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I often consider war as a quasi-synonym for memory. After all, memory is nothing but our present in constant war with our glorified, vilified, expressed, suppressed, erased, and fragmented selves floating in past space and time.
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Majid kept sniffing the air as he walked. He slowed down when he heard someone’s footsteps behind him.
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When it comes to their names, most people in Bangladesh may find themselves in a convoluted situation.
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Prejudice is a monstrous thing, and so is the tendency to be judgmental—the mindset that allures us to put ourselves in the shining armor of righteousness.
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In a soggy London street he stood, shaking his dreadlocks like wind-struck branches of a willow and moving his weathered bow on the shiny strings of his broken violin.
