A few months ago, during the height of the pandemic, my teacher and mentor who is now a UGC professor called me up one morning to convey to me that he has finally finished reading Akhtaruzzaman Elias’ novel Khwabnama.

As the guitar strikes And we enjoy its dulcet tunes, My mind wanders someplace else, slowly jamming.

Children will be more interested towards exploring Bangabandhu’s life owing to the Graphic Novel “Mujib” and his childhood stories will be intriguing to them, said eminent litterateur and educationist Dr Muhammed Zafar Iqbal yesterday.

What does it mean to read a book in a public place these days?

Love is ok till it becomes like the curiosity of country-lads when they go to airports just to see how aeroplanes fly

Does Time have the time To ever stop by the Clock? Take a little break? Drink a cup of tea? Come Time, come relax with me.

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.

The 45th edition of the International Kolkata Book Fair, to be held in July this year, will be dedicated to Father of the Nation Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman and Bangladesh will be the country-in-focus of the event, said organisers yesterday.

Writing is not an art suddenly discovered. It’s a craft gradually developed. Writing–both creative and critical– is formulaic, the way math is.

It was that time of year again. I woke up to a furry snout nudging my hand. Lhyelhing the wolf was eagerly trying to get me up; so I pulled off the cover and then immediately went under them as a cold breeze blasted my body.

Turbulent, murky, and eccentrically wide at this time of the rainy seasons, the river Padma flows incessantly. Lashing with fury at its banks on both sides the river flows swallowing fertile lands, homesteads, settlements. It is a different story at Mawabazar though, where humans endeavour to tame the river.

“Chotto Kaka, I’m not afraid of the bogey-bug (coronavirus) when I have a tummy full of ice cream.” When my seven-year old nephew made this demand, I thought, he could really have taken a leaf out of Ulysses – a masterpiece by the great Irish maverick, James Joyce.

“Have you met Mr. Skunk? In case you have not, he is a short black and white fellow that you might often see at the bottom of the stairs, or near the dumpster.” Joe paused for breath.

Mashrur Arefin’s 2019 novel, August Abchhaya, is full of moments that evoke the blood-stained memory behind the language of conflict.

Numair Atif Choudhury’s Babu Bangladesh is a tour de force of a novel. Exuberant, extravagant, learned, zany, ingenious, whimsical, irreverent and provocative, this is a work of amazing merit.

Today, on the first day of 2021, I open the 71st chapter of my memoir written – not sure when – probably before time. I want to read what lies ahead. There are only a few more chapters left before I happily reach the final episode.

In the desolation of today, I hang on to the promises of tomorrow: When life will be in harmony And struggles gone.

Many centuries ago, Chinese pilgrims came up the Bay of Bengal on their way to Buddhist sites in the Subcontinent. We have no record of their conversations with the people of Bengal but it was the accurate accounts of early Chinese travellers that enabled archaeologists in the 19th century to rediscover the lost Buddhist sites like that inside a hill at Paharpur.

I forbade the clouds to sprawl around this flood plain- the clouds unendingly somersault around my windowpane at the beckoning of drooping hillocks though.

with its fortress of mahals, brimming with Earth’s treasure, gardens and illusions from the eye of the vulture’s flight, past the roadside dhabas, past the colossal statues and solitary temples, dotting the horizon resting comfortably atop Bygone mosques,