The article highlights four heartfelt stories about love, exploring themes of waiting, enduring affection, selfless care, and love for life. Each story captures love’s transformative power and emotional depth.
My father speaks in a dismantled language that goes up in smoke.
the bullet hole/ in my brother's chest/ unfolds like a pandora's box
I feel my rage, ma, a living thing;/ A beast, caged, like me
I skip talking to myself for hours / The “me time”, before going to bed
Shimu and Tushar had grown up together on an alley in the Mirpur area of Dhaka city. Their neighbouring houses were separated only by a brick wall, about two meters high. The branches of a tree growing beside Tushar’s house overhung the wall, its foliage shading a part of Shimu’s courtyard.
Being a woman comes to me naturally If not me, then who? I was never asked to be one I was never asked to cook
What’s life if a sense of darkness/ doesn’t connect night to sunlight
Let us raise our voices, let us be heard, / Justice for the dead, let their voices be stirred
The article highlights four heartfelt stories about love, exploring themes of waiting, enduring affection, selfless care, and love for life. Each story captures love’s transformative power and emotional depth.
the bullet hole/ in my brother's chest/ unfolds like a pandora's box
My father speaks in a dismantled language that goes up in smoke.
I feel my rage, ma, a living thing;/ A beast, caged, like me
I skip talking to myself for hours / The “me time”, before going to bed
Shimu and Tushar had grown up together on an alley in the Mirpur area of Dhaka city. Their neighbouring houses were separated only by a brick wall, about two meters high. The branches of a tree growing beside Tushar’s house overhung the wall, its foliage shading a part of Shimu’s courtyard.
Being a woman comes to me naturally If not me, then who? I was never asked to be one I was never asked to cook
What’s life if a sense of darkness/ doesn’t connect night to sunlight
Let us raise our voices, let us be heard, / Justice for the dead, let their voices be stirred
The pavements are hotter in winter, the rain never wets the asphalt and I never tell you to do anything else other than “be”.
