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When people ask what I do, I hesitate—not out of modesty, but because the answer keeps shifting. I work in public relations, across two places with two distinct rhythms. The days are measured in deadlines and drafts, in the practiced cadence of careful language. By night, I run a modest online bookshop—curating stories while quietly chasing the shape of my own.
In between, there are other versions of me. I design things—sometimes meaningful, sometimes forgettable. I scroll through feeds I half-regret opening. I write when the words don’t resist. I read to remember who I am. Some evenings I cook—not for spectacle, but for the slow comfort of creating something with my hands. When the world feels abstract, I return to the real: heat, salt, steam.
Dhaka is home. Here, I haunt bookstores like familiar ghosts, wander through tech shops with more curiosity than purpose, try on clothes I don’t need, and linger too long in supermarket aisles. I know the city by its textures: the buzz of rickshaws at dusk, the muted light of an early morning, and the quiet, unspoken fondness of those who call me Mama instead of Bhai—a small shift in language that feels, somehow, like belonging.
Most mornings begin at the gym, where I chase a version of strength I may never reach but pursue anyway—out of discipline, or maybe hope. I believe in taking care of the body, not for the mirror, but for the mind. I believe in well-prepared meals, generous people, softness over cynicism, and the small but steady power of a well-placed sentence.
I am, like most people, a collage of contradictions. A work in progress. A person with too many tabs open, always trying to close one while opening three more. But within the unfinishedness, there’s motion. A quiet unfolding.
This space isn’t about definition. It’s about noticing. About leaving room for whatever comes next.