Flashback of a Lazy Author
Sabarna Roy is an author of critically acclaimed bestselling literary fiction of seven published books. They are: Pentacles; Frosted Glass; Abyss; Winter Poems; Random Subterranean Mosaic: 2012 2018; Etchings of the First Quarter of 2020, and Fractured Mosaic.
He has been awarded the Literoma Laureate Award in 2019, Literoma Star Achiever Award 2020, Random Subterranean Mosaic: 2012 2018 won the best book of the year 2019, the A List Award for excellence in fiction by the NewsX Media House, Certificate for The Real Super Heroes for spreading a spirit of positivity and hope during the COVID-19 Pandemic from Forever Star India Award 2020, and the Certificate for Participation in the Indo Russian Friendship Celebration 2020, the Literoma Golden Star Award 2020: Lifetime Achievement, and the Certificate of Appreciation for featuring in the Hall of Fame of Literoma International Symposium on Literature & Festival 2020, and the Times Eminent Writer of the Year award by The Times of India Group in Kolkata in February 2021.
Sabarna is one of the winners of the Champions of Change 2020 Award given out by Interactive Forum on Indian Economy supported by Government of India, and one of the Economic Times Newsmakers (East Zone) of 2021.
Very recently, the last literary work of Sabarna Roy, titled: Fractured Mosaic has been converted into an Amazon Audible book by the American elocutionist, Grant Tharp and released in the USA and UK markets. Earlier, Sabarnas two more literary works, Pentacles and Winter Poems were converted into Amazon Audible books by the Australian jazz singer, Colin Newcomer. Perhaps, Sabarna is the first author from the Eastern India whose book was converted into an Amazon Audible book in the year way back in 2014.
The unsung intermittent rains; the sometimes-drenched-and-sometimes-arid winding and crumbling streets gaping craters and potholes; the melancholy crows, common mynas, swallows and sparrows hanging on wires and hopping on fields (yet to be grazed by real-estate agents) restless at the inconstancy of rains; the transgender beggars at street-corners half-drenched, sick of cough and cold banging tirelessly on the closed windows of sedans; the concrete and steel portals ever-changing, ever-transcending the city skyline; the sky once full of gray clouds fleeting across and threatening to pour and once looking like the autumnal sky; the breeze like the slow tempo of a saxophone starting; the aroma-king-lemon trees, the mango trees, the amra trees, the kalo jam trees, the jamrul trees, the fig trees, the batabi-lemon trees of the village woods on the east of our apartment-building green, fresh and ripe; the simmering heat trapping like the vision of a Siberian tiger: jazz-up together to form a mysterious song in my soul.
To listen to this song more closely I walk the whole day like an abandoned wayfarer through crowds of unknown people. I do not give up. I keep on walking. For it is the walk that liberates the orchestra playing in my soul a kind of music I had heard at a jazz bar in Damascus long before the fiasco in Syria was to begin.
In the evening I stop at the Starbucks at City Center I finally; well I have been feeling hungry and thirsty for a very long time I recall. I order for a Chicken Mozzarella Turnover, a Vanilla Cruffin, a small cappuccino and a bottle of water. Waiting for my food to cool down (I cannot have things too hot) I reply to my publisher on messenger: I will definitely send my manuscript consisting of my writings between 2012 and 2018 by September end a compilation of tiny stories, tiny reflective notes on recurrent thoughts and current issues and a few narrative poems. Then I began to think, where should I park myself to assemble my scattered writings. I concluded, of course, a luxury hotel at Dharamshala Mcleodganj, would be a perfect place.
I have taken a decision: This time around I will be involved in aggressive marketing of my book. In spite of nil publicity and networking, clubbing and I-pat-you-and-you-pat-me from my end (also because I have been acutely lonely all my life), not conforming to the instructions and advice of my publisher, my earlier 4 books ran to second editions all of them. I have always believed writers should do nothing but write. They should not even defend their works. What to talk of publicity? But then who cares what I believe in. Looking at the trend on social media in the last few years I have decided to change for worse.
In good and bad films including, a common metaphor is often used to depict the journey of life: moving trains rapidly changing tracks. Trains change tracks to a given plan and order. In life, it does not happen that way. We choose and abandon random paths, however much we would like to believe it is the outcome of our own volition. In American Beauty there is a wonderful scene of a plastic bag flying in the wind to the wind's fancy. Life, retrospectively, is almost like that.