After I finished Things that can and cannot be said, I stood in awe of how much power I held in my hands. In this slim volume were the musings, passing insights, and finally, the long-awaited encounter—albeit censored—of some of the strongest voices against modern-day empire.

I, an itching palm? —William Shakespeare

Krishnakali I call her Krishnokoli, my dark blossom,

It’s that time of the year again, when we offer an array of literary items -- short fiction, non-fiction and poetry.

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.

It’s late June and it’s hot. It’s nine in the morning and it’s hot. It’s so hot in Dhaka that after a while feelings turn somewhat numbed, vision blurred. And taking advantage of the overcrowded vehicle, when a guy pinches Shila Chakma’s buttock after a futile attempt to grope her breast, she wants to scream: Stop it, you pervert.

We could have never imagined that we would get Topu back. And yet he has returned and is amidst us. It is mind-boggling – the person whom we had seen for the last time at the High Court intersection,

There the tree tom-tomed its existential glory on the bank of the small river at a distance from the village.

Had I but an eternal life (“Ananta Jibon Jodi Pai Ami”)

Just as Azhar Kha was about to leave the room putting his shirt on, Lily made an entrance, “Baba, you promised!”

Rehana takes hesitant steps towards her house. Her Niqab renders the landscape a transparent shade of black smoke.

I am Ranire, the serpent woman who lives in the rubbles of Al-Hammar Palace. Yes, you heard right—the accursed and legendary half woman and half snake that wanders in the desert land of Ukh-Tarar.

“CHOOSE YOUR CHARACTER”—the instruction pops up on the brand new 32-inch curved monitor’s screen. “Hmm… Which one? Which one should I select?” Genghis Khan murmurs.

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.

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