Dinesen nearly thirty years ago. Like nothing I'd ever read before, it was poised somewhere between Andersen's tales and the 1001 Nights, but with a storytelling panache entirely unique to the author.

Most people, including his close associates, don't see Syed Mujtaba Ali as a rebel. He had all the traits of a regular guy: a family, love for his siblings, dedication to parents, and commitment to one's roots.

Rahman, a young man on the doorstep of thirty, falls to the ground as the knife plunges deep into his back; piercing his muscles to almost reach his heart but, missing it by a hair's breadth hits his ribs.

Golden diseases are born in blood, Then they grow, flesh out as ghastly sores. See, the nation bears incurable diseases today, Bigoted demons are after-life businessmen, Phthisis, severity of diseases gradually burgeoning.

In order to exist, man must rebel, but rebellion must respect the limits that it discovers in itself - limits where minds meet, and in meeting, begin to exist. (Albert Camus)

Who was this champion whose bodiless head lay sprawling on the sand; whose body had been pierced by hundreds of holes because of the very sharp arrows that had penetrated it, but the hero whose back showed not even one wound, whose chest showed that he had taken all assaults frontally, who could this brave champion be? His protective garment, waistband, spear, skin, steed, battle dress, equipment—all signified his heroic status, and yet he was so young—how well-built was this youth! Alas! Alas! Could you be Abdul Wahab?

QTN: I feel like as I progress with writing a story, I lose the pace and the interest. As a result, the conclusion of my story/article seems rash and out of place. Do you have any suggestions on how I can control this?

Once upon a time there was a green, fertile land ruled by a Queen who loved nothing more than dressing herself up and collecting gold. Though the common people were poor and the Queen was a bit greedy, still they were happy.

“We are better than animals because we have kinsmen. An animal rubs its itching flank against a tree, a man asks his kinsman to scratch him.” ― Chinua Achebe.

I have not come, where they laid down their lives Under the Krishnachura trees...

Such a wonderful day today, Nobody laments for the dead, none Fears death's grim face. A strange gleam Lights the weary body and face; in each footstep The glittering light of determination is aglow.

All the people got united in a second, They anointed their sinews, ribs and muscles With a new-born pledge.

Supriyo, my son, is too small To understand anything;

Men are not rivers, yet in their hearts Burns the raging thirst of rivers.

Come, let us wrest our liberty, The liberty to speak, The liberty to place one letter to the right of another And make up words,

A long time ago, when BTV was the only channel available, I remember watching a drama where some teenagers were planning a picnic on 21st February. They had been given the day off from college and decided to take advantage of the beautiful spring weather. Overhearing these plans, their politically conscious uncle gave them a stern scolding and told them to go read their history books. Shame-facedly, they walked away. The story ended.