My Bangla Sings out every morning One language Many songs

For educators: My go-to text on 1971 is Jahanara Imam’s Ekattorer Dinguli. It’s a deeply personal and powerful memoir that I believe every student should engage with to truly feel the emotional and human cost of the war. The way she documents her experiences, especially the loss of her son, is heart-wrenching and offers a perspective that transcends history—it becomes deeply relatable and unforgettable.

I fell asleep to the chatters of cicadas on a quiet summer night

The night after the story got published, Jamal stormed to my home at around 11 PM, drenched in the rain. That was the first and only time Jamal raised his voice against me

A long stretch of time / passed in prison

The large green pond of Dhanmondi Lake was probably the first source of natural water that I had witnessed. It sheltered a huge number of people who have lived,

Women and the earth have to tolerate a lot.  –Kaajal (1965)

One sits silently. Her eyes blink sometimes. Sometimes her lips tremble a little, or they don’t tremble at all.

Healthy water-bodies are sunk by envy-blind waste’s outburst  

I spent the last night with your lover 

Behind the bangles that jingle ominously in the dark, there is a voice—a voice that has long been silenced

When Anne Carson said– All lovers believe they are inventing love, she was perhaps right

I carry them openly in these calloused hands and hold them out to you could you tell me I'm worthy of love

“Residents usually get 30 days of observation period,” said the man at the reception, “but since it’s a leap year, you get an extra day.

Bolstered, the six little mice lead their army up–up–up the trunk of the poor, ravaged oak they were so desperate to save. 

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.

In the West, South Asian literature is primarily dominated by works from India and then Pakistan. This dominance has made it difficult for Bangladeshi authors to receive the attention they deserve for their work

He had consistently disregarded the villagers' accounts of bhoot-prets as local folklore. To him, they were just stories to scare the gullible

I woke up with the taste of blood in my mouth

Mother woke before sunrise with the weight of the house pulling at her bones and moved against the cold floor, the chill biting at her ankles. In the corner hung the gutted rabbit, its blood pooling on the floor. Her fingers trembled, as she bathed herself in it, coating her skin red.