Md Abul Kasem
Bio
Dr. Md. Abul Kasem, homeopathic physician & writer, shares thought-provoking stories on history, society & leadership. Author of “অযোগ্য ও লোভী নেতৃত্বের কারণে বাংলাদেশ ব্যর্থ”, he inspires change through truth & awareness.
Stories (29)
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The Power of Peace: Gandhi’s Nonviolent Movement and Its Global Legacy
Introduction: A Different Kind of Freedom Fight Most revolutions in history were won with guns, wars, and violence. But Mahatma Gandhi showed the world another way. Instead of fighting with weapons, he used peace, truth, and courage. His idea of nonviolence (known as ahimsa) gave India freedom from British rule and inspired people around the world to fight for justice without bloodshed.
By Md Abul Kasem5 months ago in Earth
The Rise and Fall of America’s Infamous Criminals: A Dark History of Crime
Introduction: The Fascination with Crime Crime has always been a mirror of society’s hidden struggles—poverty, greed, power, and rebellion. Throughout history, certain criminals have not only shocked the world with their brutality but also fascinated people with their cunning, influence, and daring escapes. From the Wild West outlaws to the mafia bosses of the 20th century, the history of crime in America reveals more than just violence—it uncovers a story of ambition gone wrong.
By Md Abul Kasem5 months ago in Criminal
Rising from Rock Bottom: A Motivational Story of Resilience and Hope
Introduction: Life has a way of testing us in moments we least expect. For some, challenges come in small waves. For others, they strike like storms, leaving behind broken dreams and shattered confidence. Yet, history and human experience prove one timeless truth—no matter how deep the fall, it is always possible to rise again.
By Md Abul Kasem5 months ago in Motivation
Haunting Memories of World War II: The Nazi Regime’s Dark Secrets
Introduction: World War II (1939–1945) remains one of the darkest chapters in human history. Beyond the battlefield victories and political shifts, the Nazi regime under Adolf Hitler left behind chilling secrets—haunting memories of cruelty, oppression, and inhumane experiments that scarred generations.
By Md Abul Kasem5 months ago in History
The Golden Era of the Pala Empire: Ancient Glory of Bengal
Introduction: The Forgotten Empire of the East When we think of India’s great dynasties, the Mauryas and Guptas often dominate the discussion. Yet, Bengal once witnessed a golden age under the Pala Empire (8th–12th century CE). This dynasty, born in the heart of Bengal, ruled for nearly four centuries. The Palas were not only strong rulers but also patrons of art, education, and Buddhism. Their reign turned Bengal into a global center of culture and learning.
By Md Abul Kasem5 months ago in Education
The Lost City of Panam Nagar: Secrets of Bengal’s Past
Introduction Nestled in the heart of Sonargaon, just 27 kilometers from Dhaka, lies Panam Nagar—a ghostly town that once flourished as a hub of trade, culture, and aristocracy. Today, its crumbling mansions, moss-covered walls, and silent streets whisper stories of a glorious past and a mysterious downfall. Often called the “Lost City of Bengal,” Panam Nagar is not only a historical treasure but also a living reminder of how time, greed, and neglect can erase entire civilizations from the map.
By Md Abul Kasem5 months ago in Earth
Top 10 Life-Changing Books You Must Read. AI-Generated.
Books have the power to transform perspectives, inspire action, and reshape lives. The following list of ten life-changing books spans genres and eras, offering insights into personal growth, resilience, philosophy, and human connection. Each book has resonated with millions, providing timeless wisdom or practical tools for navigating life’s challenges. This 800-word guide highlights why these books are must-reads and how they can impact your life.
By Md Abul Kasem5 months ago in BookClub
The Whispering Doll
The Whispering Doll Emily had always hated the attic. It was a forgotten realm in her family's old farmhouse, filled with cobwebs, dusty trunks, and the faint smell of mildew. But on that rainy afternoon in late October, boredom drove her up the creaky ladder. She was twelve, too old for dolls but young enough to be curious about the relics her grandmother had left behind.
By Md Abul Kasem5 months ago in Horror
The Hollow Guest
The rain lashed against the windows of the old puritanical house, a grim shower that echoed through its empty halls. Clara had inherited the place from her great-aunt, a woman she slightly knew, who’d lived alone and failed alone in this worsening relic on the edge of city. The house was a maze of creaking floorboards and shadowed corners, its wallpaper shelling like dead skin. Clara, a realistic woman in her thirties, didn't believe in ghosts. She’d come to sort through the clutter, vend what she could, and put the place on the request. But as the storm raged outdoors, the house felt alive, its palpitation wheezing in the walls. She started in the garret, where dust motes danced in the weak light of a single bulb. Trunks overflowed with moth-eat clothes and yellowed letters. One point stood out: a small, tarnished glass with an ornate frame, its glass clouded and depraved. Clara’s reflection looked malformed, her eyes too large, her mouth a thin rent. She set it away, unsettled, and moved on to a mound of journals. Her great-aunt’s handwriting was spidery, compulsive, filled with references to" the guest. ” It watches from the corners. It wears my face. Clara fiddled, dismissing it as the ramblings of a lonely mind. Downward, the house moaned under the storm’s assault. Clara lit a fire in the salon, the dears casting fluttering murk on the walls. She tried to concentrate on listing cabinetwork, but the glass from the garret kept drawing her eye. She’d brought it down without thinking, propping it on the mantel. Now, it sounded to gawk back, its face splashing noiselessly, though she told herself it was just the firelight. By night, the storm had worsened, and the power flitted out. Clara cursed, fumbling for her phone’s flashlight. The ray cut through the darkness, revealing the salon’s faded majesty — and commodity differently. A shadow moved in the corner, too altitudinous, too thin, its edges blurring into the dusk. She swung the light toward it, heart pounding, but there was nothing. Just the glass reflecting her pale face and the empty room. She laughed nervously, reprimanding herself. “ Get a grip, Clara. ” But as she turned down, a soft creak came from the staircase. Not the house settling — deliberate, like steps. She set, hardening. Another creak, near. Her phone’s light quivered in her hand as she crept toward the hall. The air felt heavy, thick with the scent of damp wood and sharper, like burnt hair. “ Hello" Her voice was a tale, swallowed by the house. No answer, but the creaking stopped. She reached the staircase and shone her light overhead. The darkness sounded to palpitate, as if the house itself was breathing. Also, from the wharf over, a faint giggle — grandly, childlike, and hugely wrong. Clara’s blood ran cold. She was alone. She was supposed to be alone. She backed down, retreating to the salon, where the fire had downscale to embers. The glass caught her eye again, and this time, her reflection wasn't hers. The face was hers same brown eyes, same sharp cheekbones, but it smiled when she didn't, its lips entwining too wide, showing too numerous teeth. She stumbled back, knocking over a president. The glass fell, shattering on the domicile. Shards scattered, each one reflecting that same grotesque smile. The giggle came again, from far and wide and nowhere. Clara seized her phone and ran for the frontal door, but it wouldn't budge. The cinch was jammed, the handle cold wave as ice. She pounded on the wood, screaming for help, but the storm drowned her out. Commodity brushed her neck, light as a breath, and she spun around. Nothing. Just the dark, and the sense of being watched. She fled to the kitchen, blocking the door with a table. Her phone was at 5 battery, the flashlight dimming. She tried to call for help, but the signal was dead. The air grew colder, the murk thick. Also, from the other side of the hedge, a voice — her voice, but concave, mocking. “ Clara, let me in. ” She choked back a sob, clinging a kitchen cutter. The voice kept talking, reciting her studies, her fears, her nonage secrets. “ You left Mom alone when she was sick," it whizzed. “ You didn't indeed cry at her burial," Clara screamed, hurling the cutter at the door. It stuck, jiggling, but the voice only laughed. The house sounded to close in, walls bending inward. She ran upstairs this time, locking herself in a bedroom. The glass’s shards were there, incredibly, scattered on the bottom. In each piece, that face — her face, but not — goggled back, unblinking — the room filled with whispers, a chorus of her voice, culminating, riding. “ You can't leave. You’re part of me now. ” Clara sank to the bottom, handing over her knowledge. The storm outside faded, replaced by a silence so deep it hurt. She felt it also — the guest. It wasn't outside her, not presently. It was in her skin, her blood, her studies. Her reflection in the shards blinked, though her eyes stayed open. When morning came, the storm had passed. The house stood quietly, its door uncorked. Clara was gone, her car still in the drive. The glass was whole again, its glass clear, reflecting nothing but the empty room. And in the garret, a new journal entry appeared, in Clara’s handwriting It wears my face now. It’s home.
By Md Abul Kasem5 months ago in Horror
**The Silent Fade**
**The Silent Fade** Ellie’s phone glowed in the dim light of her apartment, casting shadows on thah. Their last exchange was ten days ago—a playful back-and-forth about their favorite sci-fi movies, ending with his promise to pick a film fore walls. She scrolled through her messages, pausing at the thread with No their next date. Then, nothing. No calls, no texts, no sign of him. The word “ghosted” buzzed in her mind, sharp and cold, like a door slamming shut.
By Md Abul Kasem5 months ago in Horror
The Vanishing Connection
The Vanishing Connection Lila sat at her favorite café, the one with the chipped mugs and the faint smell of burnt coffee.Her phone rested face-down on the table, a silent accusation. She stirred her latte, watching the foam swirl into nothingness, much like her connection with Sam had over the past two weeks. They’d met three months ago on a dating app, their chats sparking with wit and promise. Late-night texts turned into long phone calls, then dates—real ones, with laughter and lingering glances. But now, nothing. No calls, no texts, no explanation. Just a void where Sam used to be.She’d sent a message yesterday, casual but probing: Hey, are you okay? Haven’t heard from you in a bit. No response. Not even the three dots of a reply in progress. Ghosted. The word felt sharp, like a splinter under her skin. Lila wasn’t new to dating, but this was her first ghost, and it stung in a way she hadn’t expected.At first, she’d rationalized it. Maybe Sam was busy. Maybe their phone died. Maybe they were sick. But days stretched into a week, then two, and the silence grew heavier. She scrolled through their old texts, searching for clues. Had she said something wrong? Was their last date—a cozy night at a bookstore, sharing poetry—too much? She’d thought it was perfect, the way Sam’s eyes lit up reading Neruda aloud. But maybe she’d misread everything.Lila’s friend Mara, ever pragmatic, had shrugged it off over brunch. “People ghost because they’re cowards, not because of you. Move on.” But moving on felt like surrendering to the void. She wanted answers, not closure. Subsequently, she did what she swore she wouldn’t: she sent one last text. If you’re done, just say it. I deserve that much. She hit send, her heart pounding, and waited. Nothing.Across town, Sam sat in their cramped apartment, staring at Lila’s message. Guilt gnawed at them, a familiar ache. They hadn’t meant to ghost. At first, it was just a missed text—they’d been slammed at work, their new job demanding 12-hour shifts. They’d planned to reply, to explain, but the longer they waited, the harder it became. What could they say? Sorry, I got overwhelmed and bailed? It sounded pathetic. Lila deserved better than that, better than them. So, they’d let the silence stretch, hoping it would speak for them.Sam wasn’t a stranger to ghosting. They’d done it before, to others who’d gotten too close, too fast. It wasn’t malice; it was fear. Fear of vulnerability, of disappointing someone who saw them as more than they felt they were. Lila was different, though. Her laugh was unguarded, her questions sharp but kind. She made Sam want to be better, and that scared them most of all. So, they’d retreated, leaving her to wonder why.Back at the café, Lila’s phone buzzed. Her heart leapt, but it was just Mara, checking in. Are you okay? Don’t let this jerk ruin your vibe. Lila smiled faintly but felt no relief. She opened her dating app, thumb hovering over Sam’s profile. Their last message stared back at her: Can’t wait to see you again. The lie stung. She deleted the chat, then their number, each tap a small act of defiance against the hurt.But the questions lingered. Why was ghosting so easy for some? Was it the apps, making people disposable? Or was it deeper, a collective fear of honesty in a world that rewarded detachment? Lila didn’t know. She only knew the ache of being left without closure, like a book missing its final chapter.Days later, Sam walked past the bookstore where they’d last seen Lila. The memory hit hard: her reading poetry, her voice soft but sure. They pulled out their phone, typed a message, and then deleted it. What was the point? Too much time had passed. Instead, they walked on, the weight of their silence heavier than ever.Lila, meanwhile, started again. A new match, a new coffee date. She laughed, she listened, but a part of her stayed guarded, waiting for the next silence. Ghosting hadn’t just taken Sam; it had taken a piece of her trust, leaving her to wonder if every connection was just one text away from vanishing.In the end, neither found closure. Sam carried their guilt, Lila her questions. The space between them, once filled with possibility, was now just a ghost, haunting them both in its quiet absence.
By Md Abul Kasem5 months ago in Horror
