Literature | The Daily Star
  • A Teacher, A Torchbearer

    Each time on the eve of a new semester, it is not absolutely uncommon for any university student to feel overwhelmed for many reasons. Faces of the teachers from the bygone

  • When Olga Grjasnowa Comes to Dhaka

    I met Olga Grjasnowa early this November when she came to a program at ULAB jointly hosted by the University and the Goethe Institute Bangladesh. She had a couple of sessions at the Dhaka Literary Festival too.

  • Land of the Thunder Dragon

    At the end of the waterfall of dying lights from the celestial fireball,

  • Out of Grace

    I don't have it in me I'm a fire that can't ignite I'm a torch that doesn't ignite the light

  • Henpecked

    The harmonium is massive in size. Antique and made of German reeds. Though time's whiplash left dark marks on it, its exquisite face still attracts its viewers.

  • A Girl

    “A girl,” the nurse had said and the mother had frowned. “A girl,” she turned those words over in her head, mumbled them slowly. “A girl,” she said to the nurse, “I hope the world would be fair to her.” The nurse looked motionless as if she heard those words coming out of every mother's mouth.

  • The Other Side of the River

    Under the perky moon, Sitting by my beloved, Surrounded with the guitar

  • From Mir Mosharraf Hossain's Bishad Shindhu (Ocean of Sorrow)

    Why is there no one around? Why is no human being in view? But there are still those in the rooms set aside for them. No changes were visible thus in the quarter where Lord Husayn's kinsmen and women had been kept.

  • After the Half-Time Interval: Part-2

    The next day, Lebu had really blasted a peto at the party's office. Well, he had tried to. The peto had fallen off his maimed hand, right in front of the table. It didn't bounce — rather sort of slumped — like a ball in a slow spin. Everyone shrank in fear. Babluda, the secretary, had pulled his legs up on the bench. He pressed his palms against his ears and stared, wide-eyed.

  •  Things That Write Me

    I do not write. I am not a writer. I am an active thought, willing to reveal through words the enigmas of human lives and the perplexities of women's stories.

  • Story behind the DSC Prize Longlist for South Asian Literature 2018

    On Wednesday, October 10, 2018, the much awaited longlist for South Asian Literature 2018 was announced by eminent historian and academic Rudrangshu Mukherjee, the chair of the jury panel for the current year for the distinguished prize.

  • The Master and His Yes-Man

    -“Wonder! What a wonder!”

  • After the Half-Time Interval (Part 1)

    The alley is dark. Dim streaks of light trickle down from the street lamp at the turn.

  • POETRY

    They decorated her way with hibiscus,

  • A Persona non grata: 'Subodh' in the Streets of Dhaka

    Two years ago, on a cool afternoon in November, driving towards the cantonment gate at the intersection past Radisson on the Dhaka-Mymensingh highway, a sign caught my attention.

  • On City of Mirrors: Songs of Lalan Sā̃i

    Lālan Sā̃i, also known as Lālan Fakir or simply “Lalon” (d. 1890 CE) was a non-sectarian poet and mystical philosopher who lived in the historically undivided Nadia district of Bengal

  • Baul Lingoes: An Enigma

    Baul songs, stuffed with enigmas and codes, sum up the existential philosophy of deha tatta (Truth in the Body), probably the central theme of Baulism, outlining the aphoristic concept according to which 'whatever is in the universe is in the receptacle (the body).'

  • On City of Mirrors: Songs of Lalan Sā̃i

    Lālan Sā̃i, also known as Lālan Fakir or simply “Lalon” (d. 1890 CE) was a non-sectarian poet and mystical philosopher who lived in the historically undivided Nadia district of Bengal

  • Baul Lingoes: An Enigma

    Baul songs, stuffed with enigmas and codes, sum up the existential philosophy of deha tatta (Truth in the Body), probably the central theme of Baulism, outlining the aphoristic concept according to which 'whatever is in the universe is in the receptacle (the body).'

  • The World is a Mirror of Water: Musing on Lalon and Beyond

    It always amazes me how a simple illiterate man—'sahaj manush'—from the rural nineteenth century Bengal could have had such a magnanimous vision to assimilate in his songs the core ideas from the Vedic, Upanishadic, Vaishnavite, Buddhist, Tantric, and the Sufi philosophy.

  • Lalon in Translation

    There the City of Mirrors lies, Within a stone's throw of my place, I have a neighbour living there, Oh, I've never seen his face!

  • Sahela

    It was Ramadan. It was hot. Even though I was sitting inside an air-conditioned car, I could feel the heat. I was dozing and counting minutes and wondering how much time we Dhakites waste everyday in commuting.

  • Two Poems of Al Mahmud

    The saga of courage is gradually coming to an end. O poet, once

  • In Search of My Nanna's Bungalow

    Last weekend I went in search of my Nanna's bungalow. Seventy years ago, during World War II and in the years just after it, my mother and I had stayed with her mother in her bungalow in Erith, a small Thameside port, now part of Greater London.

  • Leftover Loyalties

    Our weapons were taken away the day the General discovered the note I had written to Aumita. I could sense his disappointment, but luckily he cared more about the indignity of having to give up his arms over a subordinate's love affair with a foreign girl.

  • TWO POEMS

    What's the point in counting years, While the intensities are wasted, In bickering, fame and money matters?

  • Colour, or a Lack Thereof

    On a lazy weekend midday, Baba should be fast asleep- preferably and effectively. There would be no going out otherwise.

  • Prey

    There was a deafening noise! As soon as the bullets were fired from my rifle, I saw two birds flying away in the sky, dazzling in afternoon sunlight. And the third one fell down like a shooting star under the very tree they were sitting on. But I could barely see it because the bushes there walled off the view.

  • A Grey Torment

    After a long day of work, Selim was returning home, tired and disgruntled by the unalterable toils of his life. He longed to reach home, take a lengthy shower, have a good meal and sleep like a log for the next seven hours.

  • The Paradox of Reality

    I woke to the sound of a storm--The Wind howled like a wounded animal, Violating the trees. The leaves danced in a manic rhythm, Branches swished to a primal beat: the mighty thunder.

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