Discovering the Power of Minimalism

Raymond Carver (1938–1988) stands as one of the most influential American short story writers of the 20th century.

Carver transformed ordinary lives. Failed marriages, economic struggle, and quiet desperation turned into profound literature through sparse, precise prose. His stories feel like fleeting photographs. Unflinching, intimate, and deeply human.

Carver’s breakthrough collection What We Talk About When We Talk About Love (1981) redefined contemporary fiction. 

Edited by Gordon Lish (expect a post on him), these stories showcase his signature minimalist style. Short sentences, withheld information, and endings that linger like smoke. 

In "Cathedral," a prejudiced man’s worldview cracks open during an evening with a blind visitor, culminating in one of literature’s most moving final paragraphs:

“I was in my house. I knew that. But I didn’t feel like I was inside anything. It was like nothing in my life, the place where I was.”

Another favorite, "A Small, Good Thing," explores grief, misunderstanding, and unexpected kindness in the aftermath of a child’s death. Carver’s later work, especially in Cathedral (1983), shows a subtle shift toward redemption and grace while retaining emotional honesty.

His own life was marked by alcoholism, poverty, and eventual sobriety. All that infused his writing with authenticity. As he once reflected: “I’m a writer who is interested in the drama of ordinary human beings.” 

 How To Sell Your Soul

For the life of me, I couldn’t say anything helpful or sympathetic to Rashi. Because we were partially hidden from other people in the park, I placed my arm around her delicate shoulders and held her tight. After a long moment of hesitation, she relaxed and threw her slim frame against mine. She silently sobbed into my hands till she ran out of tears and breath. I waited for her to say something, but she wouldn’t say a word, not today.

“I am with you no matter what you do,” I said.

Rashi sat still, as if trying to match her breath against mine. It grew darker and quieter in the park, and the pole lights blinked on along the walking track, among the trees and beyond the vast park. The massive neem trees with their entangled branches above us threw strange shadows as a light November breeze caught on. The chill had begun to set in. Most people shuffled up from the slatted benches around us and made for the gate.

“Let’s go,” Rashi finally made up her mind and shook my wrists.

We walked swiftly out and climbed into her plush SUV. She drove straight to the hospital. It was almost dinner time, well past the official visiting hours, when she parked in the dank, poorly lit basement. The corridors along the special rooms were shiny clean, and deserted as we walked out of the elevator on the seventh floor. Rashi held my hand and showed her Family Entry Pass to the security guard on duty. We entered the soundproof, air-conditioned room 708.

The hiss of the respiratory machine was low and rhythmic. The heartbeat monitor showed a regular pattern - two irregular spikes of different height and elongated, lazy waves in between. The catheter hanging from the stand, with its tube running under the patient’s blanket was almost out of IV fluid. Without realizing, I held my breath against the smell of stale urine, antibiotics and overpowering disinfectant sprayed in the room. Rashi pulled the curtains and switched on another light to dispel the gathering gloom in the room.

Rashi’s father suddenly opened his distant grey eyes and struggled to lift his free hand under the hospital blanket. The blanket slid down from the bed and the old man lay there exposed and crumpled, various tubes running into his frail body, and his cotton gown pulled down at an absurd angle.

Rashi quickly grabbed the blanket and covered her father as I heard a series of discreet knocks on the door.

“Must be the nurse,” Rashi said without turning as she adjusted the tubes to a comfortable position.

I opened the door and let the nurse in. She asked us to wait outside till she cleaned up, and changed the bed sheets and catheter. Rashi and I waited in the deserted corridor.

“Dad has pleaded with me so many times, but I don’t have the guts,” Rashi said. “He could never ask this to anyone else. Not my brother, certainly not my kid sister. Mom is way beyond this. I am his favorite, the cursed one.”

I looked up and down along the long corridor. We had nothing to say to each other till the nurse walked out and signaled us to go in.

“He is awake, but do not make him talk if he doesn’t want to," the nurse said and left in a hurry.

Rashi’s father opened his eyes when we entered the room again. Rashi, the favorite daughter, ever so gently removed the transparent plastic tube from his mouth and kissed his shiny, sweating forehead. She whispered something gently in his ears. The father’s eyes came alive for a moment and tears rolled down his sunken, bluish cheeks.

“Water,” he tried to clear his throat and whispered after a moment of struggle.

Rashi reached for her purse and pulled out a fist-sized copper urn with Sanskrit engravings - the water of the holy Ganges. She deftly broke the soft metal lid. I held my breath as Rashi poured a few drops into her father’s dry, delicate mouth.

“Thank you dear. I trust you and your judgment. Now and forever.” His voice was breathless, scratchy, and barely audible.

Rashi held the old man in the crook of her arm and kissed his head again. Her face now totally devoid of any expression, she replaced the Oxygen mask on her father’s nose and looked at me for a second. She leaned on the instrument panel behind the headboard. I stood still, unable to react in any way. Rashi twisted the metal lever marked Oxygen to the Off position.

In less than five seconds, her father convulsed briefly and violently in her arms. The heartbeat monitor emitted a steady warning beep and showed a straight green line instead of the usual oscillations.

Rashi twisted the lever again to the On position and chose to wait for the nurse to make everything legal and official. She gently closed her father's popped eyes and straightened the blanket over his lifeless body.

© Copyright Mahendra Waghela

Summer in Ahmedabad reminds me of winter in Bhutan

        Last winter, I was in Bhutan, probably the happiest place on earth, and topper in the negative carbon footprint index. Our trek, the Tiger’s Nest, perched atop a mountain cliff like something out of a dream. 

        We started early from Phuntsholing, a town near the India border. The temperature hovered between 5 and zero degrees. Our group of six and our wonderful local guide Sonam. He wore the traditional gho — sounds ghostly, but at least it is pronounceable. This knee-length skirt-like garment is paired with a matching jacket that serves as the national dress. 

         We had seen the Nest’s photos in travel brochures: its whitewashed walls and golden roofs clinging impossibly to a sheer granite cliff, with a final heart-stopping drop (and climb) of 800 feet. The travel posters don’t do justice to the reality. Or the challenge. 

        Our base Paro, the nearest pronounceable town, is a picturesque valley settlement straight out of a fairy tale, with small restaurants, a disco(!!!!), and squeaky clean streets lined with antique shops and cafe-bakeries that serve pink butter tea as thick as it can get. 

        Three of us were over sixty, including a retired policeman from Kerala and his friend. The night before the hike, they opted out. That left a young Marwari couple on their honeymoon, an IT girl from Bangalore who had undergone a cosmetic surgery, our sporty 40-something guide and yours truly.

        The early dinner turned dramatic and a bit sad. The newlywed couple fought at the table. The bride broke down and cried. The level-headed IT executive tried to console her. To ease the tension (and to cut back on my craving), I shared my sinfully rich cheesecake for dessert. I had bought it during the pre-dinner stroll and kept it in the fridge. I don’t know if it worked, but the couple decided to opt out of the Tiger’s Nest climb. 

         Our guide suggested a gentler trek for them and turned to the rest of us: “Do you still want to go? Three of us. Thin air, cold and steep climbs?” 

        We started before dawn. On an empty stomach. The trail was uneven, the air thin, and the views increasingly breathtaking as we progressed. The cold bit at our faces, but the anticipation kept us moving. I had tea, skipped breakfast, and deposited my heavy jacket, muffler, and thermos at the only restaurant on the way. 

        Now, the 8th-century lore about the nest. The great tantric master Guru Rinpoche (also known as Padmasambhava - probably pronounceable) brought Buddhism to the Himalayan kingdom. Unlike us, he didn’t arrive on foot or horseback. Instead, his enlightened consort, Yeshe Tsogyal (no, your pronunciation is wrong!), transformed herself into a flying tigress. On her back, Guru soared through the skies and landed in a small cave halfway up the sheer cliff. 

        For centuries, the cave remained hidden. In 1692, the Fourth Druk Desi (almost pronounceable!), secular ruler of Bhutan, Tenzin Rabgye (don’t try!!), ordered the construction of the magnificent monastery complex. Built in a few years without a single fatality (no small miracle, according to locals), the temples seem to defy gravity, clinging to the rock at over 10,000 feet above sea level. 

        Hours later, the guide and I reached the monastery all in one piece, tired but triumphant. Inside the temple, a tourist separated from his bunch cornered me and whispered, “I am from Hong Kong. Not China.” 

        The IT girl had wisely skipped the last 1000-odd steps. Sheer drop and climb. My knee brace felt like a burden by now. Climbing down was easier in the fading sunlight. We regrouped on the way and rode back in the waiting vehicle. 

         Back at the hotel (the best room with a view I have ever stayed in), I returned my climbing stick to the girl at the reception. She grinned and said cheekily, “My grandpa has done this climb many times!” 

PS. This is less about climbing and more about wanting to climb.

An unparalleled journey into the depths of darkness!

Ancient Curse features a handpicked selection of bone-chilling stories from horror authors around the world. My story Boomerang Scar in Volume Two!

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ConversAn unparalleled journey into the depths of darAncient Curse features a handpicked selection of bone-chilling stories from horror authors around the world. My story Boomerang Scar in VolumAn unaprllel journey into the depa portion of proceeds goes towards the care of street animals.My story Boomerang Scar in this anthology of the best horror writers from the world. Lulu link in the sidebar.

 Results In: The Judgment Day

The results came in on the net at 7.30. I downloaded the file at the cafe and returned home at about 9.30. Only my younger sister knew the exact date and time, most probably. I walked into the front door and froze for a moment because Dad was on his first whiskey, going by the level in the bottle. It was not Friday, but it was one of those nights for Dad. He may have more than two but, there won't be ice or soda in the fridge, mom would make sure. Dad poured a spoonful of ketchup on his chips and sprinkled black pepper on the salad as if there was no tomorrow. He emptied his tumbler. Chini walked in and stood over the proceedings without fear of repercussion because being the youngest daughter, she had some advantage over us.

"Dad, Mom says dinner is ready," she announced as I slinked into my room. I stood next to the door, trying to catch the conversation. Beyond two drinks or 10.15 pm, dinner would be ice cold, my mother's iron-clad rule. Dad wouldn't go out after drinks or bother to turn on the stove to warm the food. Meaning I would go get something for him. That rarely happened. 

Chinni sat down next to Dad.

"Shanu results came on the net, a few hours back."

"11nth?" Dad asked and took a sip.

"12th. I am in 10th."

"Of course."

"No college in the city will take him under 90% on the mark sheet.

"Hmm."

"No one in the state will touch him for entrance if it's less than 70%."

"Hmm."

" Are you with me Dad?

"What's his score?"

"Dad, you know this, he tells no one. This is not a test match score we are talking about."

"Hmm."

"You should be talking to the nutjob girl he is moving with. Her dad works in RTO. He can get you a driving license without showing up. Changes his car every two years."

"Is that how you want your license? Without a test?"

"No. I am for the test."

"Later. I'll finish dinner soon."

"You'll forget by the time you eat dinner." 

Chini answered her phone and went out to see her friends nearby.

I closed the door and waited behind the wall as the TV volume went up. Finally, my dad walked in and sat down on a chair facing my table, diagonally across the bed. I silenced the game on the phone.

"Chini reminded me. Who knows? But I might forget this conversation or your score in the morning."

Dad has two distinct modus operandi. Immediate marching orders without much regard for the consequences. Or prolonged, studied silence till the moment is ripe for maximum damage to the opponent. I didn't have to wait.

"Do you have the printout or do you see it on-screen these days?"

Untitled Chef

A glossy cookery book, not a grown man’s hunger,

That cast an irrational, evening spell

And set the strange chain reaction of

Wayward memories and misty images.


The aroma of onions rings fried to golden brown perfection,

That mixed with the special dough fermented overnight

To achieve a rare, fluffy consistency the following day.


The Interminable wait as I sneaked around our cramped kitchen

Eyeing the old-fashioned pressure pan on blazing blue gas flame,

Forgetting the coins on my carom board and my classroom buddies.


The steaming dish would finally arrive on Formica centre table;

Thick, round, sizzling, crunchy monster masala handwa loaf

Laden with dabs of melting butter and spices on top,

And a deep China saucer full of secret-recipe chutney,

Held with the wrinkled white hands and smile of my shiny-eyed mother.