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.
Hold on to the hand of your lover. Because when the baton falls it will be between the spaces where we stand.
Somehow, the taste of tear gas
Bangladeshi Literature in English: Critical Essays and Interviews, edited by Mohammad A. Quayum and Md. Mahmudul Hasan, focuses on critical essays on Bangladeshi literature in English—both from Bangladesh and its diasporas (US, UK, and Australia).
Stay in a group, never in alleyways
In the blanks of muddy moonlight
Magic boys and girls of Bangladesh, I love you.
Sometime ago, a writer reached out to me with a request. His debut novel was being published later in the year and he was wondering if I would be open to reviewing it. I was aware of the book, having read it when it was still only a draft. The author was not someone I only knew, either, but a mentor who had supported my writing in many ways, even through monetary means. Refusing him, then, felt tantamount to betrayal. But I had to in the end, and though he understood, I still came out of the exchange feeling guilty of being unhelpful or, worse, ungrateful.
If the country’s literary potential is not given generous support, we may never create favourable conditions for aspiring writers to devote time and energy to the art
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.
Somehow, the taste of tear gas
Hold on to the hand of your lover. Because when the baton falls it will be between the spaces where we stand.
Bangladeshi Literature in English: Critical Essays and Interviews, edited by Mohammad A. Quayum and Md. Mahmudul Hasan, focuses on critical essays on Bangladeshi literature in English—both from Bangladesh and its diasporas (US, UK, and Australia).
Stay in a group, never in alleyways
Magic boys and girls of Bangladesh, I love you.
In the blanks of muddy moonlight
Sometime ago, a writer reached out to me with a request. His debut novel was being published later in the year and he was wondering if I would be open to reviewing it. I was aware of the book, having read it when it was still only a draft. The author was not someone I only knew, either, but a mentor who had supported my writing in many ways, even through monetary means. Refusing him, then, felt tantamount to betrayal. But I had to in the end, and though he understood, I still came out of the exchange feeling guilty of being unhelpful or, worse, ungrateful.
If the country’s literary potential is not given generous support, we may never create favourable conditions for aspiring writers to devote time and energy to the art
As an Anglophone writer in Bangladesh, I’ve frequently faced the rather inane question of why I write in English.
