison’s oeuvre, the word ‘geod’ comes to mind. A composite whole—each novel, each essay tightly knitted, contained by the solidity and confidence of its author’s direction of ideas. You think you know what to expect, given the ubiquity of its

A portion of my bookshelf looks “girlier” than the others. It’s stacked with hardbacks and paperbacks in various shades of pink, pale yellow, glittering gold, and some pops of red and purple. Anyone who walks in and looks at this section of the shelf will know immediately that it contains different variations of love stories, of stories about girls going on holiday and bonding with their girlfriends and reconnecting with themselves, usually having cast off a toxic job or relationship. Think of your Nora Roberts, your Cecelia Aherns and Jojo Moyeses and, if you like to step back in time, your Judith McNaughts.

The Goldfinch—the written version, Donna Tartt’s third literary triumph—opens upon a Christmas day in a hotel in Amsterdam. The “I” that speaks offers a brief recap of his murky dreams and departure from New York; what but he really (quickly) wants to get to is setting up the scene for us.

When we were kids, my younger cousin and I had a favourite game. Smaller and more agile, my cousin would hang off the side of the bed or a table, his squishy feet dangling and threatening to land painfully on the floor.

My copy of Zadie Smith’s Autograph Man is special for a number of reasons. Firstly, it’s the only one of my favourite author’s books that I haven’t read in its entirety.

Laal Kono Rong Noy (‘Red is Not a Colour’), curated by Mustafa Zaman, is displaying the works of artist Sanjoy Chakraborty from July 12 to 25 at Dwip Gallery, Lalmatia. Sanjoy Chakraborty studied History of Art at Rabindra Bharati University, India and has

Petrichor is the word for when rain hits dry soil, releasing a fragrance almost impossible to describe—the earth smells wetter somehow; richer, browner, greener. It was petrichor I smelled as I roamed, shuffled, and tiptoed my way through rain-drenched parts

It was sometime in winter last year that co-curator Sharmilie Rahman invited a group of artists—Abdus Salam, Abir Shome, Emran

Directed by Johan Renck and written by Craig Mazin, HBO’s five-part miniseries aired earlier this month takes us back to the worst