Only once the room had fully settled, did Datta step in, apologising for the late start and joking that his kids had not cooperated when it came to getting ready. At the get-go, he asked the room how many had read While We Wait. When only a few hands went up, he laughed and suggested that those who hadn’t should buy the book, read it, and tell him what they thought; “you can even email me,” he added.
As the conversation progressed, Datta repeatedly returned to a theme that shaped many of his responses: limitation; both imposed and self-acknowledged. When asked whether he saw himself moving away from romance, he admitted that while romance remains central to his work, it was never the only genre he wanted to explore.
A childhood dream unfulfilled
“My childhood dream has been to write a fantasy novel,” he said, before explaining why that dream remains unfulfilled. Writing thrillers or fantasy in India, according to him, comes with expectations that feel creatively restrictive. “With thrillers there is a problem, you cannot Indianise Swedish novel writing,” he said.
Fantasy, he added, brings its own constraints. “Unless the book has some ideologies from Hindu mythologies, you cannot write it. Someone powerful sitting around us, usko bolna hi padega ki main Shiva ke land se aa raha hoon.”
“If I’m writing that, I want it to be unburdened. And that is kind of difficult,” he said, reiterating that thrillers and fantasy are genres he has wanted to write for a very long time.
That self-critical tone sharpened when he was asked what the writer he was 10 years ago would think of his work today. “I think I’d be self-critical,” he said without hesitation. Referring to The Boy Who Loved, he remarked, “I take it as a half-baked book now.”
Durjoy Datta at the book signing event with his family.
Datta on social media
When the conversation turned to his social media presence, Datta described his relationship with Instagram as one rooted in discomfort and confusion. “For the longest time, I felt like an imposter on Instagram,” he said, recalling how the platform once functioned as a broadcast space, an announcement board for life updates.
“These are the books I’m reading, see I got married, etcetera.” Then, he said, the platform changed. “Woh bol raha hai; all these announcements are okay, par ab tu naachke dikha.” The line landed instantly with the crowd. Cooking videos, lip-syncs, trends; none of it came naturally to him. “For two or three years, I just coasted,” he admitted, occasionally posting a joke but avoiding trends altogether.
It was only after encountering a few storytelling reels that he felt marginally aligned with the medium, though even then the transition felt uneasy. “I don’t consider myself a very serious writer, but I am a writer nonetheless; and I spend a year writing a book,” he said. “Now suddenly I’m supposed to take a one-minute reel seriously.”
Even when his reels began going viral, the satisfaction did not follow. “I could see the numbers but not feel very happy about it,” he said. “I cannot wake up thinking I need to create a reel. I can wake up thinking the entire night about a book.”
“Even if my reel is at 10 million, I couldn’t truly feel happy about it.” Books, he explained, carry emotional weight; reels do not. With books, he can evaluate what worked and why. “With reels, I never know what people like. It’s like throwing darts in the air.”
His frustration deepened when speaking about comparison culture. “With books, if I compare myself to another writer, I’ll spend an entire week reading that book,” he said. “By the end of it, I’ll fall in love with the book and say, okay, this deserves to be better.”
With reels, the response is harsher and quicker. “I’ll just think, what is this nonsense getting so many views?” He paused, then added dryly, “And I am too old to be falling into that trap,” drawing another ripple of laughter. While acknowledging that content creation offers high returns and flexibility, he dismissed the romanticisation of influencer life.
“Being an influencer slash contemplator is the easiest job in the world,” he said bluntly, before adding, “Anyone who says otherwise is lying.” Still, he made it clear he has no desire to fully inhabit that role. “I do not want to do it,” he concluded.
On questions about modern dating , he said, “I don’t think my books connect anymore.” He explained that he no longer writes about dating apps or contemporary relationship mechanics because doing so would feel inauthentic. “I don’t know how these things pan out,” he said.
“My protagonists have already sworn off dating apps. And only meets people in real life, where the rules are set by him.” The fundamentals of love, he argued, remain unchanged. “The basics of people falling in love and reacting in relationships are the same. Some tools have been added.” He admitted that he could replicate modern dynamics if he wanted to. “I can fake it. It’s not very difficult,” he said, before quickly adding, “But because it’s inauthentic, I don’t write it.”
The conversation ended on the subject of critical validation, and here, he was unequivocal. “I have never gotten critical validation,” he said. “I knew I would never get it.” That, he clarified, did not mean he stopped trying to improve. “I’m deeply self-critical, and I try to get better with every book.”
But he questioned the value of literary acclaim as it stands today. “You need to write a certain kind of book to even be eligible,” he said, before admitting, “I have read a few critically validated books and they are unreadable.”
As a reader first, he finds that distinction increasingly hollow. “If I get a prize tomorrow, will I be happy? Yes. Will 70 per cent of it be for showing off? Yes. Critical validation has lost a lot of value in my head.
(The author is an intern with The Indian Express)
Durjoy Datta spoke of limitations; both imposed and self-acknowledged. 
Durjoy Datta at the book signing event with his family.
Share
