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.

White Tears is the fifth novel of Hari Kunzru who is a promising writer of the time, easily distinguishable for his consummate writing skills and imaginative boldness.

"Fear" is an important book not only because it raises serious questions about the American president's basic fitness for office, but also because of who the author is.

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.

This non-fiction is a comprehensive documentation of the ancient Jamdani motifs, with introductions, sources, explanations, line drawings, images and anecdotes attached to them; making it a holy grail for design students, textile and fashion designers, artisans, weavers, researchers, fashion entrepreneurs and craft enthusiasts.

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

Syed Ismail Hossain Siraji (1880–1931) is one of the pioneers of the Muslim Renaissance in the subcontinent. He was born in an illustrious Muslim family at Sirajganj town in the then Pabna district in 1880 and also died in the same place in 1931.

It had been raining lightly since morning. During the monsoon, the North-Eastern Bengal Haor wetland areas would go under deep water, the water remaining for half of the year. Boats would become the prime mode of transportation.

It was a common story. A campus that was under the tyrannical rule of a leading political party. Students kneeling down to conformity. A few rebellious ones that refused to obey.

Doing 'deep ecology' by any academically trained philosopher might be daunting insofar as it involves the task of conceiving environmental crisis in philosophical terms.

When we are at the verge of the third decade of the twenty-first century, and watching about more than ten thousand books getting published every year in Canada, it seems somewhat unbelievable that during the fifties of the last century the picture of Canadian book publishing world was very poor.

Professor Imtiaz H. Habib was easily recognizable in a crowd even if his back was turned towards you. He was a tall, well dressed man

John Drew, mourning the untimely death of poet Riad Nourallah (1949-2018), comments: Riad's writing and teaching draw on the

Whenever I think of Arundhati Roy, I am reminded of afternoons on the rooftop with soothing breeze and neighbourhood pigeons circling the sky.