The debate about the constitutional position of secularism in Bangladesh with Islam as the state religion raises one burning question, “Is the country undergoing an identity crisis?”
The book captures all the enjoyable experiences of travelling, and the food they ate, and provides descriptions of France's seas.
Flipping the pages of a textbook often makes me feel like I’m trapped in the US. We studied economics from an American lens, using American textbooks,
Even at this moment when Google is under threat of being taken over by Artificial Intelligence and you may search for anything online,
Massacre, murder, torture, violence, bayonet, bloodshed, grenade, displacement, death—these words bring to mind a war scenario.
We might never know how it feels when your whole existence is denied or the loss of homeland, but we can get a little glimpse of their suffering.
35000 spectators turned out amid the colourful shamianas and flags to watch the one (and only) unofficial Test in Dhaka in January, 1977.
As an Anglophone writer in Bangladesh, I’ve frequently faced the rather inane question of why I write in English.
I became an ardent admirer of Amrita Pritam, the maverick Punjabi author, an outspoken critic of the Indian patriarchy and discriminating social practices, three decades back in New York when I was putting together an anthology of world feminist poems in Bangla translation.
The debate about the constitutional position of secularism in Bangladesh with Islam as the state religion raises one burning question, “Is the country undergoing an identity crisis?”
The book captures all the enjoyable experiences of travelling, and the food they ate, and provides descriptions of France's seas.
Flipping the pages of a textbook often makes me feel like I’m trapped in the US. We studied economics from an American lens, using American textbooks,
Even at this moment when Google is under threat of being taken over by Artificial Intelligence and you may search for anything online,
Massacre, murder, torture, violence, bayonet, bloodshed, grenade, displacement, death—these words bring to mind a war scenario.
We might never know how it feels when your whole existence is denied or the loss of homeland, but we can get a little glimpse of their suffering.
35000 spectators turned out amid the colourful shamianas and flags to watch the one (and only) unofficial Test in Dhaka in January, 1977.
As an Anglophone writer in Bangladesh, I’ve frequently faced the rather inane question of why I write in English.
I became an ardent admirer of Amrita Pritam, the maverick Punjabi author, an outspoken critic of the Indian patriarchy and discriminating social practices, three decades back in New York when I was putting together an anthology of world feminist poems in Bangla translation.
Much of the reminiscences in The Murti Boys encompass the grittiness of staving off the Pakistanis with little weaponry and a great deal of quick thinking.