Rakib Hasan took Western adventure tales and breathed into them a Bangladeshi heart.

And for the Oldest, the mirror wounds as well.

Shirin could barely walk after the accident; her lungs gave in anytime she took more than twenty steps. In between, bed rest and medications exhausted her body but never her spirit. She was someone who could be described as being made of liquid sun – warm, radiant, bright – anything and everything people thought a differently-abled person couldn't be.

In the silence, her mind ruminated on every little detail.

As Fulbanu waited for Syed Ali, she thought about her only son, Suruj. She remembered that Suruj was the first man among five neighbouring villages to acquire his bachelor's degree

When Mr. Vik Roman looked at the time with flinching eyes, it was around 3:30 am.

The city still wants to breathe.

Something you may... You may never find again.

My love always arrived wrapped in silence, wrapped in dust. But that was childhood.

We will make meaning out of the holes in the sun

At a gathering in the unfinished community hall, Saleha raises a question: "They gave us walls. But what do we want to grow inside them?"

In Lakshmi’s Secret Diary, Ari Gautier crafts a dazzling, multi-layered narrative that is as whimsical as it is profound.

I know my engine is dying. I know that, by the time the next Eid rolls around, the busy little humans will have taken me apart to create something new.

When he was handing over the money to Naimuddin, their father, Kalam silently cried, holding Dholi’s neck in the yard.

The Asia regional winner of the 2025 Commonwealth Short Story Prize, Faria Basher, in an interview with The Daily Star, opens up about her journey from lifelong reader to emerging writer.

He brought the jasmine to his nose, inhaled its narcotic sweetness, and wondered if maybe, just maybe, it was true.

When Ullash decided to choose the cat for one of his experiments, our borobhabi, Ullash's mother, didn't raise a single objection

Ravindra's prose is brisk, smooth, and detailed, with numerous stories from traditional Nepali and Hindu folklore chipped in, adding layers as the story unfolds.

In dry, forgotten Shukhno Gram, a station master’s dull routine shifts when a runaway bride in blue arrives. Their unexpected bond, painted with longing, art, and fleeting rain, transforms solitude into a moment of magic.

Now, an automated metro-rail glides silently through the city. Conversations have become clipped, calculated. Efficiency replaces spontaneity. They call it peace. Rahim calls it absence.