Maisha Islam Monamee

There is a sense of possibility in the air, a rare, almost tangible feeling that something is different.

When Netflix released the second season of "Wednesday" in two parts, I initially wondered whether this decision was driven by narrative necessity or simply by the platform’s strategy to keep the conversation alive for longer. After all, the first season had been a global phenomenon, and splitting the follow-up into two halves carried the risk of breaking its rhythm. Having now seen the complete season, I can say that while the release format interrupted its flow, the content itself proves that the creative team paid attention to the lessons of season one and delivered something richer, darker, and more confident. This time, the show leans further into the shadows while still delivering the sharp wit and macabre humour that made its first season so irresistible.

I found myself wondering why an animated film had suddenly taken the world by storm, topping Netflix’s global charts. Animated titles rarely reach this kind of universal acclaim unless they are tied to a massive franchise, and yet here was "KPop Demon Hunters", a seemingly niche story about idols battling demons, sitting at number one. Curiosity got the better of me, and I decided to dive in. What I found was a film that managed to wrap a playful premise around a surprisingly layered commentary on fame, identity, and the relentless machine of modern pop culture.

Every few years, Bollywood offers a story of maternal heroism, where a mother becomes both protector and saviour, taking centre stage in a narrative traditionally dominated by male leads. "Maa" enters this lineage with Kajol in the titular role, a choice that immediately draws attention. The film, currently streaming on Netflix, blends horror with mythology to weave a narrative that pits a mother’s fierce love against supernatural forces rooted in Bengali folklore. Set in Chandrapur, West Bengal, the story is anchored in the legend of Raktabeej and the fierce presence of Kali Maa, aiming to merge ancient myth with contemporary familial stakes. On paper, the premise is ambitious: a mother willing to defy mortal and supernatural odds to protect her child, all while exploring broader social themes, particularly the value of a girl child in a patriarchal setting.

This summer, we, the netizens, turned Instagram into a courtroom to decide whether Belly should pick Conrad or Jeremiah. My feed, once a respectable mix of vacation reels, fit checks, work memes, and unsolicited life advice from people who barely graduated high school, has turned into a teenage courtroom where strangers plead their case for fictional love triangles. We type furiously about the fate of a girl whose biggest problem is which handsome boy gets to stand in the rain with her, and read captions declaring loyalty to a boy who exists only in Prime Video’s servers. It feels as if the world pressed pause on adulthood and collectively moved into a beach house where heartbreak is cinematic, summers are eternal, and every decision feels like a new episode. And we—fully grown, allegedly serious and busy people—are here for it.

Whether you are a student juggling classes and part-time jobs, or a young professional navigating hybrid workdays, effective planning tools can make all the difference. So, here are five apps that can help you plan, prioritise, and stay on top of your day.

For students and recent graduates, networking can provide access to internships, mentorship, industry insights, referrals, and even long-term career opportunities. But how do you begin building a network when you are just starting out?

My first instinct, when walking into “Troubling Rain” at Alliance Française de Dhaka, was to recall how often rain has been romanticised in this city’s cultural memory. Generations have sung about it, written about it, danced to its rhythm. The monsoon, in Bangla literature, has been the backdrop for longing, love, and lyricism. From Tagore’s verses to Nazrul’s songs, it has always been imagined as something that enhances beauty and deepens emotion. And yet, what Abir Abdullah does in this exhibition is strip the rain of its poetry and return it to its grit.

Every time I settle in for a binge-watch, armed with snacks and the delusional belief that I have “just one more episode” worth of self-control, an OTT platform finds a new way to personally offend me by splitting a season into two. You open Netflix or Prime Video, click on a highly anticipated series, and halfway through, realise you are too early for the binge-watch. “Stranger Things” did it. “The Witcher” did it. “Bridgerton” and “Squid Game” Season 3 did it—and, more recently, the second season of “Wednesday” just did the very same. And don’t even get me started on the “Money Heist” final-season split, which had the entire internet in a chokehold for weeks.

Over the past week, my Instagram feed has been practically throwing "My Oxford Year" at me, with Tumblr-text captions over softly lit stills, reels romanticising ancient libraries and English cities, and teary-eyed confessions that claim this film destroyed them, in the best way. And like any curious cinephile, I clicked to watch it on Netflix. What I found was a film trying to be both the dream and the ache, the fantasy and the wake-up call.

Bangladesh's pet food market is largely reliant on imported products, with limited domestic manufacturing and few established local brands. The industry faces several challenges, including supply chain disruptions, high retail prices, and concerns regarding product authenticity. Although demand for packaged pet food is gradually increasing, particularly in urban areas, the market remains in the early stages of development.

We’ve all done it—clicked “next episode” with tears still in our eyes, let the credits roll as we stared blankly at the screen, a pit of something nameless blooming in our chest. Shows like “Baby Reindeer”, “Euphoria”, “13 Reasons Why”, and “BoJack Horseman”, to name a few, are not easy watches. They are raw, haunting, sometimes violent. Yet we keep returning— even when we say we need a break, even when we feel worse afterwards. And somewhere along the way, watching pain became the very way we process our own. Or maybe, just maybe, it became the way we avoid it.

In the early days of cinema, female friendships were like decorative wallpaper—always present but rarely integral to the narrative. They giggled in the background, shared screen time over shopping trips or heartbreaks, and usually vanished once the male lead arrived. Where men had bromances that drove plots, whether on a battlefield or a basketball court, women, even in the company of other women, were set up to compete, compare, and eventually capitulate to romance. They were often designed to orbit the male protagonist, and when more than one appeared, you could almost smell the narrative setup: one would be the virtuous angel, the other a scheming vamp.

"Bidrupe Bidroho", the six-day exhibition currently underway at La Gallerie, Alliance Française de Dhaka, revives the spirit of resistance. Organised by Earki, the exhibition has been organised to mark the first anniversary of the July 2024 uprising, the 36-day-long people’s movement that culminated in the overthrow of the Awami League regime.

Scroll through any beauty retailer or Instagram ad today, and chances are you will stumble across a celebrity-owned brand. From skincare and makeup to fragrance, supplements, and now even homeware and tea, the list keeps growing. Over the past few years, it feels like nearly every actor, singer, or influencer with a solid fan base has released a product line inspired by their personal journey.

Lately, I have found myself in conversations where people talk about ChatGPT and the productivity boost it has brought to their lives. I have used these models. And I have felt the shift; not in the speed of my sentences, but in the weight of them. They come faster, cleaner, and somehow emptier.

When "Squid Game" first dropped on Netflix in 2021, it became a viral hit. With its dystopian depiction of desperate, debt-ridden individuals playing twisted versions of childhood games for a life-changing cash prize, the Korean survival drama tapped into something raw. Set against the backdrop of global inequality, pandemic-era despair, and capitalism in overdrive, it was a modern parable disguised as a thriller. The tracksuits, the red light/green light doll, the piggy bank of blood money; everything became instantly iconic. But it was the emotional stakes, the betrayals, the unlikely friendships, and the slow unravelling of one man’s soul that made it unforgettable.

Tyler Perry’s "Straw", currently streaming on Netflix, is a volatile cocktail of social critique, melodrama, and searing urgency, propelled by Taraji P Henson’s powerhouse performance. The film plunges headlong into the merciless pressure cooker of systemic injustice and personal breakdown, following Janiyah, a single Black mother whose life unravels over the course of one catastrophically bad day.

When I think of July, I remember the silence. Not the kind that settles over a nation out of respect, but the kind that suffocates.

There is a peculiar charm to watching someone murder with the same poise they might use to frost a cake. That’s the Georgia Miller experience, which is equal parts molasses and menace. In its third season, Netflix’s "Ginny & Georgia" leans all the way into that contradiction, offering up a deliciously disorienting blend of teen angst, courtroom spectacle, and suburban noir. With a new showrunner in place and a fresh appetite for audacity, the show does not just continue its chaos, it weaponises it.