I had just entered the house. It was half past two in the night. I placed the folded newspaper on the corner of my computer table.
This same newspaper will reach readers in the morning. But a handful of us who work late get to hold it while it is still warm. Around midnight the printed copies arrive at the office. We flip through the pages, check the photos and colours, and read the headlines. After finishing the city edition, we tuck the paper under our arms and head home.
That night was no different. Yet a faint worry lingered in me. I spoke to my elder son in the evening. There had been a fierce clash between his college and another nearby institution in Dhanmondi. Shirts were torn, ID cards snatched and crushed underfoot, fists were thrown. Even the college signboard was carried away. Everything was captured in photos and videos and shared across their Facebook groups. My son wasn’t hurt, but the violence unfolded right before his eyes.
He took the newspaper and went to his room. I was changing clothes, getting ready to wash up, when he returned.
“Why is the story on the college clash so small?” he asked, newspaper in hand.
That day, the report had been published briefly on an inside page.
“This edition is prepared with readers outside Dhaka in mind,” I explained. “It ran prominently in the city edition.”
He wasn’t convinced. He felt the news deserved bigger display nationwide. And I couldn’t entirely disagree.
He’s 18. A dedicated reader of Prothom Alo. He doesn’t stop at the front-page stories. He examines photos, captions, and international news with special care. He often spots mistakes and sends them to me on WhatsApp.Last December we travelled to Lama. After returning, I wrote for the Bornil Berano section.
He’s 18. A dedicated reader of Prothom Alo. He doesn’t stop at the front-page stories. He examines photos, captions, and international news with special care. He often spots mistakes and sends them to me on WhatsApp.
Last December we travelled to Lama. After returning, I wrote for the Bornil Berano section.
My son wrote for Prothom Alo English. Prothom Alo English online head Ayesha Kabir praised his writing and choice of words. That day filled me with quiet joy.
This year, since 6 January, Prothom Alo has been printed at the Kanchpur press. Printed copies no longer come to our Karwan Bazar newsroom at night. I don’t return home with the fresh paper at midnight anymore. Now the hawker drops it off in the morning. Still, the late-night arguments between father and son continue.
During this year’s HSC exams, there was an error in the Mathematics question paper. Discussions raged across their Facebook groups. Yet the next morning there was no coverage in Prothom Alo. Or in any other paper.
He asked me, “Why?”
We keep talking like this deep into the night. A few days ago, he said AI will change a lot in the future, but it will never replace human intellect or reasoning.
Watching him flip through the paper takes me back to my own teenage years. I started reading newspapers in class seven or eight. At home we used to get the weekly Jaijaidin. Once, my elder brother even won a black-and-white Panasonic television for a story he wrote for that magazine. They had travelled from Fakirhat in Bagerhat to Dhaka, crossing five rivers, to collect the prize. The year was 1992.
I still remember reading newspapers at Dr Khandakar’s shop in Fakirhat bazar. One day Ittefaq, the next Inqilab. I was in class nine. One afternoon I was so absorbed in the paper that I didn’t notice my math teacher, Johor Lal Bose, standing behind me. The next day he scolded me harshly in the class.
I thought I would stop reading newspapers at the market. But I couldn’t.
Later I used to read Sangbad at the shop of Mani Pal, an RMP doctor. It was quieter there. People didn’t fight over job circulars the way they did with Ittefaq or Inqilab. I read many of Monajatuddin’s brilliant reports in those days.
My love for newspapers made me a predictable winner of one of the top three prizes in the school’s annual general knowledge competition.
After one exam, I went to my maternal uncle’s home in 1993, in Shah Auliabag village. My cousin Ujjal insisted I enter a local general knowledge contest. I answered all ten questions correctly. I could already picture the glass plate they were going to award the winner.
Recently, the international page carried a large photo of Putin with the North Korean leader. My younger son, who is in class five, came home from school and stood beside me as I read the page. I pointed at the picture and asked, “Do you know who this is?”
But during the prize ceremony, the announcer declared: “One person answered all questions correctly, but he didn’t write his name. So the prize cannot be awarded.”
Everyone, including Ujjal, looked at me. I had forgotten to write my name in my excitement. And the glass plate went to someone else.
Back to the present day. I asked my son, “What must Prothom Alo do to stay relevant in the future?”
He answered instantly, “It has to walk with the youth in every possible way.”
Recently, the international page carried a large photo of Putin with the North Korean leader. My younger son, who is in class five, came home from school and stood beside me as I read the page. I pointed at the picture and asked, “Do you know who this is?”
Without hesitation he said, “North Korean leader.”
I have no idea how he learned that. Maybe social media. Maybe a friend.
He hasn’t even started reading the newspaper yet.
Life is full of limitations, yet moments like these make it feel tender and whole.
If life wants to keep writing stories like this, let it.
#Kazi Alim-uz-Zaman is deputy news editor at Prothom Alo.