Sneak Preview of ‘The Cuckoo’s Calling’ (Secretly Written by J.K Rowling)


Pro­logue            68813_495762773837687_1167583344_n

The buzz in the street was like the hum­ming of flies. Pho­tog­ra­phers stood massed be­hind bar­ri­ers pa­trolled by po­lice, their long-snout­ed cam­eras poised, their breath ris­ing like steam. Snow fell steadi­ly on to hats and shoul­ders; gloved fin­gers wiped lens­es clear. From time to time there came out­breaks of desul­to­ry click­ing, as the watch­ers filled the wait­ing time by snap­ping the white can­vas tent in the mid­dle of the road, the en­trance to the tall red-brick apart­ment block be­hind it, and the bal­cony on the top floor from which the body had fall­en.

Be­hind the tight­ly packed pa­parazzi stood white vans with enor­mous satel­lite dish­es on the roofs, and jour­nal­ists talk­ing, some in for­eign lan­guages, while sound­men in head­phones hov­ered. Be­tween record­ings, the re­porters stamped their feet and warmed their hands on hot beakers of cof­fee from the teem­ing café a few streets away. To fill the time, the wool­ly-hat­ted cam­er­a­men filmed the backs of the pho­tog­ra­phers, the bal­cony, the tent con­ceal­ing the body, then repo­si­tioned them­selves for wide shots that en­com­passed the chaos that had ex­plod­ed in­side the se­date and snowy May­fair street, with its lines of glossy black doors framed by white stone por­ti­cos and flanked by top­i­ary shrubs. The en­trance to num­ber 18 was bound­ed with tape. Po­lice of­fi­cials, some of them white-clothed foren­sic ex­perts, could be glimpsed in the hall­way be­yond.

The tele­vi­sion sta­tions had al­ready had the news for sev­er­al hours. Mem­bers of the pub­lic were crowd­ing at ei­ther end of the road, held at bay by more po­lice; some had come, on pur­pose, to look, oth­ers had paused on their way to work. Many held mo­bile tele­phones aloft to take pic­tures be­fore mov­ing on. One young man, not know­ing which was the cru­cial bal­cony, pho­tographed each of them in turn, even though the mid­dle one was packed with a row of shrubs, three neat, leafy orbs, which bare­ly left room for a human being.

A group of young girls had brought flow­ers, and were filmed hand­ing them to the po­lice, who as yet had not de­cid­ed on a place for them, but laid them self-con­scious­ly in the back of the po­lice van, aware of cam­era lens­es fol­low­ing their every move.

The cor­re­spon­dents sent by twen­ty-four-hour news chan­nels kept up a steady stream of com­ment and spec­u­la­tion around the few sen­sa­tion­al facts they knew.

‘… from her pent­house apart­ment at around two o’clock this morn­ing. Po­lice were alert­ed by the build­ing’s se­cu­ri­ty guard…⁠’

‘… no sign yet that they are mov­ing the body, which has led some to spec­u­late…⁠’

‘… no word on whether she was alone when she fell…⁠’

‘… teams have en­tered the build­ing and will be con­duct­ing a thor­ough search.’

A chilly light filled the in­te­ri­or of the tent. Two men were crouch­ing be­side the body, ready to move it, at last, into a body bag. Her head had bled a lit­tle into the snow. The face was crushed and swollen, one eye re­duced to a puck­er, the other show­ing as a sliv­er of dull white be­tween dis­tend­ed lids. When the se­quinned top she wore glit­tered in slight changes of light, it gave a dis­qui­et­ing im­pres­sion of move­ment, as though she breathed again, or was tens­ing mus­cles, ready to rise. The snow fell with soft fin­ger­tip plunks on the can­vas over­head.

‘Where’s the bloody am­bu­lance?’

De­tec­tive In­spec­tor Roy Carv­er’s tem­per was mount­ing. A paunchy man with a face the colour of corned beef, whose shirts were usu­al­ly ringed with sweat around the armpits, his short sup­ply of pa­tience had been ex­haust­ed hours ago. He had been here near­ly as long as the corpse; his feet were so cold that he could no longer feel them, and he was light-head­ed with hunger.

‘Am­bu­lance is two min­utes away,’ said De­tec­tive Sergeant Eric War­dle, un­in­ten­tion­al­ly an­swer­ing his su­pe­ri­or’s ques­tion as he en­tered the tent with his mo­bile pressed to his ear. ‘Just been or­gan­is­ing a space for it.’

Carv­er grunt­ed. His bad tem­per was ex­ac­er­bat­ed by the con­vic­tion that War­dle was ex­cit­ed by the pres­ence of the pho­tog­ra­phers. Boy­ish­ly good-look­ing, with thick, wavy brown hair now frost­ed with snow, War­dle had, in Carv­er’s opin­ion, daw­dled on their few for­ays out­side the tent.

‘At least that lot’ll shift once the body’s gone,’ said War­dle, still look­ing out at the pho­tog­ra­phers.

‘They won’t go while we’re still treat­ing the place like a fuck­ing mur­der scene,’ snapped Carv­er.

War­dle did not an­swer the un­spo­ken chal­lenge. Carv­er ex­plod­ed any­way.

‘The poor cow jumped. There was no one else there. Your so-called wit­ness was coked out of her—’

‘It’s com­ing,’ said War­dle, and to Carv­er’s dis­gust, he slipped back out of the tent, to wait for the am­bu­lance in full sight of the cam­eras.

The story forced news of pol­i­tics, wars and dis­as­ters aside, and every ver­sion of it sparkled with pic­tures of the dead woman’s flaw­less face, her lithe and sculpt­ed body. With­in hours, the few known facts had spread like a virus to mil­lions: the pub­lic row with the fa­mous boyfriend, the jour­ney home alone, the over­heard scream­ing and the final, fatal fall…

The boyfriend fled into a rehab fa­cil­i­ty, but the po­lice re­mained in­scrutable; those who had been with her on the evening be­fore her death were hound­ed; thou­sands of columns of newsprint were filled, and hours of tele­vi­sion news, and the woman who swore she had over­heard a sec­ond ar­gu­ment mo­ments be­fore the body fell be­came briefly fa­mous too, and was award­ed small­er-sized pho­tographs be­side the im­ages of the beau­ti­ful dead girl.

But then, to an al­most au­di­ble groan of dis­ap­point­ment, the wit­ness was proven to have lied, and she re­treat­ed into rehab, and the fa­mous prime sus­pect emerged, as the man and the lady in a weath­er-house who can never be out­side at the same time.

So it was sui­cide after all, and after a mo­ment’s stunned hia­tus, the story gained a weak sec­ond wind. They wrote that she was un­bal­anced, un­sta­ble, un­suit­ed to the su­per­star­dom her wild­ness and her beau­ty had snared; that she had moved among an im­moral mon­eyed class that had cor­rupt­ed her; that the deca­dence of her new life had un­hinged an al­ready frag­ile per­son­al­i­ty. She be­came a moral­i­ty tale stiff with Schaden­freude, and so many colum­nists made al­lu­sion to Icarus that Pri­vate Eye ran a spe­cial col­umn.

And then, at last, the fren­zy wore it­self into stal­e­ness, and even the jour­nal­ists had noth­ing left to say, but that too much had been said al­ready.

 

Three Months Later

Part One

 Nam in omni ad­ver­si­tate for­tu­nae in­fe­li­cis­si­mum est genus in­for­tu­nii, fuisse fe­licem.

For in every ill-turn of for­tune

the most un­hap­py sort of un­for­tu­nate man

is the one who has been happy.

Boethius, De Con­so­la­tione Philosophi­ae

Though Robin El­la­cott’s twen­ty-five years of life had seen their mo­ments of drama and in­ci­dent, she had never be­fore woken up in the cer­tain knowl­edge that she would re­mem­ber the com­ing day for as long as she lived.

Short­ly after mid­night, her long-term boyfriend, Matthew, had pro­posed to her under the stat­ue of Eros in the mid­dle of Pic­cadil­ly Cir­cus. In the giddy re­lief fol­low­ing her ac­cep­tance, he con­fessed that he had been plan­ning to pop the ques­tion in the Thai restau­rant where they just had eaten din­ner, but that he had reck­oned with­out the silent cou­ple be­side them, who had eaves­dropped on their en­tire con­ver­sa­tion. He had there­fore sug­gest­ed a walk through the dark­en­ing streets, in spite of Robin’s protests that they both need­ed to be up early, and fi­nal­ly in­spi­ra­tion had seized him, and he had led her, be­wil­dered, to the steps of the stat­ue. There, fling­ing dis­cre­tion to the chilly wind (in a most un-Matthew-like way), he had pro­posed, on one knee, in front of three down-and-outs hud­dled on the steps, shar­ing what looked like a bot­tle of meths.

It had been, in Robin’s view, the most per­fect pro­pos­al, ever, in the his­to­ry of mat­ri­mo­ny. He had even had a ring in his pock­et, which she was now wear­ing; a sap­phire with two di­a­monds, it fit­ted per­fect­ly, and all the way into town she kept star­ing at it on her hand as it rest­ed on her lap. She and Matthew had a story to tell now, a funny fam­i­ly story, the kind you told your chil­dren, in which his plan­ning (she loved that he had planned it) went awry, and turned into some­thing spon­ta­neous. She loved the tramps, and the moon, and Matthew, pan­icky and flus­tered, on one knee; she loved Eros, and dirty old Pic­cadil­ly, and the black

cab they had taken home to Clapham. She was, in fact, not far off lov­ing the whole of Lon­don, which she had not so far warmed to, dur­ing the month she had lived there. Even the pale and pug­na­cious com­muters squashed into the Tube car­riage around her were gild­ed by the ra­di­ance of the ring, and as she emerged into the chilly March day­light at Tot­ten­ham Court Road un­der­ground sta­tion, she stroked the un­der­side of the plat­inum band with her thumb, and ex­pe­ri­enced an ex­plo­sion of hap­pi­ness at the thought that she might buy some bridal mag­a­zines at lunchtime.

Male eyes lin­gered on her as she picked her way through the road­works at the top of Ox­ford Street, con­sult­ing a piece of paper in her right hand. Robin was, by any stan­dards, a pret­ty girl; tall and cur­va­ceous, with long straw­ber­ry-blonde hair that rip­pled as she strode briskly along, the chill air adding colour to her pale cheeks. This was the first day of a week-long sec­re­tar­i­al as­sign­ment. She had been temp­ing ever since com­ing to live with Matthew in Lon­don, though not for much longer; she had what she termed ‘prop­er’ in­ter­views lined up now.

The most chal­leng­ing part of these unin­spir­ing piece­meal jobs was often find­ing the of­fices. Lon­don, after the small town in York­shire she had left, felt vast, com­plex and im­pen­e­tra­ble. Matthew had told her not to walk around with her nose in an A–Z, which would make her look like a tourist and ren­der her vul­ner­a­ble; she there­fore re­lied, as often as not, on poor­ly hand-drawn maps that some­body at the temp­ing agen­cy had made for her. She was not con­vinced that this made her look more like a na­tive-born Lon­don­er.

The metal bar­ri­cades and the blue plas­tic Corimec walls sur­round­ing the road­works made it much hard­er to see where she ought to be going, be­cause they ob­scured half the land­marks drawn on the paper in her hand. She crossed the torn-up road in front of a tow­er­ing of­fice block, la­belled ‘Cen­tre Point’ on her map, which re­sem­bled a gi­gan­tic con­crete waf­fle with its dense grid of uni­form square win­dows, and made her way in the rough di­rec­tion of Den­mark Street.

She found it al­most ac­ci­den­tal­ly, fol­low­ing a nar­row al­ley­way called Den­mark Place out into a short street full of colour­ful shopfronts: win­dows full of gui­tars, key­boards and every kind of mu­si­cal ephemera. Red and white bar­ri­cades sur­round­ed an­oth­er open hole in the road, and work­men in flu­o­res­cent jack­ets greet­ed her with ear­ly-morn­ing wolf-whis­tles, which Robin pre­tend­ed not to hear.

She con­sult­ed her watch. Hav­ing al­lowed her usual mar­gin of time for get­ting lost, she was a quar­ter of an hour early. The non­de­script black-paint­ed door­way of the of­fice she sought stood to the left of the 12 Bar Café; the name of the oc­cu­pant of the of­fice was writ­ten on a scrap­py piece of lined paper Sel­l­otaped be­side the buzzer for the sec­ond floor. On an or­di­nary day, with­out the brand-new ring glit­ter­ing upon her fin­ger, she might have found this off-putting; today, how­ev­er, the dirty paper and the peel­ing paint on the door were, like the tramps from last night, mere pic­turesque de­tails on the back­drop of her grand ro­mance. She checked her watch again (the sap­phire glit­tered and her heart leapt; she would watch that stone glit­ter all the rest of her life), then de­cid­ed, in a burst of eu­pho­ria, to go up early and show her­self keen for a job that did not mat­ter in the slight­est.

She had just reached for the bell when the black door flew open from the in­side, and a woman burst out on to the street. For one strange­ly stat­ic sec­ond the two of them looked di­rect­ly into each other’s eyes, as each braced to with­stand a col­li­sion. Robin’s sens­es were un­usu­al­ly re­cep­tive on this en­chant­ed morn­ing; the split-sec­ond view of that white face made such an im­pres­sion on her that she thought, mo­ments later, when they had man­aged to dodge each other, miss­ing con­tact by a cen­time­tre, after the dark woman had hur­ried off down the street, around the cor­ner and out of sight, that she could have drawn her per­fect­ly from mem­o­ry. It was not mere­ly the ex­traor­di­nary beau­ty of the face that had im­pressed it­self on her mem­o­ry, but the other’s ex­pres­sion: livid, yet strange­ly ex­hil­a­rat­ed.

Robin caught the door be­fore it closed on the dingy stair­well. An old-fash­ioned metal stair­case spi­ralled up around an equal­ly an­ti­quat­ed bird­cage lift. Con­cen­trat­ing on keep­ing her high heels from catch­ing in the met­al­work stairs, she pro­ceed­ed to the first land­ing, pass­ing a door car­ry­ing a lam­i­nat­ed and framed poster say­ing Crowdy Graph­ics, and con­tin­ued climb­ing. It was only when she reached the glass door on the floor above that Robin re­alised, for the first time, what kind of busi­ness she had been sent to as­sist. No­body at the agen­cy had said. The name on the paper be­side the out­side buzzer was en­graved on the glass panel: C. B. Strike, and, un­der­neath it, the words Pri­vate De­tec­tive.

Robin stood quite still, with her mouth slight­ly open, ex­pe­ri­enc­ing a mo­ment of won­der that no­body who knew her could have un­der­stood. She had never con­fid­ed in a soli­tary human being (even Matthew) her life­long, se­cret, child­ish am­bi­tion. For this to hap­pen today, of all days! It felt like a wink from God (and this too she some­how con­nect­ed with the magic of the day; with Matthew, and the ring; even though, prop­er­ly con­sid­ered, they had no con­nec­tion at all).

Savour­ing the mo­ment, she ap­proached the en­graved door very slow­ly. She stretched out her left hand (sap­phire dark, now, in this dim light) to­wards the han­dle; but be­fore she had touched it, the glass door too flew open.

This time, there was no near-miss. Six­teen un­see­ing stone of di­shev­elled male slammed into her; Robin was knocked off her feet and cat­a­pult­ed back­wards, hand­bag fly­ing, arms wind­milling, to­wards the void be­yond the lethal stair­case.

Strike ab­sorbed the im­pact, heard the high-pitched scream and re­act­ed in­stinc­tive­ly: throw­ing out a long arm, he seized a fist­ful of cloth and flesh; a sec­ond shriek of pain echoed around the stone walls and then, with a wrench and a tus­sle, he had suc­ceed­ed in drag­ging the girl back on to firm ground. Her shrieks were still echo­ing off the walls, and he re­alised that he him­self had bel­lowed, ‘Jesus Christ!’

The girl was dou­bled up in pain against the of­fice door, whim­per­ing. Judg­ing by the lop­sid­ed way she was hunched, with one hand buried deep under the lapel of her coat, Strike de­duced that he had saved her by grab­bing a sub­stan­tial part of her left breast. A thick, wavy cur­tain of bright blonde hair hid most of the girl’s blush­ing face, but Strike could see tears of pain leak­ing out of one un­cov­ered eye.

‘Fuck – sorry!’ His loud voice re­ver­ber­at­ed around the stair­well. ‘I didn’t see you – didn’t ex­pect any­one to be there…⁠’

From under their feet, the strange and soli­tary graph­ic de­sign­er who in­hab­it­ed the of­fice below yelled, ‘What’s hap­pen­ing up there?’ and a sec­ond later, a muf­fled com­plaint from above in­di­cat­ed that the man­ag­er of the bar down­stairs, who slept in an attic flat over Strike’s of­fice, had also been dis­turbed – per­haps woken – by the noise.

‘Come in here…⁠’

Strike pushed open the door with his fin­ger­tips, so as to have no ac­ci­den­tal con­tact with her while she stood hud­dled against it, and ush­ered her into the of­fice.

‘Is ev­ery­thing all right?’ called the graph­ic de­sign­er queru­lous­ly.

Strike slammed the of­fice door be­hind him.

‘I’m OK,’ lied Robin, in a qua­ver­ing voice, still hunched over with her hand on her chest, her back to him. After a sec­ond or two, she straight­ened up and turned around, her face scar­let and her eyes still wet.

Her ac­ci­den­tal as­sailant was mas­sive; his height, his gen­er­al hairi­ness, cou­pled with a gen­tly ex­pand­ing belly, sug­gest­ed a griz­zly bear. One of his eyes was puffy and bruised, the skin just below the eye­brow cut. Con­geal­ing blood sat in raised white-edged nail tracks on his left cheek and the right side of his thick neck, re­vealed by the crum­pled open col­lar of his shirt.

‘Are you M-Mr Strike?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I-I’m the temp.’

‘The what?’

‘The temp. From Tem­po­rary So­lu­tions?’

The name of the agen­cy did not wipe the in­cred­u­lous look from his bat­tered face. They stared at each other, un­nerved and an­tag­o­nis­tic.

Just like Robin, Cor­moran Strike knew that he would for­ev­er re­mem­ber the last twelve hours as an epoch-chang­ing night in his life. Now, it seemed, the Fates had sent an emis­sary in a neat beige trench coat, to taunt him with the fact that his life was bub­bling to­wards catas­tro­phe. There was not sup­posed to be a temp. He had in­tend­ed his dis­missal of Robin’s pre­de­ces­sor to end his con­tract.

‘How long have they sent you for?’

‘A-a week to begin with,’ said Robin, who had never been greet­ed with such a lack of en­thu­si­asm.

Strike made a rapid men­tal cal­cu­la­tion. A week at the agen­cy’s ex­or­bi­tant rate would drive his over­draft yet fur­ther into the re­gion of ir­repara­ble; it might even be the final straw his main cred­i­tor kept im­ply­ing he was wait­ing for.

‘’Scuse me a mo­ment.’

He left the room via the glass door, and turned im­me­di­ate­ly right, into a tiny dank toi­let. Here he bolt­ed the door, and stared into the cracked, spot­ted mir­ror over the sink.

The re­flec­tion star­ing back at him was not hand­some. Strike had the high, bulging fore­head, broad nose and thick brows of a young Beethoven who had taken to box­ing, an im­pres­sion only height­ened by the swelling and black­en­ing eye. His thick curly hair, springy as car­pet, had en­sured that his many youth­ful nick­names had in­clud­ed ‘Pube­head’. He looked older than his thir­ty-five years.

Ram­ming the plug into the hole, he filled the cracked and grub­by sink with cold water, took a deep breath and com­plete­ly sub­merged his throb­bing head. Dis­placed water slopped over his shoes, but he ig­nored it for the re­lief of ten sec­onds of icy, blind still­ness.

Dis­parate im­ages of the pre­vi­ous night flick­ered through his mind: emp­ty­ing three draw­ers of pos­ses­sions into a kit­bag while Char­lotte screamed at him; the ash­tray catch­ing him on the brow-bone as he looked back at her from the door; the jour­ney on foot across the dark city to his of­fice, where he had slept for an hour or two in his desk chair. Then the final, filthy scene, after Char­lotte had tracked him down in the early hours, to plunge in those last fewban­der­il­las she had failed to im­plant be­fore he had left her flat; his res­o­lu­tion to let her go when, after claw­ing his face, she had run out of the door; and then that mo­ment of mad­ness when he had plunged after her – a pur­suit ended as quick­ly as it had begun, with the un­wit­ting in­ter­ven­tion of this heed­less, su­per­flu­ous girl, whom he had been forced to save, and then pla­cate.

He emerged from the cold water with a gasp and a grunt, his face and head pleas­ant­ly numb and tin­gling. With the card­board-tex­tured towel that hung on the back of the door he rubbed him­self dry and stared again at his grim re­flec­tion. The scratch­es, washed clean of blood, looked like noth­ing more than the im­pres­sions of a crum­pled pil­low. Char­lotte would have reached the un­der­ground by now. One of the in­sane thoughts that had pro­pelled him after her had been fear that she would throw her­self on the tracks. Once, after a par­tic­u­lar­ly vi­cious row in their mid-twen­ties, she had climbed on to a rooftop, where she had swayed drunk­en­ly, vow­ing to jump. Per­haps he ought to be glad that the Tem­po­rary So­lu­tion had forced him to aban­don the chase. There could be no going back from the scene in the early hours of this morn­ing. This time, it had to be over.

Tug­ging his sod­den col­lar away from his neck, Strike pulled back the rusty bolt and head­ed out of the toi­let and back through the glass door.

A pneu­mat­ic drill had start­ed up in the street out­side. Robin was stand­ing in front of the desk with her back to the door; she whipped her hand back out of the front of her coat as he re-en­tered the room, and he knew that she had been mas­sag­ing her breast again.

‘Is – are you all right?’ Strike asked, care­ful­ly not look­ing at the site of the in­jury.

‘I’m fine. Lis­ten, if you don’t need me, I’ll go,’ said Robin with dig­ni­ty.

‘No – no, not at all,’ said a voice is­su­ing from Strike’s mouth, though he lis­tened to it with dis­gust. ‘A week – yeah, that’ll be fine. Er – the post’s here…⁠’ He scooped it from the door­mat as he spoke and scat­tered it on the bare desk in front of her, a pro­pi­tia­to­ry of­fer­ing. ‘Yeah, if you could open that, an­swer the phone, gen­er­al­ly sort of tidy up – com­put­er pass­word’s Hather­il­l23, I’ll write it down…⁠’ This he did, under her wary, doubt­ful gaze. ‘There you go – I’ll be in here.’

He strode into the inner of­fice, closed the door care­ful­ly be­hind him and then stood quite

still, gaz­ing at the kit­bag under the bare desk. It con­tained ev­ery­thing he owned, for he doubt­ed that he would ever see again the nine tenths of his pos­ses­sions he had left at Char­lotte’s. They would prob­a­bly be gone by lunchtime; set on fire, dumped in the street, slashed and crushed, doused in bleach. The drill ham­mered re­lent­less­ly in the street below.

And now the im­pos­si­bil­i­ty of pay­ing off his moun­tain­ous debts, the ap­palling con­se­quences that would at­tend the im­mi­nent fail­ure of this busi­ness, the loom­ing, un­known but in­evitably hor­ri­ble se­quel to his leav­ing Char­lotte; in Strike’s ex­haus­tion, the mis­ery of it all seemed to rear up in front of him in a kind of kalei­do­scope of hor­ror.

Hard­ly aware that he had moved, he found him­self back in the chair in which he had spent the lat­ter part of the night. From the other side of the in­sub­stan­tial par­ti­tion wall came muf­fled sounds of move­ment. The Tem­po­rary So­lu­tion was no doubt start­ing up the com­put­er, and would short­ly dis­cov­er that he had not re­ceived a sin­gle work-re­lat­ed email in three weeks. Then, at his own re­quest, she would start open­ing all his final de­mands. Ex­haust­ed, sore and hun­gry, Strike slid face down on to the desk again, muf­fling his eyes and ears in his en­cir­cling arms, so that he did not have to lis­ten while his hu­mil­i­a­tion was laid bare next door by a stranger.

The Book releases at a Crossword store near you on 5th August.

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Signing off for now

 

Until next time Geeks.

  

Happy Reading!

 

Crossword Bookstores

‘Gen X Author Turned Publisher ’


Hello & Welcome Back Book Lovers!

sachin

We always aim to bring you the best of the Literary World..

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These days we have so many young writers on the block from various parts of the country whose simple stories have been become a huge rage and have touched and inspired millions.

One such story is of author Sachin Garg who has written over 4 books and comes in the league of romance young guns such as Ravinder Singh, Durjoy Datta, Madhuri Banerjee and many more

Meet Sachin Garg, An MBA Graduate from MDI, Gurgaon who left his lucrative corporate Job for the love of writing and Books. As teenager he was always interested in reading books on varied topics and had a dream of writing a bestseller novel one day..

During his MBA course period he met Durjoy Datta, a classmate who happen to share the same dreams of writing and publishing books. Thus emerged the Publishing House called  Grapevine Publishers

Both Durjoy and Sachin jointly own and manage Grapevine Publishing house out of Delhi.

Apart from publishing and writing his own books, Sachin also provides a unique platform for various young authors to showcase their writing talents.

This multitalented author and publisher describes himself as a Wanderer, Philosopher, Travel freak, Movie Buff, and Party Rocker.

When he is not writing he is on the hunt for finding new writers…

His Latest Book ‘Come On Inner Peace’ is available at a Crossword near you..

Get to know the author better with his candid interview with us.

 

1.       The Transition from an author to an entrepreneur how did that happen?

I wanted to have a bigger footprint on the publishing industry than I was having. My strength is understanding reader tastes and executing projects. And being a publisher seemed the best way to put all my ideas into action.

2.       How has the experience been with dealing with authors for your own publishing house?

We have been fortunate to have not only to have  very talented people working with us, but also very professional and balanced people. We make sure we don’t set any unrealistic expectations and that communication is clear, because of which we’ve had very strong bonding with our authors and zero attrition with them.

3.       Any advice to young budding authors?

Have patience. Even though a lot of authors may seem to be overnight successes, there is always years of effort gone behind every brand. Work hard and respect your peers.

4.       You have written so touching and funny books… your inspirations behind them..

I derive my inspiration from the places I travel to. I’ve always been very fond of travelling and have travelled across 13 countries in the world, apart from extensive traveling within the country. Wherever I go, I talk to a lot of people and try to capture their stories in my books, which is why, you will notice, each of my book is based in a different city.

5.       How do authors approach you to get published or vice versa?

I attend a lot of events and meet a lot of people professionally. I get a lot of book ideas interacting with people who have nothing to do with the publishing industry. As I said, I believe execution is one of our biggest strengths. When I believe some people have an interesting life or career, we pitch a book idea to them.

Also, our submission guidelines are available on the net, for aspiring authors to submit to us.

6.       Are you enjoying more as an author or as a publisher?

That’s a very difficult question because I honestly enjoy both equally. Because I am an author, my readers welcome me in their lives. And as a publisher, I get to share my joy of getting published and reaching out to an audience with my bunch of authors.

 7.       Tell us something more about your new book ‘ Come On Inner Peace..’

The idea for ‘Come On, Inner Peace. I Don’t Have All Day!’ came to me while I travelling to Rishikesh for vacation. I came across an Ashram and received some unforgettable wisdom there. The first thought I had when I came out was – this needs to be put in a book! So I put the wisdom in a story which everyone would enjoy and came out with Come On, Inner Peace.

8.       A day in your life…

My days are very different during the time when I am working on a book compared to when I am not. When I am writing, I only write. But normally, it would be something like this –

I wake up at around five to catch up on some reading or writing. Around seven, I go to the gym and spend until nine there. I reach office around ten and manage my calls/meetings/ planning. For the evening, if I don’t have any meetings, I catch up with friends. I watch around three or four movies every week. And I enjoy playing squash on the weekends.

9.   With so many Indian authors and books flooded in the Indian market. You’re take on how can a publisher or an author stand out and compete with various books and authors?

One of the things we do is that we limit the number of books we publish. As a publisher its very tempting to sign on a lot of authors because it increases your chances of finding a bestseller but we have taken a call to publish only a certain number of books every month so that we can give adequate attention to each of our books.

As an author, the first rule is to not do what others are doing. Often aspiring authors ask me which genre is doing well so that they can write in that segment. That’s not how it works. Write what comes to you naturally and if its a good book which is marketed well, it will catch on.

10.   Best reads for you..

Michael Crichton, always.

11.   One author you would love  hanging out with..

I’ve had had the good fortune  to have had many author friends. Durjoy Datta and Nikita Singh remain the preferred choices.

12.   In your free time.. you

Read books, run.

13.   If you were not an author or publisher. You would have been..

I would have loved to be an athlete but I was never good enough. The dreaded truth is that I would have still been in some MNC marketing some boring product, which is what I was doing before Grapevine happened.

 

All his Books are available at a Crossword store near you or http://www.crossword.in

 

Signing off for now

 

Until next time Geeks.

 

And don’t forget to drop in your comments.

 

For details and queries write to crosswordconnect@gmail.com

 

Happy Reading!

 

Crossword Bookstores

Sneak Preview of ‘It Started With A Friend Request’


 

Hello & Welcome back Book Lovers. It’s been a while.                 300x300_2b9435c5ee016096b8cee3a911341494

We always aim to bring you the best books and authors in focus.

Today we bring you a sneak peak into the new book by Bestselling Author Sudeep Nagarkar.

His earlier 2 books have been very successful making it to various Bestseller Charts. (Few Things Left Unsaid & That’s the Way We Met)

Read on to find out what’s in store for you from Sudeep’s new book ‘It Started with a Friend Request’

 

 Prologue

He was sitting all alone, away from the world, hoping for a new morning in his life, thinking about how harshly life had treated him and brooding over what exactly had gone wrong.

He was busy thinking, When things go wrong, you feel so miserable and all you wish for is to completely erase the bad memories, especially when your intention was never to do wrong. Or was it? Was her death my fault? When things are not under your control, you feel so helpless before your so-called ‘destiny’.

The cold moon was peeking through the clouds floating above Lavasa valley. It was a perfect moment to hide yourself in the arms of your beloved; here he was, all by himself, with no one to keep him company. His fair skin was hidden behind stubble and his depressed state was visible not only from his sore eyes but his defeated face as well.

As he threw away his cigarette and turned, he saw a girl walking towards him. She was wearing a red top and jeans. He could not see her clearly as she was a bit far off and the fog had lowered visibility.

He kept on staring at her to find out who see was. As she came close, he could see that she had left her hair loose. Her face was still not visible. But he felt as if it was a familiar face by the way she walked and the way her hands played with her hair. It was then that he saw her clearly. Her smiling face and her sparkling beautiful eyes made his heart skip a beat. She was his girlfriend, the one for whom he could have sacrificed his life. They loved each other so much that if angels were watching them from heaven, they would have been left stunned.

She came and stood close to him. He was lost in her eyes. He didn’t realize when she came and sat on his lap. Their breaths embraced and their lips were only inches away from each other. Then a strange sound fell on his ears and he closed his eyes.

Suddenly everything flashed in front of him and took him back to that day when he lost his love, friends, job—everything.

He remembered all the accusations she had made on him. You are solely responsible for this mess. You deserve nothing better. You can try to be honest to yourself, if nothing else. And if you can’t, then go away! Suddenly everybody was pointing fingers at him. Suddenly he had become answerable to everyone around him. He saw nothing but a dead end ahead.

He opened his eyes wishing to see her in front of him, but there was no one. He searched for her in all directions, wishing to be with her at that moment. He wanted to relive all their memorable moments again, but all his desires evaporated in thin air as he sat in his resigned state.

Sometimes he would question himself whether he was really innocent. Or was he the culprit behind all the chaos that had occurred in the last few months?

He was about to light another cigarette when Kritika came and stood next to him, patting him on his back. Kritika was his 4 am friend who always supported him in the worst of situations. She was your typical girl next door, with short hair and a cute smile. She was full of positive energy and could make anyone feel happy even on the worst of days.

According to her, the reason behind her charm and beauty was the amethyst crystal she carried in the locket around her neck. She believed it was a symbol of positive energy and could seduce anyone around her. Kritika was one of his best friends, even though they had met only a few months ago.

Together they believed that: ‘Time cannot define your relationship. It’s the bonding you share even if you have meta day before.’

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.

‘I just want to be left alone. I want to be away from everyone.’

‘What will you achieve by doing that? We all know that you are innocent. Whatever happened was fate’s doing. You are not responsible for the accident. I am sure you will find some way or the other to prove your innocence. You just have to wait for the right time to come,’ Kritika consoled him.

‘I really don’t know how to do that. It seems as if sand is slipping through my hands and I am watching helplessly.’

‘Come on now, everyone is waiting for you at the hotel. It’s my birthday.’

Kritika had booked them at the Ekaanth Hotel to celebrate her birthday on February 13.

As soon as he got up, a drop of tear rolled down his cheek. He remembered all that he had been accused of, and that broke his spirit into pieces. He took out his mobile phone and sent a message to Aleesha.

It’s hard to describe how I feel now. I want to explain everything to you, but I don’t know how to. I feel so alone and I’m scared. All kinds of thoughts are running through my mind.

Stress is eating me up every minute. If only you were by my side today, I would have never felt so alone. Our gang of friends has gathered here to celebrate a birthday party and my eyes still search only for you.

But alas, you are not here. Do you feel the same pain as I do?

Kritika was watching him, waiting patiently for him to finish texting. She thought of making him understand that everything will be back in its place one day.

However, she avoided looking at him as it would hurt him more. She looked the other way round, rubbing her hands, trying to keep herself warm in the cold wind.

It was a starless night. The other couples around him seemed to enjoy the darkness of the night and the privacy it allowed them. It was not the same for Kritika and him though. Kritika was extremely worried for her friend who was looking for a way to bring back normalcy to his life.

But they knew that they were trying to climb an impossibly high peak. They were trying to forget the hurt of the past and the fears of the future, wishing his life gets back on track soon, and with it, the smile on his face.

‘Thanks, Kritika, for being by my side during this tough phase,’ he said feigning a smile.

‘Oh, shut up! I know how much you love Aleesha.’

Just the mention of her name was enough to bring a smile to his face. She meant a lot to him and he needed her to support him against all odds. She was the love of his life. He looked back to see whether he had really seen her a fewminutes ago.

But Aleesha was nowhere around him.

 

The Book will be available at a Crossword store near you from 17th July. Or you can Buy it from www.crossword.in

 

Price: Rs 125

Publisher: Random House India

 

About The Author:

Sudeep Nagarkar is the author of two bestselling novels – Few Things Left Unsaid (2011) and That’s the Way We Met (2012).Sudeep’s books are inspired from real life incidents. They have been translated into regional languages and continue to top the bestseller charts.He has a degree in Electronics Engineering from Mumbai University and is currently pursuing management studies from Welingkar Institute of Management. He is also a motivational speaker and has given guest lectures in various institutes and organizations. He resides in Mumbai.

 

Signing Off For Now..

Until Next time Geeks

Happy Reading!

Crossword Bookstores