her heart was a two seater unfit for a family so big i grew to be a woman mirrored in her shadow when she was younger

you spend what you make to make what you spend, and you do it today to do it all over again

“Can’t a man even get payesh and shemai on Eid in this house?” Altaf Shaheb screamed from the drawing room while watching the news, “There used to be so much joy in this house. It used to feel like Eid. But your mother has grown so sluggish now, Saadat! She used to be such a good cook. Our neighbours back in the old neighbourhood were crazy about your mother’s chicken bhuna. But now I can’t even get a plate of payesh the night before Eid.”

'In Extreme Need of Guidance', the book being serialised here, captures the first 16 years of writer Sultana Nahar's life. "A Bomb Falls" is the 10th chapter in the book.

Suddenly, the shadow became larger on the wall. At that exact moment, something felt heavy on Farid’s chest–and got heavier by the minute. Everything was still, and in that silence, a silhouette slowly grew over Farid’s  body. 

The trader decides not to return home. He sends a message to his wife: "Do not worry about me. I am going to the capital of Kishkindha with Devraj horse. I will return with a sack full of money in 15 days."

The farm had transformed overnight into a spinning wheel of fear and intrigue. The mother cows' hushed grunts weaved an elaborate tapestry of tales.

Memory is a winding range Of coniferous mountain pine Catching the fiery light

Like wild leopard's skin, I spread out my hair The dark night uncurls with his roaring fleet; I pounce on his chest, bare foot, like Kali–

The fact of the matter was this: the poem had been written, the call had been answered, and as lofty as it sounds—at that moment there I was, as Frank O'Hara put aptly—"the center of all beauty! / writing these poems!/ Imagine!".

I was losing myself gradually, and that is when I decided to seek out freelance writing.

try my best to paint the place blue Pouring all the sorrow after you With no colour left in my palette, As though the canvas breathes its last

Begum Rokeya Sakhawat Hossain (1880-1932) and Begum Sufia Kamal (1911-1999), two icons in Bangla literature and culture, were not kins but kindred spirits.

Spirit breaks at home along with love mingled with innocence.

The sky to the west and overhead is mired in darkness; but to the east, light is gleaming out like a jasper stone, as clear as crystal.

Elen would tell you how her hatred for her sister was so intense that she didn't know who she was without it.

On summer days when the sunlight falls through the trees it scatters into a play of light and shadows on the ground. My memories of Fareed are like that.

Szilvia Reif, a student of mine from the (indicatively named) Gandhi School in Pècs, Hungary, wrote a poem that tells what it feels like to be a ‘Gypsy (properly Roma).

Mother sold him and he never knew a father; Born adult, as though he never had a childhood.

I killed my lover. I killed the love of my life and watched the life drain out of her eyes. Eyes that were golden brown turned pitch black; as if her soul left the body taking away all the colours of life.