My copy of Zadie Smith’s Autograph Man is special for a number of reasons. Firstly, it’s the only one of my favourite author’s books that I haven’t read in its entirety.

The total number of guests adds up to forty-odd. It is too many, yet Nishat and I are not prepared to drop any. I have just finished my PhD and we are leaving America to take up my new job in Saudi Arabia. It is time for celebration, it is time to say goodbye.

And we two—a lovey-dovey couple, get married one day. Always be true to the truth, be honest to each other—we harmonized on that point. Years later, it is our fifth marriage anniversary evening. She dresses up gorgeously, stands before me and asks, “How do I look?”

We had just moved to Kolkata for our schooling. Not that we thought Kolkata schools were better than mofussil ones. Schools are the same everywhere—cast in the same mold. All schools force-feed lessons but sadly no one becomes educated; and even if they do, it is

Oh, a rainy day Drips of water Falling from the sky

After a heavy shower the city life sighed a breath of relief. I can still hear the clogged up rain water streaming down the rooftop and beating against the exhaust machine of the air cooler, affixed right outside the hospital cabin where my mother has been admitted.

I see starlight on my walls in dark nights I see it on my windows.

Once oysters are nowhere to be found, he searches for shunks. 130 Indian rupees for an hour of diving.

Al Mahmud lived a long life, witnessed an eventful past. One of the most renowned contemporary Bengali poets of his time, he spent a lifetime writing and appreciating poetry.

Leaves have all fallen off.

What if I were to see her, twenty years hence?

What is poetry? Before I answer this question, I want to address the question of whether language came after poetry or if poetry came after language. I am not going to check this by reading history books but rather by making a statement: poetry existed before language. But how could this be? Before I answer this I have to explain my view of what poetry actually is.

“Greetings, fellow children of God,” the Holy man greeted. “We’ve assembled on this prosperous day. When we get rid of this sinful

I can see you You are a blooming flower Looking at me

Written forty years apart from each other, La Nuit Bengali (Bengal Nights) by Mircea Eliade and Na Hanyate (It Does Not Die) by Maitreyi Devi are yet two sides of the same coin. While some may call them another version of unsuccessful teenage love, the New York Times

Golam Kibria, the Philosophy professor of Ibrahim Khan college, has a reputation of being very student-friendly. He is so popular that the Principal himself is jealous of him. However, he has so far failed to create an excuse and complain against him. Mr. Kibria is a

This water feels good; —so many times had the silvery water of rain

“Tell us a story, Khona apu,” Trina said. “You can’t go anywhere in this rain. I’m sure your flight will be cancelled. The runway has become a river by now!” She giggled. “Don’t give me that worried look! Mohon and I will drive you to the airport the moment the roads

That’s it. Aura looked with slit eyes at the blabbering boy sitting across her. What was wrong with him? Every other afternoon he sat with Aura to prattle on his crush. He went on and on about Rimi with a wide-eyed enthusiasm that made Aura’s blood boil. She

A rough count of the songs collected in Gitabitan in the section titled “Prakriti” or “Nature” reveals that Rabindranath Tagore composed about 16 songs of summer, over 100 monsoonal ones, 33 songs of Sharat or early autumn, 5 of Hemanta or late autumn, and a dozen