I spent the whole day running on the roads near Ramna park. Riding a bicycle alone through the narrow alleys of Mohammadpur without the fear of anyone jumping out at me from the corners.
'In Extreme Need of Guidance', the book being serialised here, captures the first sixteen years of Sultana Nahar's life. "Mercolized Wax" is the second chapter in the book.
Come, if you may, with swords or guns. Remember, I won’t cry and run; I will rise from the depths of the land.
She wakes up suddenly from her unnatural beeline posture, slowly and ever so gently, like a chained demon would after just hours of calculated slumber. I never look.
I was nine years of age the first time I set eyes on a Dhaka street. I received my first welcome from a group of beggars tapping on my car window.
When I think of the thick limestone walls of the house now I think of the essence of the generations of our family that it has absorbed.
Are ghosts real? This was the question Mollie, a little 8-year-old girl who lives at the end of our street asked me in a–real–letter she wrote me recently. I had apparently included a book of ghost stories in a bag of books I had given her.
Someday, I will write about those places, the cities, monuments, and faces.
Break me into numbers and spirals, and blood and flesh make me all that I don't wish to be.
I spent the whole day running on the roads near Ramna park. Riding a bicycle alone through the narrow alleys of Mohammadpur without the fear of anyone jumping out at me from the corners.
'In Extreme Need of Guidance', the book being serialised here, captures the first sixteen years of Sultana Nahar's life. "Mercolized Wax" is the second chapter in the book.
Come, if you may, with swords or guns. Remember, I won’t cry and run; I will rise from the depths of the land.
She wakes up suddenly from her unnatural beeline posture, slowly and ever so gently, like a chained demon would after just hours of calculated slumber. I never look.
I was nine years of age the first time I set eyes on a Dhaka street. I received my first welcome from a group of beggars tapping on my car window.
When I think of the thick limestone walls of the house now I think of the essence of the generations of our family that it has absorbed.
Are ghosts real? This was the question Mollie, a little 8-year-old girl who lives at the end of our street asked me in a–real–letter she wrote me recently. I had apparently included a book of ghost stories in a bag of books I had given her.
Break me into numbers and spirals, and blood and flesh make me all that I don't wish to be.
Someday, I will write about those places, the cities, monuments, and faces.
But I understand. I am part of a historic pattern. So not everything is personal. I can't help but fall into some of the traps and become prey to some of the vultures.