PHOTO: COLLECTED

NAZMUS SADAT

It is a Tuesday afternoon in Dhaka. Cars are honking, fumes are rising. A banker named Anirban rear-ends another car—typical for the city. Until he steps out. He sees that the other driver has been dead for what seems like days but is still moving. And he wants to talk.

This, we might call, for lack of a better term, the Bangladeshi Gothic. Its haunted spaces look nothing like the crumbling castles of its European ancestors; instead, terror emerges from Dhaka flyovers, government offices, and village lanes. Its protagonists are not knights or clergymen but bankers, doctors, freelance exorcists, and secret state agencies working for the PMO. Its theological ideas are drawn not from folklore alone, but also from scripture and the lived rituals of Islamic practice.

The books discussed in this essay reveal a certain movement taking shape across different settings, tones, and generations. Some are urban thrillers, some domestic hauntings, some rural exorcism tales, and some theological adventures. Yet all ask the same questions: what happens when institutions fail, when justice is delayed, and when the past refuses to remain past?

This literature uses the supernatural to ask unsettling questions about justice, history, and power. It imagines institutions capable of confronting evil—and in doing so, quietly points to the ones we already live with. These books summon ghosts that carry the weight of 1971, of war criminals who prospered, and of wounds that official narratives failed to close. It creates antiheroes who operate in moral grey zones because easy answers no longer convince us.

Take, for instance, the opening of Aamer Ahmed’s novel Pappinjar (Batighar Prokashoni, 2019). No single work announces these ambitions more vividly—and it does so in a traffic jam. Horror no longer waits for midnight; it appears in rush hour and demands to be taken seriously in broad daylight. But Pappinjar is not alone. Elsewhere, an aristocratic lineage is cursed by an entity from the Garo Hills—embedding horror within regional history and geography. In another, rural politics are entangled with black magic and vengeful jinns, where power operates as much through the unseen as through the visible. On the surface, these are genre thrills, but beneath them lies something more serious: a deliberate re-situation of the Gothic within distinctly Bangladeshi social and spatial realities. That repositioning—from night to noon, from myth to municipality—signals a literary movement taking shape. Bangladeshi writers are shaping something rare: an indigenous occult procedural that treats faith, folklore, and institutional power as moving parts of the same engine. They deploy demons and exorcism not to escape reality, but to argue with it—about justice, history, and who we become when the law fails us.

Steering away from the traditional crumbling castles, Bangladeshi Gothic has discovered its own architecture of terror, and it looks suspiciously like the government real estate. In Pappinjar , Ahmed introduces the Directorate of Special Investigation (DSI)—a secret agency under the Prime Minister’s Office tasked with handling, recording and archiving all supernatural phenomena. The DSI maintains archives and library, relic rooms, and a Medical & Preservation Room. Enchanted artifacts, like the Maddiya min Hattusha dagger or the Goyjju Hua (Demon Detection Box), are studied under fluorescent lights for containment, analysis and use. The administrative detail is meticulous: reporting hierarchies, jurisdictional turf wars, etc. It is Marvel’s S.H.I.E.L.D. by way of the Bangladesh Secretariat—and we recognise it because we already know the parameters (as well as the failures) of this system. The question here then arises: if an institution must be invented to confront ancient evil, what does that say about the institutions we already possess? In a country where bureaucratic failure is a daily lived experience, watching a fictional agency function smoothly almost seems utopian.

Set against post-1971 Bangladesh (perhaps during the ’90s), M J Babu’s novel Djinn (Grantharajjo Books, 2022) follows Sajed, and his wife Tareen, who adopt a young girl named Mahaa after being unable to conceive—an intimate decision that soon draws them into an unexpected and supernatural journey alongside Muazzin Hafej. As the supernatural takes hold, beliefs are tested, and a cryptic adventure unfolds. Mohaimin Arefin’s novel Porompora (Iha Prokash, 2022) turns horror domestic: a wealthy family’s mansion becomes a prison of inherited guilt, with curses passed down like heirlooms and death arriving before every wedding. With the last heir targeted to end the Rahman family’s legacy, the question lingers: will they break the curse, or become its next victims? Nabiha Nupur’s novella “Ekhane Bhoot Tarano Hoy” (Satirtho Prokashona, 2025), moves terror to rural Bangladesh, where black magic becomes social technology—petty, vindictive, transactional. The village becomes a haunted house, every relationship potentially a trap.

These are just a few. What unites these settings and creates one of the characteristics of Bangladeshi Gothic is their ordinariness—the horror emerges from traffic jams, tenancy disputes, fluorescent offices, and villages thick with rumor. This grounding makes the supernatural incursion more threatening. When the uncanny rubs shoulders with everyday life, it stops being a foreign concept that we find in western literature.

Then there is theology. Much mainstream western horror rarely attempts the meticulous classification of the demon or djinn. But M J Babu through his novel Djinn , has seemed to create a theological textbook disguised as a thriller. Here, we learn about ifrit and marid djinns, their habitats and relationships with humans, and the ethics of exorcism. The book delves into origins, creation theories, types of black magic, signs of possession, and methods and precise Quranic verses required for protection against the dark arts. These elements are built into the narrative framework in an engaging way. Many Bangladeshi readers approach these books with a lived, intimate relationship with the spiritual world—djinns are not merely metaphors but familiar beings named in the scriptures, discussed in sermons, and whispered about in family stories. “Ekhane Bhoot Tarano Hoy” similarly portrays ruqyah (Islamic exorcism) with clear research, blending ancient wisdom with contemporary storytelling. The rituals feel real because they are: drawn from practices still observed, prayers still recited. This theological sophistication distinguishes the genre from mere entertainment.

This is an excerpt. Read the full essay on The Daily Star and Star Books and Literature websites.

Nazmus Sadat is a Strategic Business Leader from the Bangladeshi corporate sector with extensive experience in key industries—including knitwear (RMG), home textiles, and footwear. He can be reached at nazmus.sadat@hotmail.com.