Finding beauty in the ordinary
Unhurried stories capturing the overlooked, extraordinary details of ordinary lives. A collection of Thoughts and narrative fiction from places you know.
The Archive
Beyond the camera roll
The flag on the hilltop is old
it silently observes from above
Celebration, sacrifice and the gulf
between a man's hand and his glove
The flag on the hilltop is sturdy
It knows wind from breeze
It can feel the land being thirsty
Disparate is it's reality
Reality, an interpretation of perspectives
Don't we all start our journey as seeds?
Then who are the ones to decide
A flower is better than a weed?
Venerated as much as the temple
The flag on the hilltop is wise
Though it never understood why
men twist their moustaches and
veils hide the dreams of
daughters and wives?
The landscape around is witness
The flag's withstood the test of time
It's wired to a higher frequency
Concealed well with dust and grime
The flag isn't guilty of perfidy
It holds secrets of honour and pride
no Holy water can wash it off
The bloody stains are bright
The flag on the hilltop is tired
It's survived sundry storms
you can't see from far it's threadbare
From the memories that encumber its soul
EXCLUSIVE PREVIEW
Reanchored
"For Atri, the coastal greenery did not conjure images of the sea, but of a different, cooler altitude. Suddenly, he was looking at the peach, plum, and cherry orchards that lined his parents’ home. He remembered summer vacations when cousins would descend upon the house, their noisy troupe marching up the Peak Trail or tracing the misty edges of the Laitlum gorges. Those paths were flanked by Sohphie Nam trees. He could almost feel the rough bark under his fingers, remembering how they would scramble up the branches to shake down a rain of dark-crimson berries. Below, their parents stood waiting, pockets already weighted with small packets of salt, ready to rub the tart berries between their palms for the children to eat on the spot.
For years, these memories had been buried under a grey silt of resentment. Being sent away to boarding school had cast a long, stubborn shadow over his childhood, dictating exactly what he allowed himself to remember. But here, in the quiet of the green township, the shadow was thinning. He remembered walking those mountain trails wielding a short baton tipped with yellow metal at both ends. It was his maternal grandfather’s old police stick, passed down to him by his mother like a sceptre."
The Winter Flower
"Gopal was a legacy hire, the son of the family’s original driver. He had inherited his father’s job, his father’s stoic silence, and his father’s absolute refusal to drive over forty kilometres per hour. And if Mrs Hasija was going to see and experience Delhi, from the street food of Chandni Chowk to the fancy cafes of Gurgaon, she couldn’t rely on Gopal, who drove as if he were steering a funeral procession.
She was going to learn how to drive.
The next morning, the campaign for independence officially began. But when Mrs. Hasija casually instructed Gopal to fetch the keys to the Contessa, the poor man literally threw himself at her feet.
“Badi Bahu! Please, I beg you, do not jeopardize my livelihood!” Gopal implored, clutching her feet as though she would have hit the accelerator and driven off. “I have young children to feed!”
Mrs. Hasija stared down at the moon on top of his head, thoroughly perplexed. She failed to see the correlation between her learning to drive and his children starving, but she decided to pause that train of thought until he was feeling slightly less hormonal. Men of a certain age could be so sensitive.
Suddenly, a brilliant alternative struck her. A slow, creaking smile spread across her face, revealing her slightly crooked left incisor. It was an expression of pure, unadulterated joy, but to Gopal, it looked like the grin of a psychological thriller villain. He froze, his overthinking brain instantly convincing him that she was going to demand he sacrifice his firstborn."
Heartfelt Reflections
Unanchored is a heartfelt and memorable collection that celebrates the enduring strength of the human spirit. Geetanjali Gusain has crafted stories that are compassionate, relatable, and deeply rooted in the realities of contemporary India, making this a rewarding read for anyone seeking hope, empathy, and inspiration.
BRIG HM PANT, VSM, Founder Himalayan Farm project
This is one of the most beautiful and comforting books I’ve read in a long time. If you’ve ever missed home, longed for simpler days, found joy in nature, or believed that kindness is still worth holding onto, I think this book will find a place in your heart too. It doesn’t shout its message. It whispers it. And somehow, those whispers stay with you long after you’ve turned the final page.
KAVITHA ASHOKKUMAR, BOOK REVIEWER, GOODREADS
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