A Bengali folk song and my father’s puja memories made me wonder: when did a festival for the whole neighbourhood start to feel like someone else’s?
There is something unsettling about the way suffering becomes beautiful in a photograph. A woman stands among the ruins of her home, her face illuminated by the last light of the afternoon. A child looks towards a flooded horizon. A mother holds a photograph of a son who disappeared without explanation.
This summer, social media was filled with posts declaring that almost anything was “kinda chic”. Repeating outfits was kinda chic. Being overdressed was kinda chic. Doing something unfashionable could, apparently, also be kinda chic. But can you remember the content of many individual “kinda chic” posts now? Probably…
"You never gave me my photos." I laughed. "Come on, sir. You're the Foreign Minister now. You owe me a big treat." "I'll meet you soon," he said. The meeting never happened. I am still waiting for my treat.
Personal accounts of the people behind the headlines, from someone who worked beside them.
