Give and Take by Abhijith Ravinutala
Anyone familiar with parenting adolescents has learned this stage of family life may require more adjustments for parents than for the teens (although the teens wouldn’t believe that). Abhijith Ravinutala’s “Give and Take” opens with Rajesh, a South Indian father, suffering through a lack of morning coffee, prepared and served in a certain way. Rajesh feels his morning coffee is nonnegotiable, as is his wife’s and teenage son’s respect for him as the father of the family. They are on an adventure vacation to India’s northern border with China, something Rajesh felt he had to “give” in exchange for denying his son’s plan to enlist in the military, just as his father denied his plans for college in favor of an arranged marriage, telling him “his life could not just be his own. There would always be give and take in a family.” But give and take should go both ways.
To demonstrate how the accumulation of both minor and major sacrifices weighs upon Rajesh, Ravinutala uses two important but perhaps underappreciated elements of short fiction: internal consistency and concision, with successive refinements focused on achieving clarity. As he writes in his author’s note, “much of the work of revising short stories is in ensuring every aspect connects to the others.” A high degree of internal connectedness is achieved through the gradual increase of subtle interrelated “gives” on Rajesh’s side. First with the undrinkable coffee, then with their tour guide not speaking Tamil; the reoccurring presence of military trappings which, to Rajesh’s chagrin, continue to enthrall his son, who all the while more blatantly refuses his paternal commands and admonishments; and Rajesh refusing to relinquish his self-assumed image of being in control, strong, and commanding. Even his son’s name, Chinnu, a common affectionate nickname, is itself a compromise—a give and take—between the traditional and pompous-sounding family one Rajesh wanted and the one his son, at age six, chose for himself (Rohan, “ascending”).
In writing, concision can be an effective way to promote clarity. Being concise requires making repeated passes through the story, testing each word, line, expression, snatch of dialogue, and even punctuation to eliminate anything that doesn’t help move the story forward. Again from Ravinutala’s author’s note: “Within the limited real estate of this form, loose edges have to be sanded away until just one central truth remains.”
Abhijith Ravinutala’s “Give and Take” exemplifies many fine points of short story writing craftsmanship, including well-drawn characters that evoke immediate interest and sympathy, and the well-paced accumulation of tension leading to a crisis, producing a significant change for the main character. But the glue that holds everything together is the subtle interconnectedness of elements both large and small, rendered with a clarity that makes it all look easy to do, when we know it’s not. —CRAFT
Rajesh considers himself a man of few exceptions, for he was raised as such. His morning routine requires a piping-hot filter coffee with boiled milk, served in a steel cup inside of a rimmed steel saucer. He then pours a portion of coffee from the cup into the saucer to cool it, and slurps a few sips at a time. This is nonnegotiable, as respect should be, so he pines for this unmet need as he brings the hotel mug to his lips.
“Chi, chi,” Rajesh tuts after a sip. “Bad coffee.” He wipes his mustache.
“Why will they have filter coffee here? You have to adjust,” scolds his wife, Lavanya, from beside him in bed. The altitude makes everything worse, including her patience. They’re more than two miles above sea level, in a remote, underpopulated land. It feels like a separate universe from Chennai, where abundance is the norm: of oxygen, traffic, and good coffee. If he passed a stranger back home, he could guess the travails of the man’s life without so much as a word. But here, the people don’t speak the same language or use the same gestures or caste markings. Even their bodies are different, slight and fit, with pronounced cheeks and fair skin. Rajesh never ventures to places like this, where he has to explain himself.
His teenage son, whom he calls Chinnu, or little one, ignores them. He sits on the broad windowsill with his arms over his knees, facing the dotted, arid hillsides that match his buzz cut. There’s a wonder in his eyes as he searches the skies for any sign of the fighter jets he so adores. Recently, Chinnu had gone so far as to question why his father needed a cup for his coffee if he only drank out of the saucer, and Rajesh had nearly slapped him. Of course, Rajesh had no good answer, and that was what made the question ridiculous, like many of his son’s queries of late.
The boy had been so sure of himself by the age of six that he’d told his parents they were rather mistaken about his name. He assigned himself the name of Rohan. Tamil sons were supposed to take their father’s first name as their last name, but the increasing importance of records and paperwork and visas meant that some traditions were moot. Rajesh considered this an opportunity to claim other Western mores and named his son Rajesh Chokkalingam II. He admired the look of two imposing columns after his name in print and hoped they would grow in number and stature as future generations came. But his son watched the movie Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham and one day stopped responding to any name other than Rohan. Chinnu was a fair compromise between the two because nicknames, like pure love, have no agenda.
“What do you think our tour guide will be like?” Chinnu asks, spotting a row of white taxis arriving to shuttle tourists into the city and beyond.
“Their Tamil should be good and their descriptions should be brief. That’s what,” Rajesh says.
Lavanya tuts at him without looking up from her Instagram. She brought her own hotspot that Rajesh won’t use, in order to minimize data costs. Instead, he’d roamed the hallways yesterday in search of a working Wi-Fi network, but among the dozens at the hotel, none seemed to work for him.
“Chinnu, shower and do your morning prayers,” Rajesh orders. His son has the gall to shake his head no but before Rajesh can scold him, a sharp knock resounds in their hotel room.
He sticks out a hand for balance and rises. His body aches and the coffee is not good enough to activate his brain. When he opens the door, a diminutive woman stands before him, dressed in a long-sleeved top and jeans. She raises a wide-brimmed sunhat to look up at Rajesh and flashes a gap-toothed smile.
“Rajesh family? Tamil Nada?” she asks in a piercing voice.
“Nadu.”
“Nadu family?” Her hand turns in a spiral to ask the question.
“No, Rajesh family. Tamil Nadu.” He elongates the words.
“Yes, yes, yes.” She shuffles past Rajesh without a second look and removes her hat with a flourish. “Myself Tashi! Super tour guide for super family! Everybody, English, okay? Okay!” Her voice manages to rise another octave. “You are booking through Ladakh Travels Private Limited, so myself am coming through Leh Best Guides Private Limited. We’re here to take you on a journey through the vast Indian hinterlands of the Union Territory of Ladakh, formerly known as part of the Territory of Jammu and Kashmir. Our company has many years travels experience with all famous places in Ladakh, including: Leh Palace, Shey Palace, Shanti Stupa, Chang La Pass, Khardung La Pass, Thiksey Monastery, Leh Market, and of course, the very beautiful setting of Bollywood movie 3 Idiots, Pangong Lake!”
Chinnu claps, as he’d begged for this trip all throughout his final year of school. Rajesh and Lavanya are still catching up to the speed of her words.
“Our company also has much experience working with South Indians and we speak Tamil, so to Rajesh family, I say vanakkam to Leh, Ladakh!” Tashi finishes.
“You speak Tamil?” Lavanya asks.
“Yes! Vanakkam!”
“Is it going to be very tough for us with the altitude?” Lavanya inquires in Tamil.
“Any questions?” Tashi responds in English.
“Do you speak Tamil?” Lavanya raises her voice and asks in Tamil.
Tashi produces a notepad and starts to tick off a checklist. The Rajesh family glance at each other, unsure how to proceed, until Chinnu asks in English: “Is the altitude going to be very tough, ma’am?”
“Oh!” She circles her arms above her head. “Please stand up!”
Tashi paces side to side, inspecting them like a zookeeper. She points to Rajesh and makes a show of imitating a belly. “You have big belly—please take altitude medicine.”
Rajesh feels his ears burn as he looks down at himself and back at Tashi. “Na, na!” He moves a hand as if to brush the topic off of a table. “Very strong,” he points at his arms.
She points at her heart. “This has to be strong. Okay? Understand? All good?”
“Nothing there but cash!” Lavanya jokes, sharing a laugh with Chinnu. As he dismisses them, Rajesh notices Tashi lingering on him, perhaps with a sense of pity.
“Take medicine,” Tashi repeats, softly, with a palm raised. But Rajesh dismisses the idea with haste. He wouldn’t give Chinnu another reason to call him a coward.
“Okay!” Tashi continues. “Family not ready? No shower? Please hurry, I will be waiting downstairs in buffet. I will charge to this room, please don’t mind.”
The family piles into their taxi after Rajesh has completed his morning mantras and breakfast. Their driver is an older man named Sawang who grumbles unceasingly. He, too, dons a wide-brimmed hat like Tashi and clothes that could never work in Chennai: a long-sleeved shirt and wool pants. He sweats through the latter when the sun grows strong in the midday, leaving dark splotches on his legs like the spots on a cowhide. Rajesh rides in the front beside him but small talk is impossible, to his delight, because Sawang doesn’t know English and Rajesh refuses to speak Hindi. Like many Tamilians, Rajesh often forwards angry missives to his WhatsApp contacts about the assignment of Hindi as the nation’s language. The messages are written in English.
Tashi talks enough for the group. She punctuates every sharp turn across Leh’s pathways with tales of the region’s ups and downs, notes on the various monuments they pass, and opinions on whether their photos are worth posting. In the rearview mirror, Rajesh sees Chinnu’s luster when Tashi speaks of travel.
“Oh, I’ve been all over,” Tashi says, answering one of Chinnu’s questions. “I met a Norwegian man and we fell in love. We traveled over Europe in the hottest summer and coldest winters. Myself, I loved the Alps. They reminded me of home, of the Himalayas. But they were not holy, you know? In India, we can worship the mountains.”
Rajesh scoffs, questioning whether there is anything holy about the barren valley they are speeding through. He cracks open a window but doesn’t feel the air envelop his lungs.
“Anyway,” Tashi continues, “one day we grew tired of each other. I moved back home to help others travel. People should travel, no? You have more to say, like me!”
“Yah,” Chinnu affirms. “Some people who stay in one place get tired of life before they’ve lived it.”
Rajesh snaps back. “And some people are foolish enough to never be satisfied with what they have, isn’t it, Rohan?”
The car pulls over to let a squadron of tanks pass. The family avoids each other’s gazes. In the tense quiet that follows, the bumps along the pitted road are more pronounced. Fresh tracks guide them along troubled land.
When they arrive at heavily scaffolded Leh Palace, Rajesh cannot help but compare it to the more grand and colorful temples of his home state, those that have lasted centuries without renovations. The palace is built on a slope and each section is separated by stairs. Rajesh finds himself cursing at the bottom of each flight. He can barely climb five steps without his heart thundering like one of Chinnu’s chaotic modern songs. Every heartbeat is clear, defined, echoing within. He still refuses the medicine and their two-hour itinerary turns into four.
After a full day of such elevations and tribulations, the family returns to their hotel to devour momos and thongpa soup with delight. Chinnu falls fast asleep in the room, likely dreaming about the sight of his precious armed forces. Lavanya swipes through videos of adventure sports in Ladakh without showing them to Rajesh.
“You think the three of us could ever survive hang gliding?” He places a hand on her shoulder as he peers at her screen.
She turns away from him without a word. The patriarch opens his mouth but then, too, turns away. It is not the time to reason with her. When he was young, his own father would host lavish birthday parties and allow him to run amok or even speak with disrespect. But the day after, Rajesh would have to wake early to press his father’s feet while the elder sipped on hot filter coffee. Rajesh feels his fingers drumming under his pillow as he reassures himself. He’d appeased mother and son with this vacation and they would owe him. That was how families functioned.
A banging noise shocks Rajesh out of his slumber at seven. Chinnu is already awake and jumps out of bed to open the door. “Rajesh family! Very, very good morning!” Tashi sidles past Chinnu and walks into the bedroom.
“Are you mad!” Lavanya pulls up her covers. Rajesh moans. This is much too early for life with bad coffee.
“Early bird gets the worm, madam!” She opens up the blinds to point out the sun rising over the sand-colored ridges. The skies are already blue, and so devoid of the haze Rajesh expects in Chennai. The peaks appear as if they’ve been arranged perfectly, like layers on a cake. For a moment, he feels it’s clear enough to see straight into heaven.
“She’s like a drill sergeant,” Chinnu remarks with a smile.
“Now, please note, Rajesh family. We will be going to Chang La Pass today, by way of Thiksey Monastery and world-famous Shey Palace. Chang La Pass is the world’s second highest motorable pass, second only to world-famous Khardung La Pass, which we can visit tomorrow if you are not so late to rise! So, reaching Chang La summit, we will descend from 5,360 meters to 4,350 meters for world-famous Pangong Lake, where we will see the shooting site of blockbuster hit 3 Idiots!”
“Isn’t 3 Idiots also world-famous?” Rajesh asks, eliciting a giggle from his wife.
“How should I know?” Tashi replies with an utterly straight face. She says she’ll charge her breakfast to their room again.
Rajesh showers and begins his mantras. He beckons his son but Chinnu studies the view and claims that prayers aren’t required on vacation. As if they were just another routine task to neglect.
They begin their day with a stop for coffee, at Tashi’s request. Rajesh’s ears prick up at the mention and he barrels out of the car to study how they’re concocting it.
“Ugh,” he mutters. They’re using instant coffee powder.
“Just try it,” Tashi assures him, handing him a cup with fresh, boiled milk.
He sips the sweet coffee and finds that his lips curve just so, into a hint of a smile, and that his eyelids open up fully for the first time in two days.
“Oh, thank you!” he shouts, either to God or to Tashi, as he grabs an empty cup and walks away to the car. He pours his coffee from one cup to the other, cooling it off in the chill air beside a pile of dislodged mountain rocks. Catching his reflection in the car window, bordered by the imposing landscape, he wonders if a little change could be a good thing.
At Thiksey Monastery, Rajesh struggles a bit less with the staircases and can even carry up a second cup of coffee. From the top landing, as a curious monk raises an eyebrow at his huffing, Rajesh gazes out at the sand-colored terrain. Mountains stand tall on either side, connected by a thin river that runs through the valley. Willows and poplars rise to the sky beside a smattering of single-story homes. In Chennai, development seems to fill every available inch of earth and sky, forming walls of residence and commerce. Here, there is land that serves no purpose other than being land.
Rajesh hears a low rumble as he admires the scene and in seconds it becomes a thundering noise. He lunges forward and cowers under the railing, fearful of what natural disasters could occur in this strange land. The monk simply gestures up at the sky and Rajesh watches a flock of fighter jets blast through the air. Rohan stands tall in salute beside him.
Their route continues through the pleasant dale. They drive for miles past military encampments sprawled between beautiful hills and Rajesh has nothing to say. Tashi and the others wave at the sepoys. They fill their phones with photos of furry yaks and of military trucks packed with soldiers, bunched together and splaying their limbs outwards, like filaments of a lethal flower.
Their van stops at a tract of lush, bubbling streams. Soldiers are having picnics in small groups. A handful are kicking a soccer ball through a meadow of lavender flowers. Chinnu dashes off to join their game before Rajesh can say no. Lavanya, who always sides with her son, tries to wrap an arm around her husband’s elbow. He grunts and shakes his arm free.
Rajesh strides forward and plunges his hand into a frigid stream. He wipes it slowly over his brow to clean the valley’s dust from his skin. The water cools his temper, as does the sound of Chinnu’s voice speaking joyful Tamil to one of the soldiers. Rajesh takes a sip and wets his lips with fresh water. He wonders how the lavenders beside him could find this lush square mile within a wilted, dry region. Perhaps they were planted, or perhaps that was how nature worked, blowing its seeds about, knowing a lucky few would thrive.
It was a month ago that Chinnu delivered the news with a letter. Rajesh expected good news about a college acceptance, perhaps even Anna University. Instead, his only child had enlisted in the military. Rajesh revolted at the thought of him leaving Chennai for some distant and dangerous post; he felt betrayed. His shaking hands placed the letter back in his son’s.
“No,” he’d said, shaking his head at Chinnu. He wouldn’t allow it.
Decades before, Rajesh had delivered his own letter—an acceptance to graduate studies in Sydney. Rajesh’s father had torn the paper to shreds and dropped them at his feet. As Rajesh stood there cracked in two, his father said he’d at least get him married, as that would distract him. He ordered Rajesh to go and change into better clothes before he took him to meet Lavanya’s parents, the very same day. On the way, his father had told him that his life could not just be his own. There would always be give and take in a family.
Chinnu still frowned at him, waiting for a reason.
“We can go to Ladakh,” Rajesh offered. “Bring me that brochure you found.”
Tashi calls out that it’s time to leave. Chinnu shakes hands with the other soccer players and rushes back. They all board the van, and it grumbles back to life. Rajesh grits his teeth and studies his reflection in the side mirror.
Soon, they come upon Chang La Pass, an imposing, winding road, whose height no one wants to acknowledge. A narrow dirt path without railings snakes to the top of the peak. At its entrance, Sawang stops the car. He prays to the steering wheel and palms a string of prayer beads. “Om Mani Padme Hum,” he whispers again and again as the car lurches forward over rocks, bumps, and minor brooks.
Tashi gathers the group’s attention as the valley below melts away. “Lady and gentlemen! Now we begin our ascent up Chang La. You may feel dizziness, nausea—I have medicine for that!” She hands out pills to Chinnu and Lavanya but Rajesh doesn’t even look back at her. “You may feel fear—I have Sawang for that! He’s driven this very route for three decades.” She holds up three fingers on her hand and waves it around the car like incense. The rehearsed pitch doesn’t ease Rajesh’s budding anxiety as the car winds higher and higher. “Focus on the beauty,” Tashi instructs them.
Against his best judgment, Rajesh looks to his left at the steep drop of several thousand feet, down jagged rocks. He feels his entire body tighten, as if someone had pulled up a zipper from his toes to his forehead. The view is breathtaking as promised. A sort of oasis surrounds each curling stream in the dale, creating strips of lush greenery amid the desolate land. All horizons are blocked by mountains, ensuring there is no path out of here besides rising above these behemoths.
The vehicle rounds a sharp corner and a few yards down the cliffside, Rajesh sees a mangled car door, wedged between two boulders. He can just make out the red print on the window: “Tourist Vehicle On Duty,” the same lettering that’s on his own window. He slams his head back against the seat and looks forward, at a narrow passage that now feels like a tunnel straight to his demise. He doesn’t dare mention it to the others.
In the rearview mirror, he sees Lavanya’s blank expression as she stares into her phone, while Chinnu whispers to Tashi about her travels. They’re oblivious and happy. Cars are traveling in both directions, causing traffic jams and incessant honks. The drivers inch around each other on switchbacks and tease the cliff’s edge as they climb and climb. Rajesh begins muttering his morning mantras to stave off panic and Sawang grows competitive as he increases the volume of his own chant.
“It’s beautiful,” Lavanya says, breaking the silence.
“Hare Ram!” Rajesh yells, letting out his fear.
“I’m glad you’re so moved!” Tashi says.
“Appa? You okay?” Chinnu asks.
“Stop the car,” Rajesh orders, his stomach rising to his throat.
“No, no. Traffic,” replies Sawang as he twists the wheel with both hands onto an even narrower portion of the path. An army jeep tailgates them, honking and driving too fast.
“Now!” Rajesh demands, but Sawang pushes their van further towards the edge to make room. The jeep’s passengers wave as they pass but Rajesh focuses on the abyss beyond the road, edging closer and closer. He clutches his roaring chest with a gasp. Lavanya yelps in Tamil. He lunges to the right and turns Sawang’s steering towards the middle of the road. The van swerves over a pile of rocks and all five of them are in the air for a long moment before they land with a thud. Sawang bears down on the steering wheel with all his weight to course correct and brings the car to a halt. Sawang turns to Rajesh and yells. The look on his face translates for Rajesh: What was he thinking?
Rajesh’s body folds in on itself like an umbrella. He tumbles out of the van and vomits the contents of his breakfast over the side of the precipice. Traffic slows to a halt. Honks burrow into his ears and prod his heart to a frenzy. The rocky path cuts into his knees, and he can’t get a proper grip as his body shudders, considering the lethal fall before him.
Chinnu drags his frame backwards by his armpits to rest against the van’s tire. His son brushes off traces of vomit from his denim jacket. The father holds his son’s face in his hands, feeling the way his jaw has grown and jutted out as a man’s does. Chinnu’s face most resembles his own when the younger is worried: grave, lopsided, clenched tight. Then, Chinnu surprises him. He sits cross-legged, faces the sun, and recites his neglected prayers to perfection, thanking the Gods for a disaster averted, in the same way Rajesh would intone them, and the same way Rajesh’s Appa had.
The act of devotion turns Rajesh’s rapid, shallow breaths into deep sighs. The valley can be beautiful again now that it is not his end: a bright afternoon sun overlooks a basin both desolate and fertile, depending where his sight falls. That’s the trick, he realizes, the difference between him and Chinnu: they’re seldom looking at the same place.
Lavanya appears by his side and demands he take altitude medicine. Rajesh gulps the pill without a word. He hugs his wife. Rising, he bows his head to Tashi and Sawang, who nod back at him. This is as much as he can apologize. “Let’s go,” he commands, but it falls out as more of a suggestion.
At the summit, colorful prayer flags of red, blue, yellow, green, and white grace the path and are tied around every building and monument. The others explore a monastery, so Rajesh saunters around the peak of Chang La alone, marveling at all the people who have left their mark on this place. Tourists sip chai and take selfies by the cliff’s edge. Happy families on happy vacations, Rajesh assumes. At a lookout point, he can view the trail they’ve just ascended. A road carved with fleeting permission from nature, enough to make anyone humble.
“Appa!” His son calls out to him with love. “Lucky for you, Tamil people are everywhere.” Chinnu cranes his neck toward a dosa stall as he hands Rajesh a steel cup and saucer.
“Oh, God,” Rajesh mutters, for the smell is indeed divine. He finds himself turning in a circle as he pours the foaming filter coffee out of the cup, so he can mosey over to the best possible view and perch on a rocky seat. The cold chills his brew for him but he puckers his lips and blows on it out of habit. The first sip makes his head nod side-to-side unconsciously, as if he’s listening to other fathers at his local coffee stall. The gift of being himself, even in this faraway haven, makes his spine straighter and enlivens his spirits like a good whiskey. He could even get used to this, dropping himself into strange locales to see what of himself remained.
Chinnu takes the saucer and has a few loud slurps of his own. He nods, as if to say that he understands the appeal. “Let’s go,” his son commands.
As it happens, Pangong Lake is more than deserving of being called world-famous. In a glen between imposing peaks, the water is a pristine teal in the center, with many shades of light and dark blue on its shores. Rajesh gazes up with wonder at the many ridges running down the mountainsides, like the branches of a great, watchful tree. A few hundred tourists are already mulling about but there is still a haunting quiet upon the breeze. He inhales the pristine air in full, thanks to the altitude medicine, and commits this sight to memory.
At Tashi’s insistence, they pose for a picture with props from 3 Idiots. Rajesh feels a pinch of irony, knowing the film is about following one’s heart. In the photo, Chinnu grins from ear to ear, as he does in all his photos. Rajesh, too, once had no trouble displaying the happiness inside him. He asks Tashi to take another, and he smiles wider.
Tashi points to the horizon. “To our right, at the far end of the lake that you can’t even see, is China. Once upon a time, tourists would be treated to a boat ride towards the border. But now, you can be shot for approaching!”
“I don’t like that,” Rajesh declares. “If you come all this way, you should be able to row on the lake.” Lavanya turns to look at him, as if to ask where this new desire for adventure has arisen. He wants to tell her that he’ll be open to more, even hang gliding if she still desires it. He shrugs.
“Such is life near Kashmir, no? A heap of beauty, a little danger, and a lot of borders.”
“Well said, Tashi.” Rajesh’s chin scrunches up. All he’d ever done was give his son borders. He spots a cluster of boulders by the water’s edge and waves for Chinnu to follow him there. They take seats beside each other on the same rock.
Rajesh looks to the west, where the sun is setting behind the ridged mountains. The water appears meager, hardly strong enough to travel all the way to another country. He raises his knees and folds his arms across them, hiding his belly. “How do you like this? World-famous, right?”
Chinnu grins and strokes the budding stubble on his chin. “Appa,” he questions, “can we still go to Khardung La tomorrow, drive the highest road in the world? If you’re okay?”
“If that’s what you want.” He throws an arm around his son and Chinnu turns to acknowledge the rare gesture. A blanket of dusk falls around them. The breeze nips at their cheeks. Sunsets are sunsets, but their setting can change everything, can even make them bewitching.
Rajesh feels young again, nothing to hold on to and everything to grasp. Within himself, he discovers a world of possibilities at once, firing like rockets. A world he wants to give the son who now looks up, who always looks up, to the skies. Soon, they will be surrounded by stars they could never see back home.
ABHIJITH RAVINUTALA is an Indian-American writer based in Austin, Texas, and a 2026 Writer’s League of Texas Fellow. For as long as he can remember, his favorite skill was telling stories, but it took him quite a while to try and make a career of it. His work explores the intersections of culture, faith, and loss in immigrant identity. Abhijith’s fiction is published or forthcoming in The Southern Review, Glimmer Train, The Chicago Tribune, Bat City Review, and others. He’s currently querying his debut novel and short story collection. Find him on Instagram @tubbyabhi.
Featured image by Raimond Klavins, courtesy of Unsplash.
