Get a Biman, Mr. Postman
Delivering on a jet plane
I'm a little biman, I can't fly
Beep-beep-bo-whimper goes the Biman engine; have you a letter for me?
In any case, Biman might just quicken our postal service and renting the planes would at least show a slight rise in Biman's profit. At least someone will be using them if nothing else.
My beef is never with the post-men, for they bare the heat and the cold to deliver the letters, but rather the system which hands them their letter so late and provide very little benefit and meager pay. I have tremendous respect for postmen all over the world and I would want them to have a more comfortable job, though I am not quite sure Biman planes would provide that. Let us hope that Biman improves as it is trying to, since it is a source of pride for us, no matter what happens.
Get A Biman Mr.Postman!
Based on true stories, accounts, facts and other happenings moderately exaggerated.
By Osama Rahman
The cool, the mad and the clueless
Experiments conducted on mice at the University of California in Los Angeles showed for the first time that the central nervous system can rewire itself to create small neural pathways.
Mice who suffered damage to their spines, in the experiments, regrew some nerves and regained most of their mobility in 8 weeks. Question is, how did those experimental mice get their spines crushed in the first place? Driving and crashing miniature sports cars perhaps?
But rest assured that science now allows mice to engage in the most outrageous extreme sports with absolute impunity.
Worldwide, the rate of new cases of spinal cord injury (among humans) is between 15 and 40 cases per million every year. Mice injuries are still under study.
Scientists in Britain have devised a way to make that possible. Called Ion-Mask, it is a protective layer that bonds to the device using a plasma, or electronically charged gas, and its chemical properties allow oil and water to be repelled easily.
It was originally developed for treating soldiers' uniforms to repel toxic vapors and liquids in chemical or biological attacks.
Looking very much like a 355, it has a total of 250 squares including embroidered Ferrari badges made by Lauren and 20 more people. Supported by a steel frame (welded by Lauren), it includes 12 miles of yarn to detail mirrors, windows and tires even. An eccentric Ferrari owner can buy it to keep a real one warm during winter.
It's all part of her graduate degree. Shame that we have to settle for miserable lengthy reports instead. While you may argue this news is not really 'sciency', when needlework gets this complex, it definitely is.
This device called "trephine drill" was a cutting-edge neurosurgery tool back when portable music player meant a flute. Displayed at Phisick Medical Antiquities Collection, it would grip the skull of the patient while the doctor turned the handle on the skull drill. When you cut through the skull, you could pop out the section and stop from hitting the brain. Perfect for hot heads who needed to let off some steam.
By Sadia Islam
The clock chimed 12:00 a.m. The gentle to and fro of the rocking chair halted. Deena woke up with a start and quickly went towards the windows. She stood there silently, starry-eyed, searching for a faint trace of him. She wrapped her shawl towards her body tightly as she realized she was shivering. “More from the terror within me and less from cold.” she thought.
It was 17th December 1971. Bangladesh was no more East Pakistan. A whole eight months had passed since Shurjo, her one and only son and companion, bade her good-bye and went off to fight in the Liberation War. “I won't let you go, you didn't even receive professional training!” his mother had exclaimed. “How can I stay at home when my brothers are shedding blood and my sisters are being raped everyday? I want to be free, Ma.” Shurjo had said, humbly.
And then he was gone. Deena remembered that on his last day at home she had cooked his favourite Ilish mach with different varieties of bhorta. “God knows whether he had eaten anything after that.” Deena thought and her eyes instantly became wet with tears. It was not like she hadn't heard of him at all during these eight months. He had radioed her twice. The first time was after a long, breath-taking 2 months in June. He had said he was fine and was getting good food and accommodation. It was a very short conversation but Shurjo's voice was enough to satisfy her.
The next correspondence came through a letter in September. That letter, instead of relief, brought more pain and agony for the mother who hadn't seen her son for five months. Shurjo wrote that he was injured, according to him it was nothing serious, just a bullet that had grazed his left arm. Right now all he could think of was that he was of no use in the battle-field while his fellow freedom fighters needed him immensely. Just imagine the position of Deena after reading that! She feared the worst of her son, lying there helpless. She had almost wanted to go out in search of him when her other relatives stopped her and told her to be more feasible. Nobody knew the whereabouts of Shurjo and even if they did they would never be allowed to go to him.
Not a single account of Shurjo arrived after that. Deena was mentally prepared for the worst but she still couldn't resist herself from sitting by the windows and waiting for him.
It was almost dawn when she finally realized that she was worn out with fatigue. Her eyes were drooping with sleep and her legs were aching from standing for almost six hours.
The moment she turned back, the sound of a motor-car engine caught her attention. Deena's heart skipped a beat and she came to a stand-still. Slowly she turned around, facing the window, and opened the panes. “Am I dreaming?” she thought, because she had just caught a glimpse of a uniformed silhouette advancing towards the door. It was still dark and visibility was poor due to the fog so she couldn't see who was actually standing at the front of her door. Then she heard a cough and finally that sentence which, it seemed, she was waiting to hear, for ages, “Ma, open the door. I'm here.”
By Faria Sanjana
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