If I die, leave the balcony open.

Saturday morning: on the brick plaza at the corner of Fourth and Catheri

Table of Contents

I am sure it was sometime in 1965 that a classmate at St. Gregory’s, Muhammad Ali Rumee, piqued my curiosity by describing a new movement in letters launched by some friends of his elder brother.

In a soggy London street he stood, shaking his dreadlocks like wind-struck branches of a willow and moving his weathered bow on the shiny strings of his broken violin.

This is a story without a beginning or an end. The story does not even relate to events that one can see. And yet, in some sense, there is a beginning and there is an end.

The Goldfinch—the written version, Donna Tartt’s third literary triumph—opens upon a Christmas day in a hotel in Amsterdam. The “I” that speaks offers a brief recap of his murky dreams and departure from New York; what but he really (quickly) wants to get to is setting up the scene for us.

The first 20 years of Babu's life are entwined with the stories surrounding the Sangsad Bhaban. The description of the building is an ode in prose form, vibrating with emotion, bringing the building to life.

When my niece Mubasshira and her husband Morsed told me that they had moved from East London to Kent, I had little idea of the area in which they relocated. Prior to my two-week trip to the UK this year, they gave me their address which contained the name of

Please for once do not judge -

Aqua blooming ripples of ocean, wisping hair

I sing the sea

When the twelve-year old Kusum was returning home, she stole a glance at the setting sun for one last time. It was dipping over the heads of tallest coconut trees lined along the furthest edge of horizon. She let out a sigh — for some indefinable reason she wanted to

Atia crossed over to the window and looked out into the rain-soaked streets. A rickshaw-puller had taken refuge under the mango tree and was huddled in the passenger seat.

Writing entices me. But every time I get down to writing something, I feel like a bumbling idiot. Nothing emerges. Ideas evaporate. Thoughts tangle. Language languishes. My frustration mounts.

There was a faint sound of an old dog crying somewhere. It was as if a blind man was trying to play an ancient untuned violin. Its shrieks turned Rubi’s blood cold. She almost fell asleep but woke up at the howling sound.

We had gone on a package tour to South East Asia and on the last day of our trip we spent the whole day in Bangkok, the capital of Thailand.

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.

Do not judge a book by its cover; notwithstanding the glamorous becoming photo profile that graces this book. Do judge a book by its title. A more appropriate book title is hard to conceive of. Becoming in a single word summarises the passage of the extra-ordinary

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.