Sabarna Roy was born in Calcutta on December 15, 1967. Apart from being an author Sabarna Roy is a trained Civil Engineer who passed out with a First Class Honours Civil Engineering Degree from Jadavpur University and holds the position of Senior Vice President with Electrosteel Group. He took to creative writing in the year 2007. Thereafter, between 2010 and 2020 he has published six literary books: Pentacles, Frosted Glass, Abyss, Winter Poems, Random Subterranean Mosaic: 2012 – 2018 Time Frozen in Myriad Thoughts and Etchings of the First Quarter of 2020. The six books were published by Leadstart Publishing.
We reproduce below some of the sparkling excerpts from Sabarna Roy’s six literary books for our readers to enjoy.
Pentacles
Human characters are amplified by their reactions to trauma. People who internalize trauma are celebrated and become heroes. People who succumb to trauma are shunned and become victims. In the process, people who create trauma are forgotten and pardoned by default. That is a natural machination of time. It happens in case of warmongering communities and nation states that unleash unfortunate and unjust wars on millions of people by the sheer might of their political and military power. If we have to understand the science of trauma, it is more important to see closely how a trauma is created rather than how it is received. True love, whether for a person, a landscape, an idea or a piece of land, is believed to generate insanity. I use the adjective ‘true’ here to underline the significance of selfish gratification obtained from love, which is what almost all of us look for. Insanity, frankly, is the only symptom of true love, and this is no longer in the realm of debate. Because it is so, when love is faked as in case of shadow of love, we see consequences of faked insanity. Whether real or fake, to be able to demonstrate love, it is required upon the lover to demonstrate his or her insanity. This is in essence the hotbed of trauma. Faked insanity arising out of faked love (or shadow of love) can create more trauma than real insanity arising out of true love. This is because real insanity contains layers of dilemma of ethics embedded inside its cavernous labyrinth. Think for a moment – of the man who plans to kill his wife to unite with his lover or a right wing (for that matter a left wing) fundamentalist who resorts to violent coercive tactics in the pursuit of creating a just ‘equal-opportunity’ society or a nation invading another sovereign nation in the name of installing a democratic form of government because it believes it can deliver a fairer and just form of governance to the citizenry by doing so. These are all traumatic situations arising out of real or fake insanity and are direct consequences of love or shadow of love of various kinds.
These were the thoughts that had occupied my mind in the late hours of that night very close to dawn. I do not think they are coherent, logical and applicable to understanding of all human nature. But they have been written here for the purpose of record and reference, if required at a later date.”
Frosted Glass
After her classes were over, Leila rushed to Amit and Sekhar’s studio which was on the fifteenth floor of an apartment building. They had taken the flat and the terrace on rent and converted it into a studio. The pungent smell of turpentine oil, linseed oil, colours, fresh canvasses, wood and soil was all-pervasive. Canvasses that had not been completed and sculptures in wood and stone were scattered in all the rooms. The master bed was crumpled and untidy with stains of semen, blood, wine and sweat. A strange smell hung in the air.
As Leila entered the flat, she found Amit and Sekhar working in the main section of the studio that overlooked a multitude of newly constructed buildings. They were jointly working on a cinemascope canvas that was divided into two adjacent frames. The left frame depicted a skyscraper in flames (in long shot). The other frame captured a modern bedroom in one of the flats within the skyscraper (in mid-long shot): the threatening glint of flames, a hint of smoke and soot in the background and two naked men (modelled on both the painters) and one naked woman (modelled on Leila) caught midway in a ferocious sexual scene on a large mediaeval bed. Their supple bodies, muscular curves and the descending rivulets of sweat were distinctly visible and the contours merged to form a frozen scene of intense energy. The men’s eyes were locked on the woman’s face, but her eyes were closed as though she was cut off from gravity and time.
Leila announced her arrival jovially and went into the master bedroom where she undressed and began to smoke. As the rings of smoke wafted towards the ceiling, she found Amit standing by her side looking at her with burning eyes. Amit brought a bottle of shaving foam and dabbed some on Leila’s pubic hair. Sekhar approached the scene with a shining razor in his hand and deftly shaved off a cloud of bushy hair to expose cream-coloured skin and the blooming petals of a rose locked between Leila’s legs. Amit softly applied a golden coloured silky lotion on the skin. Leila anxiously anticipated a rush of cream flowing from within her belly. As the duo started licking her hungrily and pierced her, an ocean moved inside Leila. She fell unconscious.
In the invading darkness she saw two brief films:
Rahul and Gargi were making love passionately on a giant wheel. All the other seats (barring the one where she sat, diametrically opposite to them) were empty and swung freely in the air as the massive wheel went round and round. Her eyes were locked on to their movements and as the wheel went faster, she lost her balance and fell into the truss of steel bleeding profusely while the lovers remained oblivious of their surroundings.
Sana dropped to her knees from a toilet seat in pain, shocked at the blood oozing between her legs. She screeched soundlessly and from the movement of her lips, Leila realized Sana was calling her.
As the images faded, she opened her eyes to find Amit and Sekhar naked, both having pierced her crevices and when she realized that the motions were causing no further sensation of pain or pleasure, she started crying. Silver drops of tears flowed from her deep black eyes, like mountain streams abandon the heights of glacial peaks in desolation and solitude.”
Abyss
“Renuka: Your relationship with Oindrila was on the decline – I was told – is it true?
Mriganka: Our relationship was complex. It would be difficult to reply to your question in a straight-cut manner.
Renuka: I’m repeating my question if you’ve not heard it properly – was your relationship with Oindrila on the decline?
Mriganka: I said – it would be difficult to reply to your question in a straight-cut manner!
Renuka: You’ve a vested interest in hiding your declining relationship with Oindrila.
Mriganka: In a certain manner we had grown apart. But I think we still had a lot of love and regard for each other.
Renuka: Was the passion missing in the last six-seven months?
Mriganka: You can say that.
Renuka: Why? You were in love with some other woman?
Mriganka: Not at all. Oindrila was busy in her own work. I was busy writing my last novel.
Renuka: You never stood by Oindrila in her fight against her mother? When you talk about your
last novel, you mean the one which is going to be published by Oindrila’s mother?
Mriganka: I really don’t understand what you mean when you say whether I ever stood by Oindrila.
Renuka: Like, giving moral and emotional support to her.
Mriganka: I did all that up to a point. But she wanted to do it all alone. Sometimes I believe that was the reason why we grew apart.
Renuka: I suspect you’re a dangerous liar, Mriganka.
Mriganka: Please talk to me politely, Renukadebi!
Renuka: People like you don’t understand the language of politeness. [Pause] By the way did you sleep with Oindrila in the last six-seven months?
Mriganka: It’s a very private query. I may decide not to answer such invasive questions.
Renuka: You may, the choice is yours. But it’ll have grave consequences on you. If you answer and you lie it’ll have graver consequences.
Mriganka: I think I last slept with Oindrila three-four months back.
Renuka: Never after that?
Mriganka: Never after that!
Renuka: Why do you think Oindrila launched her battle against her mother all alone?
Mriganka: I think it had to do with her truest feelings for her mother.
Renuka: What do you mean by that?
Mriganka: I think she loved her mother most intensely at one level. And, at another level she hated her equally.
Renuka: You supported Oindrila’s causes?
Mriganka: Yes I still do. You’ve to read my body of work to believe it.
Renuka: Then why are you getting your book published by her mother?
Mriganka: She’s not a demon. Even Oindrila felt good about it. How can a writer reach a wider audience without commercial support?
Renuka: I believe by writing better.
Mriganka: You’re being very naïve!
Renuka: You don’t think it’s a conflict of ethics?
Mriganka: No.
Renuka: Why is it that Debasree agreed to open up a publishing business all of a sudden? This was never her core area of business.
Mriganka: Why don’t you put this question to the person concerned?
Renuka: I will. Please tell me what you think.
Mriganka: I don’t think anything. But she won’t put her money on anything loss-making.
Renuka: Is she very greedy?
Mriganka: She is.
Renuka: Are you very greedy?
Mriganka: All of us are. But I’ve my limits.
Renuka: What kind of a relationship do you have with Debasree?
Mriganka: We stay at a respectful distance of each other. Yes, after she decided to venture into publishing and proposed that she’ll publish my work, I became more frank with her.
Renuka: Frank as in?
Mriganka: Like we talk about many issues. Earlier we didn’t talk much. She didn’t find me a suitable boy for her daughter.
Renuka: So you stuck to your job of impressing your would-be mother-in-law. Why?
Mriganka: Her mother’s approval of me was central to Oindrila. I didn’t want to displease her.
Renuka: But later on she was irked by your closeness to her.
Mriganka: Because of the unique position she was in. At the same time she wished to achieve contrary objectives.
Renuka: Do you love her still? Would you’ve married her had she not died?
Mriganka: Of course I love her still. I’ll never be able to marry anybody other than Oindrila.
Renuka: I don’t think so. I don’t find that sense of loss on your face.
Mriganka: I’m not sentimental.
Renuka: I’m not talking of being sentimental. I’m referring to a realization of loss that comes with
somebody’s death who you love most dearly.
Mriganka: You’re being uselessly judgmental! I’m not here to prove my love for Oindrila or my sorrow at her death. Can I go now?
Renuka: No. Tell me something. Did you go to Oindrila’s house sometime around early afternoon
the day she died?
Mriganka: Yes.
Renuka: Why?
Mriganka: Oindrila wanted to hear a few chapters of my new novel.
Renuka: Did you read out your novel to her?
Mriganka: I did the first two chapters. It was yet to be finished at that point in time.
Renuka: Who all were there in the house then?
Mriganka: Nobody other than the two of us and the servants.
Renuka: How long were you there?
Mriganka: Maybe for two hours.
Renuka: And, the whole time you spent reading out your novel?
Mriganka: Yes, mostly.
Renuka: Was Oindrila drinking listening to your novel?
Mriganka: Yes she was.
Renuka: You never objected to her alcoholism?
Mriganka: I did. I was in deep anguish. Her mother and I made many efforts to counsel her. She won’t listen.
Renuka: Do you think Oindrila was murdered?
Mriganka: Yes.
Renuka: Who murdered her?
Mriganka: Debibabu of course. I saw him spiking her drink.
Winter Poems
In the woods the leaves are falling
In the woods the leaves are falling
In the woods the leaves are falling
From the books the words are falling
From the books the words are falling
From the books the words are falling
From their sockets the eyeballs are falling
From their sockets the eyeballs are falling
From their sockets the eyeballs are falling
The storm that is swelling by the hour is blinding.
Random Subterranean Mosaic: 2012 – 2018
I have always said marriage is the worst man-made institution. It kills passion gradually and chews up compassion with more time. Family life leads one to relentless boredom but grants one with unending comforts, which leaves one with obesity and multifarious diseases .My understanding is: men are polygamous and women are polyandrous. So why should anyone unnecessarily get caught up with the complex, yet fake, question of fidelity. Children take away one’s freedom to live the way one wants to live one’s life. They are obfuscations and not facilitators. I do not believe in the collective. I believe in the individual. But the individual to flower needs a surrounding liberal community where you are not required to pretend, and not necessarily a family (which is a hotbed of all kinds of pretensions). In understanding life, I would not select the historical method but the literary method because it stresses on the story of the individual rather than the collective.
Etchings of the First Quarter of 2020
Leaves of fig and leaves of maple floating in air like tarot cards
Rustle of an unknown breeze flowing through the leaves, a strange music
Herds of deer running in slow motion
Aroma of tender life radiating
Green snakes and shining foxes are waking up
Aboriginal couples rising up from their shaking slumber – they had a feast of food and love
The scent is everywhere
The fire is coming
The fire is coming
Ashes, ashes and ashes everywhere”
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