Sabarna Roy is a much awarded, critically acclaimed bestselling author of 6 literary books: Pentacles; Frosted Glass; Abyss; Winter Poems; Random Subterranean Mosaic: 2012 – 2018, and Etchings of the First Quarter of 2020. He is the lead author of a technical book, which has been published from the European Union and has been translated into 8 major European languages.
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, the Certificate for Participation in the Indo Russian Friendship Celebration 2020, and the Literoma Golden Star Award 2020: Lifetime Achievement.
Sabarna Roy in his latest poem NH 44 expresses his anguish and angst on the on-going farmer protests in India.
NH 44
My hands
Calloused, weathered, and beaten
By sowing seeds
During kharif, and rabi
In soils – hot, and frozen
Hydrated, and desiccated
Forever against the coldness of the cosmos
I have provided stale food on the rusted iron plate of an impoverished soul
I have provided gourmet cuisine on the ornate cutlery of oligarchs
Tonight I stand on the highway with my comrades
The night sky invisible in fog
The fire that we lit to beat the freeze burns with a mystic halo
The government – actually middlemen of oligarchs – do not listen to us with empathy
For they do not understand what soil, air, and water have taught us
Why is it that I who produce rice; with passing years, can no longer afford to eat any more rice
Why is it that I who produce pregnant oranges; with passing years, can no longer afford to taste a slice
In the name of policies you hurl bombs at me
Unburden tear gas, and water cannons when I raise my voice
Do not push me back beyond the wall that my spine bends against the steel of concrete
And, I am forced to take up torches of fire, and throw them at you where I know you, and your cronies will burn, and melt
I tear your larger-than-life-flag under which you want my unfailing loyalty, and trust
I go berserk, amok like a rabid dog
And, sting at you, and all your likes
Who are compradors of oligarchs
I know it will become easier for you to encounter-finish my body in the name of self-defense
Hey, what about my self-defense
My friend, Sandy: the poet, who told me there is no meaning to life, and is otherwise a social misfit
Tells me tonight it feels wonderful to stand by a pulsating crowd engulfed in vaporous condensation dripping like rain in slow motion
A discotheque of life playing out on the highway on a winter night
