The alley is dark. Dim streaks of light trickle down from the street lamp at the turn.

Baul songs, stuffed with enigmas and codes, sum up the existential philosophy of deha tatta (Truth in the Body), probably the central theme of Baulism, outlining the aphoristic concept according to which 'whatever is in the universe is in the receptacle (the body).'

Lālan Sā̃i, also known as Lālan Fakir or simply “Lalon” (d. 1890 CE) was a non-sectarian poet and mystical philosopher who lived in the historically undivided Nadia district of Bengal

There the City of Mirrors lies, Within a stone's throw of my place, I have a neighbour living there, Oh, I've never seen his face!

It always amazes me how a simple illiterate man—'sahaj manush'—from the rural nineteenth century Bengal could have had such a magnanimous vision to assimilate in his songs the core ideas from the Vedic, Upanishadic, Vaishnavite, Buddhist, Tantric, and the Sufi philosophy.

The Storm is a tale of multiple compelling characters from around the world but all tied back to a crucial time and place in South Asia—a storm based on the real 1970 Bhola cyclone.

Last weekend I went in search of my Nanna's bungalow. Seventy years ago, during World War II and in the years just after it, my mother and I had stayed with her mother in her bungalow in Erith, a small Thameside port, now part of Greater London.

The saga of courage is gradually coming to an end. O poet, once

What's the point in counting years, While the intensities are wasted, In bickering, fame and money matters?

It was Ramadan. It was hot. Even though I was sitting inside an air-conditioned car, I could feel the heat. I was dozing and counting minutes and wondering how much time we Dhakites waste everyday in commuting.

Our weapons were taken away the day the General discovered the note I had written to Aumita. I could sense his disappointment, but luckily he cared more about the indignity of having to give up his arms over a subordinate's love affair with a foreign girl.

I woke to the sound of a storm--The Wind howled like a wounded animal, Violating the trees. The leaves danced in a manic rhythm, Branches swished to a primal beat: the mighty thunder.

After a long day of work, Selim was returning home, tired and disgruntled by the unalterable toils of his life. He longed to reach home, take a lengthy shower, have a good meal and sleep like a log for the next seven hours.

There was a deafening noise! As soon as the bullets were fired from my rifle, I saw two birds flying away in the sky, dazzling in afternoon sunlight. And the third one fell down like a shooting star under the very tree they were sitting on. But I could barely see it because the bushes there walled off the view.

On a lazy weekend midday, Baba should be fast asleep- preferably and effectively. There would be no going out otherwise.

Bibhutibhushan Bandopadhyay is a name entwined with the rural Bengal and its people. He specifically focused on the north-western districts of the undivided Bengal and brought out an amazing portrayal of the simple rustic life and its scenic beauty.

I enjoyed reading my teacher and mentor Fakrul Alam's “The Literary Club of 18th-Century London” (Daily Star, 20 August 2018). Referring to our age-old practice of having literary addas (chatting circles) and London's “The Club” better known as “Literary Club” which Samuel Johnson (1709-84) and Joshua Reynolds (1723-92) founded in 1764, he pointed to a comparable literary tradition of Bengal and Britain.

She stood at the edge of the elegant Jinnah Avenue, a stone's throw away from the leafy environs of Government House, the undisputed Queen of the cinemas: Gulistan, the 'rose garden' of Dacca's cinema-loving public.

Short stories are in. Or is the short story dead? Is it seeing a resurgence? The genre seems to be in need of constant justification despite established and novice writers alike constantly churning out short stories.

Dandelions of moonshine have blown in clutster, Finding you unfading there, I dive into the golden error.