As an empirical observation at any rate, short stories seem more in vogue than they were even a few years ago. Exactly why isn't clear: the claim sometimes made that individual short stories are more suitable for reading on portable devices doesn't explain publishers putting out more collections as books.

But the result is that readers who wish to sample an author or the literature of a country now have an increasing range of choices other than novels. And if one wants to sample contemporary Indian writing, one could hardly do better than One Point Two Billion, a new collection of stories by Mahesh Rao. These are pretty much everything short fiction should be: well-crafted, interesting and illuminating.

There are several strands in Indian fiction in English today, including the new popular light fiction almost entirely for the domestic market, typified by such authors as Chetan Bhagat; translations of works originally in India's various national and regional languages; and finally, a traditional strain that is in many ways part of mainstream English-language literature by such authors as, to pick a name, Anita Desai. Rao fits pretty squarely in the last of these.

The stories are wide-ranging, covering all classes of society, protagonists of both genders and all ages, modernity and traditionalism, and using tones ranging from pathos to sarcasm. The settings include a yoga retreat, a remote tea plantation in the hills, a cola factory, a Rajasthani family estate, an upscale restaurant, a downmarket cafe and the forest region of the Naxalite insurgency. The stories involve a father-in-law falling in love with his son's wife, the legacy of a mass murder, a drowning, censorship of schoolbooks, corruption, the film industry and any number of families and individuals made dysfunctional by tragedy.

The collection's somewhat grandiloquent title and the fact that each of the thirteen stories is apparently set in a different Indian province—the non-Indian reader may need a better-than-average grasp of Indian geography to realize this—implies that Rao is making a statement about the country as a whole. Perhaps he is, but the title might also be in ironic opposition to the size of the stories, most of which resemble intricate fist-sized carvings rather than large tapestries.

Rao's writing is polished both in language and structure. Several of the stories, if not most, are deliberately deceptive. A highly unreliable narration tells one story whereas the real story is something else, hidden, unravelling slowly or revealed suddenly at the end. Almost all the stories grow out of the characters, their emotions and conflicts; little if anything is forced.

Rao has also a penchant for description. In the story "Eternal Bliss" about the yoga retreat catering to foreigners, which plays out like a subversive take on "The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel", the number two at the centre is called Santosh: "He had overheard snatches of conversation between guests discussing the transformative nature of their spiritual experiences at the centre. Santosh was unsure what it all meant, but had concluded that he had transformative powers too. He was the second in command in a place that attracted people who were much more worldly and educated that him. They must have, therefore, recognized something special in him. He wondered whether he was the reincarnation of an important historical figure. Unable to decide but keen to distinguish himself, he had taken a loan and bought a new motorbike."

Several stories feature this gentle, or not-so-gentle, sarcasm. Another character is described as: "His chin would have been weak but the corresponding frailty of his jaw."

But Rao can wield pathos as well. "The Agony of Leaves" is set in a tea estate in the Nilgiri Hills. There is nothing to do and when a man falls in love with his daughter-in-law, small misunderstandings and daydreaming slowly accumulate into a tragedy brought about by age and loneliness.

The story is filled with sounds and smells of water and tea. In this and the other stories, Rao's language and imagery linger.

Peter Gordon is an editor of the Asian Review of Books

Reprinted with permission from The Asian Review of Books