There was a faint sound of an old dog crying somewhere. It was as if a blind man was trying to play an ancient untuned violin. Its shrieks turned Rubi’s blood cold. She almost fell asleep but woke up at the howling sound.

We had gone on a package tour to South East Asia and on the last day of our trip we spent the whole day in Bangkok, the capital of Thailand.

Atia crossed over to the window and looked out into the rain-soaked streets. A rickshaw-puller had taken refuge under the mango tree and was huddled in the passenger seat.

Writing entices me. But every time I get down to writing something, I feel like a bumbling idiot. Nothing emerges. Ideas evaporate. Thoughts tangle. Language languishes. My frustration mounts.

My copy of Zadie Smith’s Autograph Man is special for a number of reasons. Firstly, it’s the only one of my favourite author’s books that I haven’t read in its entirety.

Do not judge a book by its cover; notwithstanding the glamorous becoming photo profile that graces this book. Do judge a book by its title. A more appropriate book title is hard to conceive of. Becoming in a single word summarises the passage of the extra-ordinary

The total number of guests adds up to forty-odd. It is too many, yet Nishat and I are not prepared to drop any. I have just finished my PhD and we are leaving America to take up my new job in Saudi Arabia. It is time for celebration, it is time to say goodbye.

And we two—a lovey-dovey couple, get married one day. Always be true to the truth, be honest to each other—we harmonized on that point. Years later, it is our fifth marriage anniversary evening. She dresses up gorgeously, stands before me and asks, “How do I look?”

We had just moved to Kolkata for our schooling. Not that we thought Kolkata schools were better than mofussil ones. Schools are the same everywhere—cast in the same mold. All schools force-feed lessons but sadly no one becomes educated; and even if they do, it is

Oh, a rainy day Drips of water Falling from the sky

After a heavy shower the city life sighed a breath of relief. I can still hear the clogged up rain water streaming down the rooftop and beating against the exhaust machine of the air cooler, affixed right outside the hospital cabin where my mother has been admitted.

I see starlight on my walls in dark nights I see it on my windows.

Once oysters are nowhere to be found, he searches for shunks. 130 Indian rupees for an hour of diving.

Al Mahmud lived a long life, witnessed an eventful past. One of the most renowned contemporary Bengali poets of his time, he spent a lifetime writing and appreciating poetry.

Leaves have all fallen off.

Rightfully so, The Guardian calls it a timely novel. In The Runaways, the discourse on radicalization is fanned by the converging lives of three different young people as we, the readers, are flown from dusty, noise-filled, engine-breathing Karachi, gloomy Portsmouth, and rustic Varanasi to rubble-filled, war stricken Syria and Mosul.

What if I were to see her, twenty years hence?

What is poetry? Before I answer this question, I want to address the question of whether language came after poetry or if poetry came after language. I am not going to check this by reading history books but rather by making a statement: poetry existed before language. But how could this be? Before I answer this I have to explain my view of what poetry actually is.

“Greetings, fellow children of God,” the Holy man greeted. “We’ve assembled on this prosperous day. When we get rid of this sinful

Phobia and mania remain inexplicably internalised conditions. Such was my dilemma as I stood at the crossroad one Saturday morning waiting for my friend as she undertook her Saturday errands in Purley, Croydon, outside London. To my left, stood the Cat Protection