On the Fallen Leaves
It is about a daily evening picture of our town's Barrack Square. This way, the sun mellows, the day wanes, and evening appears.
Freevoice
I write because there is some lie that I want to expose, some fact to which I want to draw attention, said George Orwell. As a writer, I never kowtow to the whims and dictates of the sacred godmen or godwomen, the political bigots and hypocrites, dealers of laymen, the dishonest and self-serving intellectuals, traders of religions, the betrayers of ‘other’ Indians who eke out a living by their sweat, who are living in fear for being lynched for this and that.
Call Me Abu Siddik
It is an assertion of my identity, of my birth and upbringing, of my family and culture, of my dream and desire.
Prelude to a Riot
Set in an unnamed southern town amid lush plantations of pepper, bananas, coffee, rice, and narrated in soliloquy Annie Zaidi’s 184- page novel, Prelude to a Riot is a brilliant, bold, honest, critical commentary on contemporary India.
A Sabjiwali
Masi called me, and asked for coming another day to hear the story of her son, aged sixteen only. The boy asked Rs. 30 from her, and she refused, and the boy killed himself by consuming a bottle of pesticides, which she kept hidden in a corner of the room wrapped with paper. And today was the twentieth day of her boy’s death!
A Shirtless Man at a Graveyard
Then I saw the shirtless man at a far northern end of the graveyard. He was murmuring and looked sheepish. He collected a fistful of wet leaves and slowly spread them over a sunken grave covered with weeds and twigs. Now he was brushing his eyes, his head; now he was smiling comically.
Betrayers of Indian Muslims
A poem on the deceits Indian Muslims suffer from their good neighbours, friends, godi media, poor leaders and average intellectuals
New Year Celebration
A poem on the fear and betrayal of Indian Muslims who live only to be killed in riots or to be lynched with the support of the state.
A Tribal Mother
A poem on the the struggle and resilience of a tea tribal mother of Dooars, depicting the poverty and illness of her daily existence.
Jute Planters
A poem on the hope and hopelessness of jute planters of Bengal, depicting dreams and nightmares of the Bengal peasantry in general.
Lynch the ways of the ‘others’
Madrasas are waiting for coming flames,
For they are terrorist hubs
Medical schools are not required,
For they presage our age-old ways of healing