Short Stories
A short story set in Birmingham’s Bangladeshi Community. Written by Mujibur Rahman Chapter 1 – Night Shifts And Nightmares The bus juddered as it rolled past the halal chicken shop on Stratford Road, its windows smeared with rain and greasy fingerprints. Outside, neon signs bled into each other: “24hr Off Licence”, “Desi Grill”, “Money Transfer … Read more
A short story set in East London’s Bangladeshi Community Written by Mujibur Rahman Chapter 1 – The House With No God My dad likes to tell a particular story about himself. He tells it in the kitchen, in the living room, on Eid, when relatives come round, when they don’t, when he’s proud of something, … Read more
A short story set in East London’s Bangladeshi Community Written by Mujibur Rahman Chapter 1 – Two Names My full name does not fit on most forms. On my passport it is written in full, every letter lined up in strict English font. At home my mother stretches it out, sings it almost, adding that … Read more
A short story or maybe a factual account related to something that shattered my life. Written by Mujibur Rahman Chapter 1 – The Night My Body Gave Up I had not been well for the past three days. On paper these were supposed to be my “rest days” – the three nights off between my … Read more
A short story set in East London’s Bangladeshi Community Written by Mujibur Rahman Chapter 1 – The Last Night in Whitechapel The machines are the only ones who care whether he lives or dies.They blink and beep like small, impatient gods gathered at his bedside, counting what is left of his heartbeats. Rahim lies still … Read more
A Detective Mystery of East London’s Bangladeshi Community Written by Mujibur Rahman Narrated in the voice of Dr. Yusuf Rahman CHAPTER 1 – A Summons In The Fog My acquaintance with Detective Hamza Al-Masri began some years ago, yet I confess there are moments when even I—who have stood beside him in streets and stairwells, … Read more
By the time anyone noticed the man selling silence on Brick Lane, the street was already too loud for most people to hear themselves think. It was a Saturday, the kind where the market spilled over itself — vintage jackets rubbing shoulders with second-hand books, churros curls next to jilapis, teenagers filming everything and nothing … Read more
On the night the Thames spoke Bengali, no one believed the first man who heard it. He was a minicab driver from Stepney Green, halfway through a twelve-hour shift, the kind of night where the city felt like wet cloth draped over tired bones. His name was Jalal, but the controller at the base called … Read more
By the time Maya Rahman found the film rolls, her mother had been dead for six months and the flat had already started forgetting her. Smells went first. The coriander and fried onions that used to cling stubbornly to the curtains evaporated. Her mother’s rose attar, the one she dabbed on her wrists before going … Read more
By the time people started saying that time moved differently in his shop, Hassan Ali was already too old to correct them. The shop sat just off Bethnal Green Road, squeezed between a nail bar and a chicken shop that smelled of old oil and teenage hunger. Its window was crowded with clocks — wall … Read more