This is the third and final part of “Storm Child”, serialised here on Star Literature

Markan didn't have an answer. The word "Arakan" felt distant, like something from a dream he couldn't quite remember

Every time I enter it, this building carves out a tiny piece of my heart, leaving behind the sharp tang of hospital bleach and lemon-scented air freshener in its place.

His final sentiments were etched into the table before he succumbed to his final rest: "I found solace in the mountains. They demanded nothing and remained steadfast by my side."

As I turn back, my eyes catch sight of what appears to be hands, but of a tan, furry kind, feeling its way inside the sliding doors

I plead but I know there is nothing I can do. Akbar, in a rare fit of courage, tries to intervene. But the old man does not budge. Maybe he knows about Mina and me.

“The roads are too clean. The sun is too bright,” she thought.

Sumedha replied with annoyance, "I will make him say the words. It's so simple, 'Apni kemon achhen, bhalo?' Why can't he say it?"

While reading it, one might feel that they are reading a mother’s confessions while she takes care of her son.

In a world spun from the threads of chaos, we are born into a tapestry of shadows. We are shimmering maidens in the night, nurturing within us a fire both subtle and strong. Yet, the air around us is heavy with whispers–danger and desire intertwined.

Chaos. More chaos.

Review of ‘Needle at the Bottom of the Sea: Bengali Tales from the Land of the Eighteen Tides’ (University of California Press, 2023) translated by Tony K. Stewart

I heard they are changing the dictionary.

When the streetlights flicker, think of every doe-eyed child that the city swallows

The eight girls in Headshot clearly hope to escape the chaos of their lives in the ring.

The 309-page-long dystopian novel is an oppressive account of Eilish who tries to keep her family from falling apart as everything around her crumbles.

Geronimo rushed inside the hole coughing, somehow managing to shut the door behind him. His mother Telapatra grabbed her son, hugging her tight for an instant before smacking him across the back. “How many times did I tell you not to go out at this hour?” cried Telapatra.

There are no lamplights in this end of the neighbourhood. Only tall trees standing upright on either side of the road, their leaves drooping down in lament for a long-forgotten motion.

'The Hippo Girl and Other Stories' holds up a mirror to a society that judges and ridicules those that do not adhere to its shortsighted vision of a homogenised culture.

Callahan’s novel came to her during the pandemic when she found herself waking up with a large ringing noise in her head.