Traveling by local bus in Dhaka city is nightmarish. But sometimes, things may turn out to be different.

Winter nights are surely the best time for ghost stories or tales of spirits returning from the dead. This year, The Daily Star is preparing for some chilling winter night haunting.

Alice Beck Kehoe (1934-) is a family friend, and I have her permission to use her first name in short for this essay. After reading Alice’s autobiography Girl Archaeologist: Sisterhood in a Sexist Profession (2022), Raudah, my wife, recommended the book to me with confidence that I would love it.

Tahmima Anam, the Bangladesh-born British writer, is known at home and abroad for her spontaneous and vivid writing style. She is widely distinguished as a novelist and columnist with a profound awareness of her native and international culture.

Who is Annie Ernaux?

A fine good morning poem

. In its fourth session of Literary Matters, the discussion focused on the diversity of writing. The guest speakers were Shagufta Sharmeen Tania, the acclaimed British-Bangladeshi writer and Rahad Abir, another up and coming writer currently residing in the US.

For these morbid thoughts, go to the mountains and cry. For these morbid thoughts, kill all your darlings. For these morbid thoughts, shower as soon as you can. For these morbid thoughts, know that it won’t pass.

At the first roar of the clouds, Selim opened his eyes, bloodshot, drowsy and warm like a smoking candle. He stared deep into the abyss swirling before him. In his ears, the moans of the distant sky rang damply, as if the sound came from beneath a heavy blanket.

Dhaka, 1857          

On the occasion of the sixth death anniversary of Syed Shamsul Haq, Sabiha Huq writes on the versatile writer.

Winter nights are surely the best time for ghost stories or tales of spirits returning from the dead. This year, The Daily Star is preparing for some chilling winter night haunting.

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.

Grieve no more– As for Notan The poet has amassed much grief. Let me plant a tree of fog

(Translated by Md Mehedi Hasan) My mother often tells me— What would these poems bring?

Morning sun, and its endearing ardor swathes my spent body, I awake a ghost.

I am from age-old pickle jars, and dusty ancestral bookshelves

The dust jacket cover of Amartya Sen’s absorbing and remarkable memoir shows him as a young boy, with his sister and a cousin at home, looking out at the world. An apt cover image of a fittingly titled book about someone who would be always taking in the world as he went all over

One year, a week before Eid-ul-Adha, my grandma, Dadi, came to Dhaka from the village and broke into tears. “What happened?” we asked.

This is about living in a twilight world of a romance with fiction as well as non-fiction. It’s a ménage à trois that I wouldn’t ever end.