This flash series explores with hilarious tropes the state of things in Bangladesh, indeed all over he world, especially of writers , artists and freedom of speech.

So many people have been away from their homes and villages in this distant land for their stomachs! Then, who stays in the places they have left behind?

Suryamukhi wasn’t listening either, her eyes gave it away—they reflected the sprightly fireworks of a wedding ceremony.

I can’t really talk like myself with anyone here. Neither my wife nor my son has learnt Bangla. I discuss their things in their language.

After that, the two of them sat in companionable silence for some time. Night descended. There was a cool breeze. It was desolate.

The Optimists have just sat down to eat after an entire day of stories and laughter in their community. They have seen their public spaces brim with thready happiness.

Among the millions and millions of people in this city, why doesn’t he know anyone? Is he himself alive? Do the dead have any memory?

I often feel the character that I play has not been written for me.

he image of her laughter on that Saraswati Puja Day glistened in Benu Das’s mind. How could someone who never had her own home be afraid of losing someone else’s shelter?

he field was swathed in a white foggy shawl. I moved diagonally towards Jeevan Deep, when suddenly I heard someone scream close to my ear, ‘Move away’.

I left home one evening to head to the river, and then something strange came to pass, the river was nowhere to be found!

Lower-middle class wives in this city, who came from small towns, led lives of warriors. Each day brought a new battle…

Can one understand everything that passes through one’s mind?

The word ‘human’ seemed like a pool of spit on my face, or perhaps a tight slap that was named human.

Many girls in this village were married off early, much before they reached the legal age for the act, and not just among the poor and low caste people, this was the norm even among the rich and the upper caste.

I looked at the nameplate once before boarding the taxi. The address was still the same- 14/A Ahiripukur Road.

Lying in bed at night, when all was quiet, aside from the incessant drone of the beetles floating in from the wilderness beyond, Tridib felt the untamed forest inching close.

The fear of the hills for me was, therefore, naturally enmeshed in the memory of the marketplace.

And then one day, I earnestly set out with the resolve to rescue my mother, and hunt and kill the monster.

I hope this story about wishing happiness and success for our progeny gets transmitted from body to body, blood to blood, mind to mind.’