There is growing outrage about the recent trend of Artificial Intelligence companies destroying huge quantities of books in order to train their AI language models.

Last year, a friend showed me how a certain portal kept flagging his grad school application essay as written by AI.

The gift Tagore leaves us is not perfection. It takes a lot of courage to even ask the question in the first place. Therefore, let us take up the work he left unfinished, under the same banyan tree he sat under, with the same soft breeze he felt, as the soft afternoon light turns gold when the sun starts to set. Was it his time? Yes. Would he be different today? We will never know. But us, asking, is our tribute.

In London, the celebrations are smaller and more intentional. They are arranged around busy schedules, often taking place in someone’s home rather than out in the open. There are food, music, and conversation—familiar elements, but quieter and on a smaller scale. There is a different kind of intimacy here: a sense that the celebration exists because we must make space for it, all of us gathering to recreate something of what we remember.

Long before Pinterest boards and Instagram FYP, the Eid shongkha dictated what we wore.

Even after the organisers and Bangla Academy offered a 55 percent subsidy on stall costs, a significant number of publishers maintained their decision to not participate.

In a small room in 50 Purana Paltan line, shelves groan under the weight of posters, photographs, tickets, flyers, souvenirs, folders, books, and fading documents.

I never considered reading authors’ letters. “How can personal letters be considered literature?”–I thought.

This story spans for two volumes, separated in 14 chapters. Yet the author deliberately gives the reader the insight into other characters, or rather the abettors before Hibari, the victim herself. It is only in the later chapters do we catch a glimpse of Hibari’s inner world, and it is heartbreaking.

There are two things that struck me the most in the book: firstly, Eranux's thoughts during the funeral, and secondly, her statement about her mother’s appearance after Alzheimer's Disease had gripped her.

Translation is risk, and poetry is the highest form of risk

As summer draws to an end in the Northern hemisphere, a certain kind of booklover prepares to shift to the next set of items on their TBR (To Be Read) list. Because whether or not you are a fan of spooky stories, the arrival of autumn–and with it, Halloween–evokes in many a sense of seasonal cre

The cats don't always understand the human specifics, but they recognise sadness. They notice routines. And most of all, they stay

When it comes to our fathers, especially the ones who try to be good men, a rampant affliction known as patriarchy has left us with no language to imagine them outside of what they were to others. Strip away the roles, and what’s left?

Throughout my school years, Ammu would assign a different writer for me to read during each vacation

How Haymitch Abernathy and Katniss Everdeen mirror each other’s legacy

I am compelled to ask what being a Bangali even means today: What shapes our ethnic identity?

At some point, it started turning into hyper-productivity, because more task completion meant more serotonin. My writing, on the other hand, shifted from my internal world to the problems of the external world.

The Dhaka-Cumilla bus tickets are Tk 250 for non-AC, Tk 350 for AC, and Tk 400 for AC VIP. Window seats must be negotiated on the spot. The journey takes three to six hours, past the old capital of Sonargaon, where the moisture in the air inspired the muslin, across the Gomati river and into Cumilla town on the Tropic of Cancer.

These are our shared dreams that inspire a sense of community–we are all in it together.