Men wearing wreaths uphold their sacred emblem - They extend an olive branch. Hold round-table talks on their next daring conquest. Fill banks with our blood. Build forts of crisp notes. Offer helpless smiles to victims of wars that they sell. They empty the bowels of our earth for oil, tie a string from end to end

The forest was still in the early hours of a cold autumn morning. The silence was broken only by the breeze through the trees and the restless trickling of a stream running through the middle of a clearing.

The intriguing image of a woman’s eye peering through a hole cut into the glossy book jacket suggests that there is more to Saikat Majumdar’s The Middle Finger than meets the eye.

Writer, statesman and educationalist Humayun Kabir (1906-69) was born in Komarpur near Faridpur town. The childhood of this cosmopolitan intellectual was spent in a rural culture.

now i see you in summer the kind  that came, before rain  could  settle us April, the beginning of it -

“Today it seems to me that every festival in Santiniketan offered homage to the seasons in some form or other… Much later I learnt that the festivals of Santhals and other Adivasis are the expressions of respect for farming and forest life. There are forms of nature worship based on an advantage of the earth as a primal mother.”

The Baishakhi fairgrounds is just a stone’s throw away from the Doyagonj Bridge, where grandpa always takes Rony for afternoon walks.

My city has turned off all its lights. And then someone has muddied, all the road-marks and signs.

This past March, Sahitya Akademi and Foundation of SAARC Writers and Literature (FOSWAL) arranged an online Literature Conference on “Environment and Literature” with participation from Bangladesh, Bhutan, India, Myanmar, Nepal, Sri Lanka and Thailand.

Rokte Anka Bhor begins by depicting the events of the night of 25th March of 1971 and ends with Bangabandhu’s return home on 10th January 1972. Anisul Hoque has not merely recorded a series of historical events. History can become monotonous, but Rokte Anka Bhor becomes personal and meaningful through moving narration and fragments of history.

Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman was rooted in the land and loved Bangladesh’s natural features. He wanted them to be as they were—green, open spaces full of water bodies and flora and fauna.

Pita (Father), a novel written by Faiz Tauhidul Islam, is a saga of two fathers and their two estranged grown-up children. It is a gripping tale that takes the readers on a journey of anticipation and uncertainty. The plot line is full of twists and turns which make the reading often a guessing game and an engrossing experience.

Approaching International Women’s Day 2022, the unnerving visual of the Ukrainian parliamentarian Kira Rudyk wielding a Kalashnikov that she finds both “scary and powerful,” is in reality a dynamic redefinition of women’s participation in national struggles.

My Facebook messenger tinkled a couple of times. All good on a Saturday morning. After all, while Facebook is a swirling fog of people’s achievements – someone got married, had a baby, passed a degree, landed a dream job, published a book, the messenger option offers some personal space sharing. 

DS. To some readers the title of your most recent novel The Middle Finger may sound controversial. But as I discovered while reading, it focuses on something very different. Why did you choose this title?

Be the autumn of my days. I am done with summers gone and springs to come or other rains. I’m the only season that remains.

If I get to live forever— then forever, I’ll be all alone— If I return to the paths of the world, I’ll see green grass Sprouting—will see yellow grass scattering— the sky Whitening in the morning—like a tattered munia bird, Breast blood-stained in the evening—again and again I’ll see stars And view a strange woman untying braided hair and leaving Alas, her face devoid of traces of the setting sun’s soft glow

On Thursday, February 2, 1922, a young woman was pacing the platform of the Gare de Lyon while waiting for the express train from Dijon. At 7:00 am precisely, the train arrived, stopped slowly, the conductor got off, looking around for the young woman who rushed to him and took a package from his hands, holding it tight while running towards the boulevard below, where she hailed a cab, her heart pounding.

A day unforeseen as such! None mourns the dead Nor do they fear death; Intrepid, what illumination Brightens their weary frames, and faces; steps Evince staunchness clad determination, ignite thus The tenacious resolve!

He did not look at me once. His eyes were engrossed in deep thought; to me he seemed to be dipping in the deep waters of memory. Bent with age, he sat at his desk.