Humayun Ahmed died on a July night in 2012, in a New York hospital room, with pancreatic cancer having done what illness usually does — slowly, then all at once. Dhaka shut down for him in a way it rarely does for anyone who isn't a politician or a cricketer. Thousands walked behind the cof

There's a photograph that outlived the World Cup final itself. Messi, still in his captain's blazer, lying back on a training-ground bed with the trophy tucked against his side, and in his other hand, a gourd of mate, the silver straw catching the light. He took the picture himself, at the AFA trai

Anurag Kashyap watched a Bangladeshi film about a flooded village in Khulna last month. He wrote something on Letterboxd that he probably didn't expect to become international news. A few days later, he was attached as the film's global distributor. Delupi will now carry his name on every poster ab

We walked into that campus certain of things we can't fully reconstruct now. Ask any of us what we thought we'd be doing by thirty and there's a pause first. Something half-embarrassed, a foreign correspondent, a scientist with a real lab, someone who was going to fix this country from the inside.

Mustafa Monwar died on the morning of 29 June 2026 at Square Hospital in Dhaka. He was 90, and pneumonia had been wearing him down for a while. People called him the Puppet Man, which undersells what he actually did, he took puppetry off the village fairground. He put it on national television, and

Mostafa Monwar died on Monday morning at Square Hospital in Dhaka, where he had been under treatment since mid-June for a pneumonia infection that wore down a body already worn down by age. He was ninety, and the family attributed the death to age-related complications rather than any single cause.

Malaysian PM Anwar Ibrahim's office put out a video in late June marking Tarique Rahman's first official visit to Kuala Lumpur as Bangladesh's prime minister. Two minutes forty seconds. Bilateral talks, a state lunch, the usual cultural-exchange footage. Then people noticed the music running behind

The smell reaches you first. Near Hossaini Dalan, in a kitchen with the shutters half down, a pot of haleem has been simmering on a low flame since before dawn, and by mid-morning the whole lane smells of cracked wheat, beef fat, and ghee. You would expect a month of mourning to smell of something