Author Archives: Sid

About Sid

Abu Siddik is an Assistant Professor in English in Plassey College, Nadia,West Bengal. He is a bilingual author, editor, critic, poet, and storyteller and has been published in India and abroad. His short fictions and poems appeared in Muse India, Indian Ruminations, Setu Bilingual,,, GloMag, and in anthologies, Serious and Hilarious, Cherry Toppings, Rise to Higher Essence. He has three books— Representation of the Marginalized in Indian Writings in English (Falakata College Cell, 2015). Misfit Parents in Faulkner’s Select Texts (Authorspress, 2015), Banglar Musolman (Sopan, 2018). For more please visit him at

Nothing Can Be Done

What can a poet do in perils?

I have full faith in our guiding statement

‘Nothing can be done.’

 I can speak through my metaphors

And irony may wind my sails

And I know my words make nothing happen.

So what can be done?

‘Nothing,’ they say.

But can’t a song be sung?

Cannot a voice, be it ineffectual, be voiced?

My wings may be broken,

Or I may be caged,

Still I sing.


More I be burnt,

More mastery I have with my lyre.

On a Sunday Haat


On a Sunday haat

I’ve seen a girl

Sixteen or so,

Selling vegetables,

With a wow child on her lap,

Scrambling for breasts.  

The girl dithers,

And fears the male eyes,

They aren’t her suitors,

All busy gentle clients,

Time is money,

And not a minute more they spare.

So what’s the choice?

Some faces are known,

And many strange,

A festival day she calculates,

And looks sideways,

 And tears asunder the door of subsistence.

Beginning days were hard,

She was shy, and timid,

And knew not the ways of the bazaar,           

Day by day,

She counts coins,

And becomes bold.

So she wars with the lusty gazes,

 And thumps her baby

Under her sari,

And the child gropes and scrabbles

And sucks her mother,

And she flashes.

I Ask You Friends

I ask you friends,

Am I to touch the feet of the tyrants?

Or demolish their white towers?

Am I to kill the killers?

Or forgive them in tears?

Am I to swallow the sweet pills?

Or resist the orators?

Am I to raise my voice against the ills?

Or be a mute spectator and carry the wounds?

Am I to support the traitors of my people?

Or smash their wings to the ground?

Am I to witness to a hauling of a girl by wolves?

Or cut their secret things and fling them to dust?

Where are the Folks?

Where are the folks?

Street is deserted and dull,

Shops some gutted,

Some shuttered.

Where are the birds

That sway on these electric loops?

Where is the shoe-shine boy

Who smiles and shines my shoes

At that corner?

Where are the fruit sellers

Who sit by the wall of this gold showroom

And shout?

The air is heavy,

Smoke smouldering

Burnt tyres and bamboo poles

Scattered, diffused at my step.

An uneasy calm

Lulls the city to sleep!

I Smile

I smile

When a gale whisks my hair.

I smile

When the day is bright.

I smile

When the night-air whispers.

I smile

When a day dies.

I smile

When children play in fields.

I smile

When peasants sow their fields.

I smile

When the fish dive in ponds.

I smile

When a mother milks her babe.

I smile

When rains patter on the roofs.

I smile

When trees rustle.

I smile

When rivers swirl half-hidden by ridges.

I smile

When the hills are in sleep.

I smile

When the gardens bloom.

I smile

When orchards hung low with fruits.