This is part of a series of Micro Fiction based on the mundane slices of my daily life here in Bangladesh.
I get off the bus at Uttara and walk into the golden afternoon. Pedestrians splash through the mirage pools on the asphalt. I get on a rickshaw.
“Number 2 of 11.”
He starts paddling.
“Annyeong hashimnikka.”…
After office he buys groceries for dinner (Fish curry for one) and uncharacteristically a magazine. It has his photo on its cover…
He grew up a terrestrial animal with an irrational fear of water. Yet he dreamed of a vast blue…
This is part of a series of Micro Fiction based on the mundane slices of my daily life here in Bangladesh.
I have a personal rain cloud. Every now or then in a hot summer night I hear tip tap of the rain drops falling over the buzzing of the ceiling fan…
My father found my uncle after 36 years.
“He came to me and said,’ You look old Monu.’ I was sitting at the bench by the pond…
This is part of a series of Micro Fiction based on the mundane slices of my daily life here in Bangladesh.
Some silhouettes stand and watch the roaring river of light flowing below…
The old man first sees him on the front stairs. Later that day the boy wanders the halls of the Zamindar Bari. At noon the old man eats rice and mashed potato…
This is part of a series of Micro Fiction based on the mundane slice of my daily life here in Bangladesh.
There is a river nearby. I hear a faint Chug Chug sound of a motorboat coming from upstream. It’ll slowly rise and fall as it pass by…
A dream floats in the foot overbridge tonight. Steam rises from a bowl of hot steaming rice…
I sip tea and read the anti-smoking poster on the wall. The mid day sun burns bright on a blue sky…
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