Fakir Lalon Shah—who orally composed thousands of songs in Bengali —died on October 17, 1890—on Kartik 01, 1297 (the Bengali year).

O Allah, into your endless plays Who could delve— You call out to Allah Being Allah yourself.

On the 132nd birth anniversary of Eugene O’Neill, the Shakespeare of American Theater, the question is: did he ever die?

A discussion of Translation and its theories often remains circumscribed to a discourse arguing about the issues of authenticity.

The spirits of the forest

Something missing from this dish and that.

I’ve been screaming for so long My aching throat feels raw,

Back in the mid-90s when I was majoring in English literature at a public university in Dhaka, Bangladesh, I was a cricket buff. For the Bangladeshis, cricket was a transnational love affair in the 90s.

Kazi Nazrul Islam needs no introduction to those familiar with Bangla literature. He and his works are, for cogent reasons, less known in other circles.

My mother has a habit of staring intently at reflective surfaces. When alone, she will look directly into mirrors with a vacant look in her eyes.

American poet Louise Gluck won the 2020 Nobel Prize in Literature for works exploring family and childhood in an "unmistakable...voice that with austere beauty makes individual existence universal", the Swedish Academy has said.

(I guess) some birds don’t return to roosts.

Body trembling, tears falling

Every once in a moonlit midnight

Cricketers are accustomed to hearing about cricket balls being caught but not of a ball being brought into Court. Appeals concerning a ball at Lords, home of cricket, are familiar enough but an Appeal in the Lords? In 1951 cricket figured in a landmark legal decision in the House of Lords.

Shutters clicked away. Flashes dazzled eyes. News reporters jostled with each other to hold out their mikes as far as their arms allowed. Busy fingers gripped their ballpoints tighter.

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.

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.

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

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