The man set out for town at the wake of dawn. It was the month of Phalgun. A nip of chill was still in the air. Wrapping himself in a tattered shawl, he started walking. He had a long way to go, a small river to cross. And then, the town would come into view.

After so many years, more than a decade or so, when you pass my home, don’t forget to take a look at the humble roof of haystack and wattle if not the humble me waiting to have a look at your eyes for an epoch.

North Avenue beach was crowded with the Gold Coast moneyed, the downtown young and rich, the tanned, tight-bodied volleyballers, all of them white, and a healthy portion of the rest of the city’s masses, a United Colors of Benetton sampler, among which numbered the five of us. School was out for the summer, the next three months sprawled before us like the city from the Skydeck of Sears Tower.

Sirjaul islam Quadir is both an individual and a representative of his time says Prof. Sirajul Islam Chowdhury in his ever-eloquent words put together in the forward to the book.

Sometimes tears flow like rain for cakes that 

Nobody was around in the grey end of a Sunday. I strolled past the deserted park; the swings and slide failed to evoke the joy of old. The park looked cold, sequestered, and threatening in the dim light. It was strange and eerie to see not a soul there!

In his five-decade long career as a teacher of the English department at Dhaka University and at other institutions and as a scholar, Professor Fakrul Alam has had countless grateful students and admiring readers of his scholarly works that are not merely scholarly in a literary sense but are also personal and public.

Come dawn, I am a daughter Sweet Obedient Caring

It was in Kabul, Afghanistan, on 24th December, 1972, when suddenly in the late afternoon the first snow flurries of the season began.

Pushing the glass door open, Anita heaves a sigh of relief as she leaves the office for lunch. The sun is blazing down outside. Sometimes this place feels like a gold cage.

Far away from the crowd, far from the glaring chaos; out of the blaring car horns,  out of the shrieks of loneliness, out of all the madness that surrounds; Out of the city, out of the cacophony I chose to go and find solace.

You thought Time would play thumri while in the outskirts of desire

The most naïve boy of Dhabaldhola village had been murdered. The decapitated body lay on the demarcation line between the Bangari field and the Taro crop-field.

I’m feeling a certain disenchantment.

The best part of my childhood was during the late fifties, attending Dacca Cantonment Primary School at Ayub Line.

My baby boy snatches my empty tea mug from me and starts licking it. He was given the last few drops of tea from the mug and now he wants more. He puts his hand inside the mug, gets the boiled tea dust into his fist, inserts them in his mouth and starts chewing furiously.

Few authors would attempt a task as daunting as borrowing a seventeenth-century masterpiece Don Quixote from Spanish to English and setting it up on twenty-first-century United States. Given his dexterity with fabulism and experimental fiction, Salman Rushdie accepts the task with aplomb.

I was then working as a military observer in Sarajevo, and visiting Zagreb for some official purpose. Jean Marc, one of my French colleagues

Do the smooth muscles of narrative hold a deceptive appeal? Does the temporality of a story do more harm than good? One of the most intriguing stories in Aesop’s Fables, seems to think so – a fascinating story that is a good example of an anti-story!

In popular culture, if not in criticism, Wuthering Heights stands as the tale of love lost in betrayal and a grand reunion in the afterworld. The