LIFE AS IT IS

When I  first s tarted writing for The Daily Star’s (DS) youth supplement, the Rising Stars (RS), back in the late ‘90s, it was business as usual. I mean, those were the days when a writer still used to pen an article using a real pen, so did I. I hand-wrote my articles, placed them in envelopes, and dropped them in the mailbox outside DS’ then office in Dhanmondi.  After I joined the RS team of writers/contributors, I began to type my write-ups on our desktop computer, save them in a floppy disk, and take them to the DS office. A floppy disk? Yes, those were the days of floppy disk. Looking at a floppy disk would probably leave a kid of today wondering if it is some kind of a 3D model of the ‘save’ icon!  In the 2000s when email became a popular mode of communication, I no longer needed to carry floppy disks to the DS office. I would just write an article on my computer and email it.  It saved time, money, and also the occasional trouble of a floppy disk not responding in a computer o

W hen she sleeps in my lap, I gaze at her. I gaze at her because I still find it hard to believe that I carried her for nine months. I touch her soft hair, her tiny fingers and toes, I pull her little round nose, I squeeze her cheeks and gently massage her arms. No, nothing wakes her up. She squirms for a few seconds but does not become fully awake. She perhaps knows that she is in a place that is as safe as it can be. The pain was harrowing, nothing I ever felt before. The twenty-three hours of labour seemed like twenty-three days of suffering. Her back was against my back when her back should have been against my belly. The result? Back-breaking labour. Yes, I had back labour, which is far more painful that normal labour. I thought I would pass out. A few times I thought I would die giving birth to my daughter. In spite of everything it was the first time in my life I thought I was strong. I always had an idea that I was physically weak but the birth of Wareesha just blew that idea a

This is the season for the leaves to turn gold, scarlet, caramel and crimson. The chlorophyll breaks down in silence and gives way to the majestic fall colours that leave us in awe of the season. However, this autumn is different from all the other autumns I lived. There is a tinge of melancholy in every flaming orange, fiery red or warm yellow leaf. Last autumn, did we have the faintest idea what the next autumn might look like for us? Here in the US, COVID-19 has claimed more than 200,000 lives. As America braces for a likely second wave of the coronavirus, I see death, disease and despair in every yellowed leaf of maple, oak and sycamore.  I look forward to the kaleidoscope of colours autumn offers every year, but this year, I cannot rejoice in the bounties of nature. I am just not in the right state of mind. Instead, wherever I look, I perceive pain, loss and malady. When I call up family back home in Dhaka, I hear the news of another person falling ill to COVID-19. This has been a