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…
Much like Rajesh, the protagonist of this story, I found myself in a cab winding up one of the highest roads in the world in Ladakh, India. It was the only way to see Pangong Lake, the biggest tourist draw of the region. Unfortunately, we had no tour guide like this story’s Tashi to keep us distracted.
When our driver started winding up this road, I was momentarily shocked that such a narrow path had two-way traffic. Momentarily only because it was India, after all, and I shouldn’t have been surprised by my home country. Nothing there gets to serve just one purpose.
The driver was calm, muttering Buddhist chants to himself for good luck, while I looked to my left at the disappearing valley, and the looming mountains, and felt my heart ready to burst. I was terrified each time the car’s tire approached the unprotected edge of the road. I looked back at my wife and friend in the back seat. All of us were reluctant to speak, as if words would add just enough weight to throw us off balance.
I can’t say I felt any creative muse while on that road. But when I reflected on it afterwards, I thought of the dichotomy between control and trust. For that agonizing car ride, my life was not in my control. I’d given that up to the driver in the name of trust. I do that when I board a plane as well, but in Ladakh, the possibility of death stared at me from the edge of the road.
That dichotomy reminded me of the decisions parents contend with. Often in Indian culture, parents retain control well into their child’s adulthood. Of course, like everywhere, things are changing. Individuality and independence are pushing up against traditions of collectivism and sacrifice. That was the seed of this story. That, and the terrible coffee in my hotel room.
Lastly, I’ve wanted to publish in CRAFT since reading it in my first fiction workshop in 2019, so I’d be remiss not to include a brief note about the story’s evolution. In the original draft, Chinnu was a girl with no interest in the military. Rajesh had pages more backstory, including a bit about his own father making money from creating statues for aquariums. The story was called “Fringes,” and it started and ended with the image of filter coffee.
In my opinion, much of the work of revising short stories is in ensuring every aspect connects to the others. Within the limited real estate of this form, loose edges have to be sanded away until just one central truth remains. Once that truth has led the character to possibility, despite any scary, winding roads along the way, you’ve got something. That’s what I hope I’ve achieved here. I hope you enjoy.
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.
