There are no kids at shibbari more anymore.
where they stare down sabres of lightning 7 years down to 3 and 5 (as if) always swerving right into missing bodies unsubstantiated salwar kameez listed in the morgue catalog carnations stuffed into barrels fooled into a state of awe eyeballs knocked off stage floating into space richochetting off and into red fort walls counting the ways i miss you with cabinet meetings in which he acts aloof all night and has it struck from the record of ettiquette that prevails in the fog that passes as the streets that must return home those accepted demands to that future where you hit me and i smile.
Until they are.


Dress II

Dress II

highlight and contour

her eyes peer over the kiosk:

a menagerie of how i wished i had looked at midday.

bored, black blazers betraying fumes,
heart in a sling,
oversized and stage 4,
until they get home
to not afford the lives they had been busy selling.

mascara and scowl

there is this security guard on the first-entrance to the permanent campus, near where the excavator meets the canteen. Her eyeliner game is on point.

dhola shirt-ghamcha belt

sweat assumes fishnets on his back. This image is so overdone that it is by this point an expression of lust, of engines, and, most importantly of winning without getting your hands dirty.

Dress I

Dress I

When the clothes don’t glide of your skin there are suddenly sunsets so unreachable that you ache at the unconfirmed beauty of being

you had only ever seen, never dared noticed everyone living with their lives as they could have been by a coast, being ethunized, eroding with desaturation

underarms peeling froth shower creaking down my shins, clumsy with razorblades a sweetheart neckline folding its limbs into a bow:

she wants to fix him

she wants to fix him


Though her lovers circulate like kerosene

Orbiting an exhausted burner–

Though, her kiss in the mourning

Is understood, by him, as a wedding at night,

Where her exposed midriff waltzes for air,

Where funeral grounds latch on to her petticoat,

When his hands exhume a police van:


The time is unimportant.

Yasmin, 14, returns from the centre of the earth.

To Dinajpur. To Home.

She is help.

For other people.

She get’s on the wrong bus.

Get’s off.

The patrol is suave, and rolls in.

They offer her a lift home.

Come daylight, her corpse will decorate

The mind of her city.

There are journalists.

The tourists stop booking trips.

Ramshagar dries up.

There is a gherao on the thana.

7 dead.


The gavel.

3 convicted.

3 policemen buying lifetimes of silence.


But she wants to fix him:

the terror she knows.

Not the shiv to the gut.

Not the storefront glass perjuring itself.

Not the pickpocket swallowed by the mob.



Precluding touch,


The I owe him

Diving hypothermic–

Watching, achol in cavort,

Sidewalks growing meek.

And It doesn’t feel like work, anymore, she says,

It’s feels ok.

Photo: Pounopunik




you fell my walls like the whispers cutting through a funeral procession

you unfurl my arms, folded up since the dawns lit October,

you incite panic like ambulance sirens whiffing through traffic,

you send blisters shooting like fiends across my skin–shedding tissue, conspiring, bursting into tears.

beyond the confines of an insular nationalism

beyond the confines of an insular nationalism

Burdwan house blooms open it’s petals,

the oval half fielding cargo unloaded by longshoremen,

but they are extinct.

So, we are informed that we cannot hate ‘the other:’

Verse that is not sufficiently cosmopolitan will be blacked-out by the censor;

like needles in Suhrawardy,

like the cadre piercing slogans through the megaphone that unionizes with the vanguard, who remain in attention

even against the feigning storms

that leak in through the tarpaulin.

Photo: Roger Gwynn

সশস্ত্র-The Reserve Army

সশস্ত্র-The Reserve Army

The bomb, you know.
It terrifies you.
But you know.
You stamp its tongue at the ballot.

But you don’t know, or you don’t remember the street; the elbows braided like playgrounds;
Hands clutched for the eventual brickbat; motorists flirting like scabs in the colander;
you laugh.

you are annoyed and grace lunch to strongmen.


ভর্তি পরিক্ষায় চোদাতে পারেনা আবার ঢাবির ছাত্র/ছাত্রী বলে নিজেকে দাবি করে কত নিন্ম রুচির হলে একথা বলতে পারে

তোরা যে বাপের চোদা সেটা অস্বীকার করে বল যে আমরা রাষ্ট্রপতির চোদা এতে মান সন্মান বারবে
রাষ্ট্রপতির সন্তান বলে পরিচয় দিতে পারবি

The ZT014 Armoured Personnel Carrier is a non-combat application public security vehicle designed to be used by law enforcement agencies. It is based on the Ford F-450 chassis and is fully armoured.

Manufactured in China by Centech Specialty Vehicles Co; the platform features a turret weapon station, 9 firing ports, winch, emergency lighting system and externally mounted video camera surveillance system. It is operated by a driver and can accommodate up to 9 other personnel.


The Dhaka Metropolitan Police is the primary user of the ZT014 armoured personnel carrier in Bangladesh at present.

Technical specifications

Origin: China
Type: Riot-control armoured personnel carrier
Chassis: Ford F-450
Crew: 1 + 9
Service: Bangladesh Police


এইসব ফাইজলামির কোন মানে হয়??? প্রযুক্তি ইউনিটের পোলাপাইনরা তো লাফায় না। এইসব বা* গুলা কেন এত্ত লাফায়??? নিজের কিছু নাই দেইখা অন্যেরটা দিয়ে কাম চালানোর ধান্দা।

The M2002 anti-riot vehice is a 4×4 wheeled Chinese-made armoured personnel carrier. It can accommodate a driver and 8 fully armed personnel. The vehicle has a range of more than 800 km and a maximum speed of 110 km/h. Its empty weight is 4.7 tonnes and combat weight is 5.5 tonnes.

It is equipped with hailer system, sirens, digital monitoring system, shovel and accessories.


The M2002 APC/RCV have been procured by the Bangladesh Police service and Rapid Action Battalion. They have been deployed with the FPU during UN peacekeeping missions to Africa.

Technical Specifications

Origin: China
Type: Armoured Wheeled Riot Control Vehicle
Weight: 4.7-5.5 tonnes
Length: 4.790 m
Width: 2.060 m
Height: 1.975 m
Crew: 1 + 8
Engine: Diesel delivering 87 kW at 3,600 rpm
Power/Weight: N/A
Suspension: Wheeled 4 x 4
Operational Range: 800+ km
Speed: 110 km/h
Primary Armament: 12.7 mm heavy machine gun or 7.62 mm machine gun
Secondary Armament: None
Service: Bangladesh Police, Rapid Action Battalion


What police are doing? Fire tear shell on these activists. They have no right to block any roads. Equal opportunity.

The JRC-12000W water cannon vehicle is a specially modified riot control vehicle utilising a Daewoo truck chassis.

The water cannon RCV has a capacity to hold 13,000 litres of water, foam, tear gas or painted water. The cannons maximum shooting distance is 65 metres.

Additionally it is fitted with a jet pulse system, foam/tear gas/paints mixing system, digital recording/monitoring system, self protection system, armouring, hydraulic bumper blade, rear water gun, run flat tyres and reinforced metal nets.


The Bangladesh Police procured these RCVs from Jino Motors of South Korea. They are deployed locally as well as international peacekeeping missions.

Technical Specifications

Origin: South Korea
Type: Armoured Wheeled Water Cannon
Weight: N/A
Length: N/A
Width: N/A
Height: N/A
Crew: 2 + 4
Engine: N/A
Power/Weight: N/A
Suspension: Wheeled 10 x 10
Operational Range: N/A
Speed: N/A
Primary Armament: 4 x water cannon launcher systems
Secondary Armament: N/A
Service: Bangladesh Police

Photograph: http://www.clickittefaq.com/home-economics-college-students-block-new-market-intersection/

The Quotes: The best of Facebook with contributions from the Oxford of the East.

All vehicles and their descriptions belong to Bangladesh Police and brethren organizations.

I am afraid.

I am afraid.


The checkpost is still up.

We are fighting for the checkpost.


Carry the portable radio reciever from the props wadrobe at FDC

In case the policeman decides, in spontaneity, that he wishes to switch alligiences.

আর নকশাল।

The camps breeds two strands:

I. You are the deep state. You may or may not survive the rollbacks and coup d’ètats which audit like primary school routines. In the latter case, and if you have kept your head low enough, you die a Mosaddegh. If not, you may, depending on future fiduciary happenstance, be accorded a posthumous state burial. The former does not exist.

II. You stay in the camp.

Art: Yasmin Jahan Nupur

Running Out of Other People’s Money

Running Out of Other People’s Money

রাজনীতি এখন পরিবর্তন হয়েছে

All the civil servants wake up before dawn: the sweepers jharoo dust bowls; the police men chew paan; the police women ask their colleagues if they happen to have change for rickshaw fare.

এখন হরতাল ডাকলে হয় না।

They precede us like nationhood precedes the citizen.

মানুষ এখন বুঝে গেছে। মানুষ উন্নয়ন চায়।

The gas hikes would be expected to ricochet off tea stalls, into dhabas and into living rooms if they could get past the check posts. But the burners are best forgotten. Though they will tolerate the fuel: the customary burning of the tire. Proceed.

যারা হরতাল ডাকে তারাও বোঝে হরতাল হবে না।

The first time around Shahbag, correspondents mic up: traffic is lean কিন্তু স্বাভাবিক

The second time after Katabon signal, things come to a halt. They are watching. There are shuffles. Shirts are pulled. Words are said. Wooden benches staff the roundabout. No one get’s through. Maybe later. But not now. Pedestrians are curious. The bullhorn guides the uninitiated. Motorists are bemused. Those in the backseats sympathize but are ultimately annoyed (defaced is the word the Editor’s Council recommends)

একটি দলকে যদি ধারাবাহিক ভাবে ক্ষমতায় না রাখা যায় তাহলে উন্নয়ন হবে না।

The third time, we come back after looping round Ruposhi Bangla. The constable looks at his watch. Load up. It’s rush hour.

Quotes: This;

নারীবান্ধব or Legislating Rape.

নারীবান্ধব or Legislating Rape.

Hon. Meher Afroz Chumki,

I cannot appeal to your children.

The mind does, after all, afford compartments:

The hospitality lounge at Hazrat Shahjalal

if you pay American Express: the Madonna of credit;

the backhand pet,

the kiss flaying the ghumta for yours:

the sister; the mother; the daughter;

During the voice vote.

You do think of them.

During Mr. Imam’s protestations.

You do remember them.

But in the private house,

not just the shanty playing L’Enfant terrible,

she is subject to eminent domain:

যেখানে ‘আমাদের দেশের মানুষ বাল্যবিবাহের কুফল সম্পর্কে জানেন’

যেখানে পুরুষ মাগি গালি দিয়ে বাসায় ফিরতে পারেন

উনি জানেন ‘কিন্তু মানেন না।’


We must endure.

The Mollah Paribar

whose daughter goes into labor

in the middle of her SSC exams;

can we assign her to desserts,

the salish where flesh is judiciary?

No, you don’t have to.

One does not flinch at corpses after the war.

১৪ ফাল্গুন, ১৪২৩

Photograph: CJ Clarke/Save the Children-

The woman in the photo is May Yoi Ching Marma


Rampal, I love you.

Rampal, I love you.

To occupy
Tear gas canister skidding off speed-breakers like warsaw pact skaters shining for the Motherland.
Except they didn’t tread the swamps, half-kneed
or wince at warlords farming shrimp inside fences
from satellite states.
They circled back: heroes,
cut queue at Mcdonalds
But where were the MoUs signed?
In double entendre:
I am alive, and so must be the lightbulb,

  • over the dock
  • flickering convulsions
  • Bagerhat in cold turkey
  • And. Pop.

Even if it is not my lightbulb.

To backstroke
Off canons,
even those descended from the mirage.
Chili had paraded back in January from its historic betrayal:
weighing European palettes with jungles,
the base of the tikka masala,
the banana leaf served as platter,
the bamboo timber hollowed for kung-pao.

Menus will spell out the Green Line
pruned from the yoke of the Raj:
Lobster Thermidor; Kacchi Biryani; Aloo Bokhara;
The Palestinian with the rock is the right of return.
The Bangladeshi hurling bricks is the riot begging APCs.

To indigenize
Peregrines at shahbag

Irrawadys at Gonobhaban

At the stage, with a fistful of rubber slugs,
let me repeat:

  • The Pasur will leak electricity as the estuary peals off Mukti-Joddher Chetona.
  • The fishermen will be brides at Gaye holuds presided over by transmission towers.
  • The silt thrown up by dredgers will resurrect the crust of public housing.
  • The mangroves will have their roots beam entrepreneurial.

And that Humus will be the stepchild of coal.

Photo: http://www.newindianexpress.com/world/2017/jan/26/bangladesh-police-lob-tear-gas-shells-on-anti-rampal-protesters-1563813.html

Couture III: Anthimeria

Couture III: Anthimeria

On our way there, there wasn’t much to see.
The sea bid farewell to the bow
but the sea is, and was then, feminine,
and so judged us as what is called the unyielding matron

She showed us
Vinyl rotting, melting to will
Fakri’s famine curtsying to the mist of vaseline
Premier shondesh stuffed into mouths
Or into homes in takeout containers
Flyovers splintering into blockades
Into ignitions at starting pistol
And sparkling water at checkered flag

We are entertained.
And wake up stranded in low tide.

Feet gassed in mud
Feuding with the cataract of the tube well,
Dodging cow dung,
An expedition of tents to curry amends
For we have sinned
And Fridays were not enough.
Only the Earth forgives:

Conifers unfurl like corollas
In panorama;
Soft shell crabs are admired,
And fade pink in the pot;
Turtles lay eggs at midnights
Marshalled by our flashlights;
Combing the stretch of beach
Is religious,
Exoskeletons for the wife to hang around her neck.

This milad is interrupted,
Tourists are also journalists
In the south.

Villagers run errands on pocket change
And with the kids watching,
We burn ourselves on the twenty second loosie:
Don’t they go to school?

And they tell you about the textbooks and the teachers and the students and the four dogs on the island and the soil that is estranged family and the dialect, the dialect, the unsent wedding invitation like you are the district commissioner.
And you do not correct them.

But they were not ready.

Life, and hope better life.

I know how you feel.
But the way you feel about it will not create jobs.

Couture II: Annexation

Couture II: Annexation

*Rajar Matt, Bandarban*

From the Green room.
Enter stage right.
The Bohmong King folds onto his throne:
Kerchief coronating kingdom
The silk melts,
Dripping gold down
The proscenium arch
Mummifying the dagger at his waist.

The entourage:
In military camo.
In Mujib coat.
In suit tailored for retirement.
They, for this day, entertain the daughter as head of household.

Banner hangs over,
Photo-shopped by zero hour,
The scripts are hierarchy.
The Bengali:
In defeated anorexia,
The matra marshaling legion in riot gear.
The Rest:
Escape distinction.
By the others’ choice.
Trickle down.
The Marma;
The Chakma;
The Matrilineal;
The Indigenous;
The Tribe.

We are gathered here today
For the Punnyah

The circle of the King
Are heirs to khazana,
Their palmar creases
Dug like moats of custom
Where written laws wither.

*Bain Weaving*

The warp strung to a post,
Strapped to her back.
She pulls.
The spine tightens,
Excuses the loom stand,
At ease again.
Beater nurses the weft into position.

The time signature flaunts
Not the testosterone of the adda,
The awe and collapse of the bazaar that
Deals in counterfeit.

The fabric resists craft
And for this reason is beloved by the tourist,
Mounted on Chander Gari,
Who yawns chasms at the unfinished shawl.
Draping it around her shoulders
Assigning it her sweat,
Braiding it mute.

Couture I: The Sleeves Of Tradition

Couture I: The Sleeves Of Tradition

The machine gun motor boat incited recollection:
Black plumes pulsing out of cylindrical pipes, spitting ember
Boatman tugging on the aquamarine rope, bred with mildew
Swampland high tide purging the industrial hull, rudder clutched–a trail of evaporation

I am wed to the life i promised to dread:

The altar is a waterway rippled with torch lights,
Eroding the sediments of cohabitation
Embankments cultivate water buffaloes,
Polythene headgear and stretching mozzarella
FB post similes 21 tourists into Rohingyas,
Shipyard surging like the orchestra of a soviet, unaccompanied by conductor

The groves can see themselves falling off the saline cliffs–
Starlight guiding us through columns of low hanging fruit,
Crew-boy bucketing water out of engine room,
Bamboo oar rowing against a militia of opportunity.

Bhadralok 1-16

Bhadralok 1-16

You are on auction
Half a century after
The floods plundered Bhola

Her stretched linen
Serviced future PoWs
To rift valleys

Heartstrings deployed to
Paddy fields

evacuated at
Half-mast to your father’s funeral

You learned
To fold your arms,
To accommodate session jams

To crack the whip
At state television
Lunchtime specials

To manicure
Irrigation channels,
Subways to withstand the dearth of coverage

To employ mid-water trawls
Ensnaring currents
Impaired of Capital

The 90s engender
Fairy tales at zero point,
Sandbags are extinct,
A homecoming

Cock hammer spur
Burn tariffs
Fiefdoms sound the clash of luminaries,
Charcoals commissioned
To daub a new people’s hegemony

Bunkers rehabilitate
Into college sweethearts
Into handshakes built on swampland
Into fangs monopolizing betrayal
Into balms flirting with the cantonment budget
Into midwives courted by centenaries of resistance
Peeling rinds of delta, re imagining time zones, seeding clouds for latitude– platoons patronizing orphaned coastlines, sights charring helicopter money

Can I borrow your table manners?

Artist: Unknown