Mujibur Rahman 
The letter arrived on a Thursday morning when the sky above East Ham looked like it hadn’t quite decided what colour to be. A pale, tired grey sat over the rooftops, and the air in the house felt as if it had been held in the same lungs for too long. In the hallway, the … Read more
On the evenings when the electricity failed in Chiknagul, the entire village would glow like a field of stars. Hundreds of fireflies drifted out from the banana trees and bamboo thickets, their lights blinking softly, lazily, as though practising a language older than speech. On such nights, Sara—eight years old, curious, and always hungry—would sit … Read more
The first time they got his name wrong, it was on a plastic visitor’s badge at a grey building near London Bridge. He stood at the reception desk, the fluorescent lights humming overhead in that particular way that made you feel tired even if you had just woken up. The woman behind the desk didn’t … Read more
The afternoons in Beanibazar were always slower than the mornings, as if the sun itself grew tired of shining and decided to walk barefoot through the village, touching everything with lazy warmth. On such an afternoon—light thick like honey, air heavy with the smell of rain somewhere far away—a mango fell from the old tree … Read more
The plane began its slow descent into Sylhet just as the sky turned the colour of bruised mango skin—purple, gold, and a thin vein of red torn across the horizon. From his window seat, Rahim watched the landscape rise up to meet him: a quilt of paddy fields stitched with silver threads of water, tin … Read more