2 days Ago
In the early 2000s, when I was studying at Jahangirnagar University, on many afternoons, I would board the university bus to Dhaka and get off at Shahbagh, heading straight to Amar Ekushey Boi Mela, the largest book fair in the country. But entering the fair wasn't always easy. Sometimes, the queue stretched all the way opposite the Faculty of Fine Arts.
The moment I would enter the fair, the scent of new books, the hustle of stall arrangements, and the sheer curiosity in the eyes of the visitors would engulf me. The fair was a grand festival, a place where writers, publishers, and readers were intertwined in an unspoken bond. Some waited eagerly for their favourite author's latest book, while others wandered in search of old classics.
The air buzzed with literary discussions—"How are this year's books?"; "Which publisher is leading the sales?"; or "Has your favourite writer's new novel been released yet?" The fair also became a meeting place for familiar faces—be it authors, poets, literary enthusiasts or long-lost friends. As the afternoon faded into evening, the atmosphere grew even more magical. The sky turned crimson, the fairgrounds echoed with footsteps, book launches took place on the main stage, and poetry reading sessions would often unfold nearby.
Many strolled around with book-filled bags, savouring the scent of freshly printed pages as they carefully selected their next read. Somewhere in a quiet corner, a reader flipped through pages of poetry, while another stood at a stall scanning the shelves for a cherished writer's new release. Some simply gathered with friends and engaged in deep conversations about literature and life.
The fair offered something rare: the chance for writers and readers to connect directly. The authors, whose words captivated readers all year long, were now present in person. Book signings, launch events, and lively discussions created a space for an intimate literary exchange.
Writers themselves often admitted that no other event allowed them to experience the love of their readers so closely. For us, the book fair was not just an event; it was a reflection of our love for Bangla language and literature, an emotion, a culture. In the month of February—so deeply tied to our history of linguistic sacrifice—the fair symbolised a deep-rooted connection to our heritage.
The entire event carried an essence that made us feel as though we weren't just there to buy books; we were there to embrace our language, to immerse ourselves in literature. Back in my university days, I didn't have the money to buy books. I would circle the fairgrounds a few times before heading back to campus.
But before leaving, I would always stop by the north gate of Baitul Mukarram, where a vast street-side book market thrived. If one searched diligently, treasures could be found—classic books priced as low as Tk 10. Years passed.
Eventually, I found myself returning to the fair every year, now with a bag filled with books. I would share my excitement on social media, posting pictures of my new finds. The books I collected in February became my reading material for the rest of the year.
No matter where my work took me, I always slipped a book into my bag. I was like an ant gathering food for the year—except I was gathering stories, ideas, and inspiration. For publishers, too, the fair was a beacon of opportunity.
It provided a platform for new authors to see their dreams materialise, allowing publishers to gauge the pulse of readers. Many publishers relied on this event to make a profit. But then, this year, I came across a troubling report about the 2025 fair, published by a newspaper called Bonik Barta .
It revealed that book sales this year had been the lowest in recent memory. Even major publishing houses suffered a drastic decline. Prothoma Prokashon saw a 60 percent drop in sales.
Panjeree Publications, which sold Tk 95 lakh worth of books last year, managed only Tk 65 lakh this year. Adarsha Prokashoni's sales fell from Tk 60 lakh to Tk 30 lakh, while The University Press Limited (UPL) also experienced a steep decline from Tk 60 lakh to Tk 30 lakh. Batighar barely maintained its figures, while Adorn Publications, Genius Publications, Kakoli Prokashoni, Salahuddin Boighar, and others saw their sales cut in half.
Even the Bangla Academy, which had sold books worth Tk 1.36 crore last year, recorded a sharp fall to Tk 61 lakh. This decline was shocking, especially since expectations had been high following the fall of a long-oppressive regime in August last year.
The assumption was that, with renewed enthusiasm, people would flock to the fair and book sales would surge. But instead, both footfall and sales plummeted. Why did this happen? Some attributed it to a drop in book releases this year.
Others pointed to the rise of online book purchases—people now trusted digital platforms, finding them more convenient and reliable. Then, there was the growing issue of book piracy. Illegal websites continued to upload PDFs of new releases, making it easier for readers to access books for free.
The dominance of social media and short-form content on platforms like YouTube, Facebook, and Instagram further contributed to declining reading habits. The distractions were endless, and books, it seemed, were losing their place in people's lives. But these weren't new problems.
These trends had been building for years. So why did sales nosedive so drastically this year? Perhaps the biggest reason was that this year's fair had been reduced to a general marketplace, losing its literary essence. Reports circulated of stalls selling sarees, bangles, cosmetics, and even street food inside the fairgrounds.
The fair was transformed into a bazaar rather than a literary sanctuary. Political controversies further alienated readers. Early in the fair, an image of the ousted prime minister's being used in a dustbin went viral.
This incident led many supporters of her political party to boycott the fair. Meanwhile, the fairgrounds saw frequent disruptions by mobs. Banning of certain books and harassment of a publisher sent another chilling message.
[4] Controversies surrounding the Bangla Academy Literary Awards—where recipients were announced and then abruptly removed—added to the chaos. Even the vibrant children's section, once a highlight of the fair, felt underwhelming this year. Previously, kids could immerse themselves in colourful books, comics, and stories that nurtured their love for reading.
But that presence was noticeably diminished. The Amar Ekushey Boi Mela is deeply rooted in our history, born to commemorate the sacrifices of the 1952 Language Movement. What began in 1972 as a small initiative by the Bangla Academy gradually evolved into a grand literary festival.
Over the years, it expanded beyond the academy grounds into the vast open spaces of Suhrawardy Udyan. It became a place where thousands of readers gathered, their hands filled with book lists, their hearts filled with dreams. The book fair is not merely about buying books—it is about ideas, perspectives, and a love for language.
And as long as Bangalees exist, this fair must endure. But to ensure its survival, we must keep it above controversy. At a time when books are already struggling for relevance, we cannot afford to let the one event that still inspires readers slip away.
If interest in this fair fade, the loss will be irreparable. Mohammed Norul Alam Raju is a researcher and development activist pursuing higher studies in development policy and management in Belgium. He can be contacted at [email protected] .
Views expressed in this article are the author's own. Follow The Daily Star Opinion on Facebook for the latest opinions, commentaries and analyses by experts and professionals. To contribute your article or letter to The Daily Star Opinion, see our guidelines for submission .
In the early 2000s, when I was studying at Jahangirnagar University, on many afternoons, I would board the university bus to Dhaka and get off at Shahbagh, heading straight to Amar Ekushey Boi Mela, the largest book fair in the country. But entering the fair wasn't always easy. Sometimes, the queue stretched all the way opposite the Faculty of Fine Arts.
The moment I would enter the fair, the scent of new books, the hustle of stall arrangements, and the sheer curiosity in the eyes of the visitors would engulf me. The fair was a grand festival, a place where writers, publishers, and readers were intertwined in an unspoken bond. Some waited eagerly for their favourite author's latest book, while others wandered in search of old classics.
The air buzzed with literary discussions—"How are this year's books?"; "Which publisher is leading the sales?"; or "Has your favourite writer's new novel been released yet?" The fair also became a meeting place for familiar faces—be it authors, poets, literary enthusiasts or long-lost friends. As the afternoon faded into evening, the atmosphere grew even more magical. The sky turned crimson, the fairgrounds echoed with footsteps, book launches took place on the main stage, and poetry reading sessions would often unfold nearby.
Many strolled around with book-filled bags, savouring the scent of freshly printed pages as they carefully selected their next read. Somewhere in a quiet corner, a reader flipped through pages of poetry, while another stood at a stall scanning the shelves for a cherished writer's new release. Some simply gathered with friends and engaged in deep conversations about literature and life.
The fair offered something rare: the chance for writers and readers to connect directly. The authors, whose words captivated readers all year long, were now present in person. Book signings, launch events, and lively discussions created a space for an intimate literary exchange.
Writers themselves often admitted that no other event allowed them to experience the love of their readers so closely. For us, the book fair was not just an event; it was a reflection of our love for Bangla language and literature, an emotion, a culture. In the month of February—so deeply tied to our history of linguistic sacrifice—the fair symbolised a deep-rooted connection to our heritage.
The entire event carried an essence that made us feel as though we weren't just there to buy books; we were there to embrace our language, to immerse ourselves in literature. Back in my university days, I didn't have the money to buy books. I would circle the fairgrounds a few times before heading back to campus.
But before leaving, I would always stop by the north gate of Baitul Mukarram, where a vast street-side book market thrived. If one searched diligently, treasures could be found—classic books priced as low as Tk 10. Years passed.
Eventually, I found myself returning to the fair every year, now with a bag filled with books. I would share my excitement on social media, posting pictures of my new finds. The books I collected in February became my reading material for the rest of the year.
No matter where my work took me, I always slipped a book into my bag. I was like an ant gathering food for the year—except I was gathering stories, ideas, and inspiration. For publishers, too, the fair was a beacon of opportunity.
It provided a platform for new authors to see their dreams materialise, allowing publishers to gauge the pulse of readers. Many publishers relied on this event to make a profit. But then, this year, I came across a troubling report about the 2025 fair, published by a newspaper called Bonik Barta .
It revealed that book sales this year had been the lowest in recent memory. Even major publishing houses suffered a drastic decline. Prothoma Prokashon saw a 60 percent drop in sales.
Panjeree Publications, which sold Tk 95 lakh worth of books last year, managed only Tk 65 lakh this year. Adarsha Prokashoni's sales fell from Tk 60 lakh to Tk 30 lakh, while The University Press Limited (UPL) also experienced a steep decline from Tk 60 lakh to Tk 30 lakh. Batighar barely maintained its figures, while Adorn Publications, Genius Publications, Kakoli Prokashoni, Salahuddin Boighar, and others saw their sales cut in half.
Even the Bangla Academy, which had sold books worth Tk 1.36 crore last year, recorded a sharp fall to Tk 61 lakh. This decline was shocking, especially since expectations had been high following the fall of a long-oppressive regime in August last year.
The assumption was that, with renewed enthusiasm, people would flock to the fair and book sales would surge. But instead, both footfall and sales plummeted. Why did this happen? Some attributed it to a drop in book releases this year.
Others pointed to the rise of online book purchases—people now trusted digital platforms, finding them more convenient and reliable. Then, there was the growing issue of book piracy. Illegal websites continued to upload PDFs of new releases, making it easier for readers to access books for free.
The dominance of social media and short-form content on platforms like YouTube, Facebook, and Instagram further contributed to declining reading habits. The distractions were endless, and books, it seemed, were losing their place in people's lives. But these weren't new problems.
These trends had been building for years. So why did sales nosedive so drastically this year? Perhaps the biggest reason was that this year's fair had been reduced to a general marketplace, losing its literary essence. Reports circulated of stalls selling sarees, bangles, cosmetics, and even street food inside the fairgrounds.
The fair was transformed into a bazaar rather than a literary sanctuary. Political controversies further alienated readers. Early in the fair, an image of the ousted prime minister's being used in a dustbin went viral.
This incident led many supporters of her political party to boycott the fair. Meanwhile, the fairgrounds saw frequent disruptions by mobs. Banning of certain books and harassment of a publisher sent another chilling message.
[4] Controversies surrounding the Bangla Academy Literary Awards—where recipients were announced and then abruptly removed—added to the chaos. Even the vibrant children's section, once a highlight of the fair, felt underwhelming this year. Previously, kids could immerse themselves in colourful books, comics, and stories that nurtured their love for reading.
But that presence was noticeably diminished. The Amar Ekushey Boi Mela is deeply rooted in our history, born to commemorate the sacrifices of the 1952 Language Movement. What began in 1972 as a small initiative by the Bangla Academy gradually evolved into a grand literary festival.
Over the years, it expanded beyond the academy grounds into the vast open spaces of Suhrawardy Udyan. It became a place where thousands of readers gathered, their hands filled with book lists, their hearts filled with dreams. The book fair is not merely about buying books—it is about ideas, perspectives, and a love for language.
And as long as Bangalees exist, this fair must endure. But to ensure its survival, we must keep it above controversy. At a time when books are already struggling for relevance, we cannot afford to let the one event that still inspires readers slip away.
If interest in this fair fade, the loss will be irreparable. Mohammed Norul Alam Raju is a researcher and development activist pursuing higher studies in development policy and management in Belgium. He can be contacted at [email protected] .
Views expressed in this article are the author's own. Follow The Daily Star Opinion on Facebook for the latest opinions, commentaries and analyses by experts and professionals. To contribute your article or letter to The Daily Star Opinion, see our guidelines for submission .
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