The article highlights four heartfelt stories about love, exploring themes of waiting, enduring affection, selfless care, and love for life. Each story captures love’s transformative power and emotional depth.
My father speaks in a dismantled language that goes up in smoke.
the bullet hole/ in my brother's chest/ unfolds like a pandora's box
I feel my rage, ma, a living thing;/ A beast, caged, like me
I skip talking to myself for hours / The “me time”, before going to bed
Shimu and Tushar had grown up together on an alley in the Mirpur area of Dhaka city. Their neighbouring houses were separated only by a brick wall, about two meters high. The branches of a tree growing beside Tushar’s house overhung the wall, its foliage shading a part of Shimu’s courtyard.
Being a woman comes to me naturally If not me, then who? I was never asked to be one I was never asked to cook
What’s life if a sense of darkness/ doesn’t connect night to sunlight
Let us raise our voices, let us be heard, / Justice for the dead, let their voices be stirred
I found a gold pendant which I decided to keep. I wore it around my neck and looked in the mirror. Did my mother ever wear this pendant?
I frolic and burrow myself inside the vastness of the fields And the prairies that stand tall Of spaces heavily concentrated, and then stretched out to infinity
I see you, with whatever half awake, sleep drifting irises, I see you. Dusted in the shelves of unread books, I see you and I know you, They will never know you but I do, in ways you are afraid.
The girl stared back at her and asked a question that made Mrittika’s heart beat faster. “Don’t you recognise me?”
her heart was a two seater unfit for a family so big i grew to be a woman mirrored in her shadow when she was younger
“Can’t a man even get payesh and shemai on Eid in this house?” Altaf Shaheb screamed from the drawing room while watching the news, “There used to be so much joy in this house. It used to feel like Eid. But your mother has grown so sluggish now, Saadat! She used to be such a good cook. Our neighbours back in the old neighbourhood were crazy about your mother’s chicken bhuna. But now I can’t even get a plate of payesh the night before Eid.”
Spirit breaks at home along with love mingled with innocence.
The sky to the west and overhead is mired in darkness; but to the east, light is gleaming out like a jasper stone, as clear as crystal.
Martyrs and-slash-or heroes they call us Is it worth all the fuss? While they celebrate We ache to recuperate
It's time to take care of ourselves, both mind and soul, To live a life that is complete and whole.
