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
The pleasing melancholia of Friday morning hovers through the window as a heavy gloom and sways within the fake plastic daisies lying on Marium’s table while the smell of burning spices filled her entire house. Marium’s mother couldn’t care less about the condition of the kitchen now. Her husband has just collapsed to the floor.
It began with a faint sound of walls being scratched. Initially, the man believed it to be the normal sounds of an old home settling during the middle of the night.
Someday, I will write about those places, the cities, monuments, and faces.
But I understand. I am part of a historic pattern. So not everything is personal. I can't help but fall into some of the traps and become prey to some of the vultures.
