১২২ পাতায় আগুন ঝরা নয় টি গল্প আর একটি একাঙ্ক নাটক, সম্পাদক সাজ্জাদ জহীরের ‘ঘুম আসে না’, ‘জান্নাতের প্রসন্নতা’, ‘গ্রীষ্ম কালের এক রাত্রি’, ‘দুলারি’, ‘আবার সেই গোলমাল’; আহমেদ আলির ‘মেঘ ওঠে না’, ‘শীতকালীন বৃষ্টির একটি রাত’; রশিদ জাঁহার ‘দিল্লি ভ্রমণ’ ‘পর্দার পেছনে’ (নাটক); ও মাহমুদ-উজ-জাফরের ‘পৌরুষ’ এখানে সংকলিত।কিছু উক্তির উপস্থাপন গল্পগুলি থেকে। সাজ্জাদ জহীর ‘আকবর সাহেব, মাশা-আল্লাহ্!আপনি তো যথার্থ শায়ের!কতগুলি জাতীয়তাবাদী কবিতা রচনা করেছেন? প্রেমিক-প্রেমিকার গোলাপ বাগান এবং বুলবুলের গপপো আর কতদিন চলবে?’ ‘ইজ্জত নিয়ে কি চাটবে নাকি? রুটি আর নুন খেয়ে খেয়ে তো শরীর দুমড়ে-মুচড়ে বেঁকে গেছে। দারিদ্র্য থাকলে তো আর বলার কিছু নেই, বরং আরও ভাল হল। তারপর
Category: Need New Stories
Jaldapara National Reserve Forest once boasted its exotic and lush green beauty with tigers, elephants, deer, chitahas, ghorials, and myriad birds like parrots, mynahas, peacocks, doves, herons, wood-peckers, sparrows, cuckoos, of exotic hues and cacophonies. One can see in the brilliant radiance of blazing sun set the crowd of parrots and sparrows flung over one’s head. Your hair will be flicked with a bird’s sudden swift flight almost touching your head. Somewhere in the upper sky among the tinged cloudlets a lone eagle lazily supervises his vast empire. His eyes glisten, and far flung heavy wings mellow with the reddish
The great Indian Self hates Truth. It demands subordination, and acquiescence of the self. And the elites of Indian bustling cities of grace and squalor love to paddle in the murky and darkened realms of inequality, illiteracy, superstition, injustice, usury, ethnic cleansing, malaise and inhumanity, child labour and poverty. Prophet loves the poor and millions of Indians are poor and thereby they have unknowingly been the true votary of the Prophet. Rare is the leader like Gandhi who loves to face the Truth with all its ugliness and crudeness. It invites no enemy and eases the ladder of wealth, position,
Now when he said to Shama: “Hole! That’s what your family has got me in.This hole!”… Now he keeps his address as secret as an animal keeps its hole. And his hole was not a haven. His indigestion returned, virulently; and he saw his children increasingly riddled with nervous afflictions. Savi suffered from a skin rash, and Anand suddenly developed asthma, which led him in bed for three days at a time, choking, his chest scorched and peeled by the futile applications of a medical wadding.
Between the Jaldapara forest and the village lay an acre of land, cultivated, furrowed, unweeded. Yards had patches of all sorts of vegetables, maize, and tall lean betel nut trees. Men and women still working on their fields. Children were all barefoot and some of them had running nose. Elderly men and women sat on their haunches on the dusty path, and gossiped. It was winter. The day was chill and icy. The sun for the whole day hid his face under the veil of smoky clouds. And a mild breeze blew. It added more bitterness to the cold. Still
Last week I visited nine or ten school children. The school was in the middle of a Adivasi village. The children sat on the dry grass and dust, and the headmaster on a red plastic chair. I spent a hour with them. The children all were wonderful, and the teacher was so kind. And I loved the place. The school was surrounded three sides by vast farm lands, and only by one side a path went to the interiors of the village. It was late noon, and the weary winter days were in adieu mood. The trees began to shed
Abstract: Key Keywords: Literature, Bengali Muslim, Identity, Representation Literature whether it is regional, national or global always inspires, invigorates, and energizes us to look at life’s great mystery and miracle from multitude heterogeneous contours. It deepens the meaning of life in its colourful and painfully beautiful foliages— splendours and glories, hopes and aspirations, loves and expectations, sorrows and tears, strength and endurance, death and doom, diseases and pathos, the courage and resilience of a sea of humanity. And Bengali Muslim literature aims at giving many of the said life’s innate shades to humanity in general and to the Bengali Muslim in
Na kisee kee aankh ka noor hoon Na kisee key dil ka quaraar hoon Jo kisee key kaam na aa sakey Main v eek musht-e-ghubaar hoon -Bahadur Shah Zafar (1775-1862) Introduction Of every four persons in West Bengal, roughly speak ing one is a Bengali Muslim. Despite their numerical density and participation in different socio-economic activities their identity is basically singular, based only on their religious affiliation. They are solely “Muslims”. All other identities (Bengali, professional, educational, economic, residential etc.) are never acknowledged and often suppressed by popular lazy media, and concocted, unscrupulous power-hungry religious and political leaders and even
A gifted versetile writer who writes excellent stories and poems on the invisibles, pariahs, margins, aged, weaklings of our society. A rising star on the literary firmament.
“Your story Undersell left me with a lump in my throat, so did your poem, He also lights candles.”
"A finely honed observational piece recording the minutiae of everyday life. Rendered with the author’s customary poetic aplomb suffused with a Borges like quality of the mythic."