Literature | The Daily Star
  • Of Fireflies and Slime

    I stood before the door of the house where my grandmother once lived. Age and infirmity had jaded what might have once been a proper door.

  • Mathematics and Poetry: Some Impressions

    I think I’ve always loved mathematics in my own ways.

  • Commute of an old man

    Year 2060: I was a lonely kid. Sometimes I felt as if I lived my whole life alone. There were different people here and there, flittering in and out, at the intersection where our lives crossed, before the roads untangled and moved apart.

  • “Moshla Bhoot” or Ghostly Sacks of Spices

    Hajari Biswas was sitting leisurely in his spice-shop. It was around noon and the market price of spices was not going well. There were not too many buyers even though one could detect quite a few foreigners in the market. Hajari was fanning himself with a palm leaf and was dozing off. Suddenly, he woke up at the sound of a familiar voice.

  • The Art of Weaving Time

    Maybe you forgot, or dementia possessed you before our union—how else could you keep aloof from your soul, your other soul, your eupnoea?

  • Kabarsthan

    As the mangy fingers of fascism grew out of the copper earth,

  • The House You Cannot Put Colours on

    It was a big window, like an arched doorway. It creaked loudly the first time I opened it. It sounded angry, upset. I wondered why?

  • Begum Rokeya’s Non-sectarian, Pluralist-Inclusivist Imagination

    Bengali writer, educationist and pioneering feminist activist, Rokeya Sakhawat Hossain (1880-1932), popularly known as Begum Rokeya, was born at a critical juncture in South Asian history when hostility and bloodshed between Hindus and Muslims was a recurrent experience.

  • A Book, a Bookstore, a City and the Aftermath

    During the long lockdown in early 2020, I took stock of my shelvedunread books. A mint-green hardback covered book-spine caught my eye;A Little Princess by Frances Hodgson Burnett.

  • The Door

    She knocks on the door, The door-bell is broken; a sculpture of unknown figure hangs on the wall, The door is solid, but not made of Mahogany wood.

  • Take My Breath Away

    They say that life is not measured by the number of breaths we take But by the moments that take our breath away.

  • Maya

    I’m telling you amidst the whispering cropped-headed paddy field, in the lore of these reeds, in the orchestra of these auburn after-harvest field by the seedlings that crack this soil-- I am their spokesperson.

  • Moving On

    Flowers on Facebook — Violet, red, yellow, orange — splashed a welcome into a garden never visited

  • Poetry

    The river wept, as we left But its tears were not for us.

  • Substitute Cook

    Last November, our elderly maid servant Fatema’s ma who works full-time at our house, wanted to take leave to get her son married. Of course, I agreed immediately. But she would be gone for about two weeks and hence she proposed that her eldest son’s wife might work in her absence.

  • Poetry of Nirmalendu Goon

    How Freedom Became Our Own Word

  • I’m Not Here to Shed Blood this Day

    Like everyone else present here, I, too am so fond of roses,

  • A Burning: Good Books Are Hard to Read

    Good books – even as they are arresting – are often hard to read. This is not because they are difficult in themselves so much because oftheir content.

  • Diary of Pandemic Days

    It’s already been several months since we’ve been hurled into the vortex of the coronavirus. The virus lives among us, silent and invisible.

  • Politicking with Pain

    I can’t sleep anymore Piano. Storms. White noise Nothing works.

  • For a Pinch of Life

    A damp siren screamed at the rushing wind. Black and thick smoky clouds slowly clotted in a grey sky, as if preparing for some kind of a ritual.

  • in a sleepless trance

    I hold stares - I sing to the moon Rigid, motionless - senseless woes

  • Himadri Lahiri’s Diaspora Theory and Transnationalism

    The Routledge Diaspora Studies Reader (2017) co-edited by Klaus Stierstorfer and Janet Wilson made significant observations about the increase in global movement of people, capital, products, cultures and ideologies;

  • Himu of the summer flings

    During my adolescent years, I devoted a significant portion of my time exploring the idea of ‘summer love’. The cinephile in me went from cheesy Disney Channel flicks like Lizzie McGuire: The Movie (2003) to masterpieces like Wes Anderson’s Moonrise Kingdom (2012), while the bibliophile in me devoured Andre Aciman’s Call Me By Your Name (2007) and John Green’s An Abundance of Katherines (2006). However, I had to acknowledge all the ways in which these stories didn’t feel relatable to me. Being a Bengali, I’ve grown up reading about the intense romance shared by Devbabu and Paro or watching the pangs of unrequited love in Satyajit Ray’s Charulata (1964). Should I then dismiss the ‘summer fling’ as an irrelevant Western trope? A thing of the sunny Florida beaches and umbrella topped cocktails?

  • Sparkling Elizabeth and Timid Anne: Two Sides of the Same Coin?

    Readers over the last two centuries have generally liked the bright and sparkling world of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, whereas Persuasion has often been described as “a departure from the rest of the novels, a turning away from the brilliant and public play of the mind for the deep and private truths of the heart” (Morgan 168).

  • Understanding Addiction: A Review of Like a Diamond in the Sky

    Unshaven, skeletal men, with hollow, black-ringed eyes, sitting in silent solitude in inner city gutters. Youngsters turned ageless by addiction, their endless need for the next fix drowning out all other desires, commitments or relationships.

  • An Intimate yet Epic vision: SURALAKSHMI VILLA

    In the state of seige that we are living in across the world, or, like myself, in an Italy emerging from the pandemic battlefield, a riveting book is our best means of being transported beyond our confined horizons.


    Splashes of blue in the springtime green,

  • The Darkness Looming

    They said, when it will be the darkest

  • Aha Nandalals

    Like my long dead father’s face