Sameer Gudhate presents the Book Review of All The Things We Don’t Say by Raina Bindal

Imagine this: you’re on a train, the hum of wheels against tracks lulling you into that half-dreamy state where thoughts wander. You pull out a slim book — just 72 pages, light in your hands — thinking, I’ll read a story or two before my stop. And then, suddenly, the world outside the window blurs because the world inside the pages has cracked something open in you. That was my experience with Raina Bindal’s debut, All The Things We Don’t Say.

Bindal isn’t writing sweeping epics or grand tragedies here. Instead, she gives us fifteen short stories — each like a small, clear shard of glass — that catch the light differently depending on how you hold them. The collection moves across cultures, languages, and inner landscapes, but the common thread is silence: the words left unsaid, the battles fought quietly, the identities stitched together in the shadows.

There’s a rawness in her prose that I loved. It’s simple without being shallow, pared down yet resonant. She doesn’t clutter her sentences with embellishment; she lets silence do part of the talking. At times the writing feels almost conversational, like a friend leaning across the table to confess something they’ve never told anyone. Other times it carries the weight of a whisper that lingers longer than a shout. The pacing works beautifully with this minimalism — each story is short enough to read in a breath but leaves you with an aftertaste that stays for hours.

The characters, though fleeting in the time we spend with them, feel achingly real. A boy quietly suffocating under the pressure of perfect grades. A girl shrinking into herself because that feels safer than taking up space. A refugee clutching memories of a homeland that doesn’t quite exist anymore. Mei’s story of panic and the slow realization that help exists struck me deeply — perhaps because we’ve all been there, trying to carry storms inside without letting the world see. Another that stayed was Marie-Ann’s story of friendship dissolving, that universal ache of realizing not all promises made in childhood can withstand the tide of change.

Structurally, Bindal weaves her stories like beads on a string — distinct, self-contained, yet together forming a quiet, reflective rhythm. There are no elaborate twists or shocking reveals; the power lies in the restraint, in the decision to show us lives in fragments rather than full arcs. That might frustrate some readers — I’ll admit, a part of me longed for a few stories to stretch their legs, to dive deeper. But perhaps that’s the point: some stories in life are cut short, unfinished, and we’re left to hold the echoes.

The themes are ones we don’t talk about enough: identity, belonging, mental health, the invisible bruises carried under polished surfaces. There’s something profoundly universal about them. Reading this as someone who’s often felt caught between expectations and reality, I found myself nodding, pausing, remembering. It made me think of the times I too carried words I never said, how silence can weigh heavier than any spoken truth. And isn’t that the magic of literature — to remind us that even in our loneliest thoughts, we’re not alone?

What Bindal does especially well is honesty. There’s no melodrama here, no heavy-handed moralizing. She trusts her readers to sit with discomfort, to recognize themselves in the quiet cracks. The strongest pieces glow with empathy and restraint. That said, a few stories felt like sketches more than portraits — brief impressions that flickered out too quickly. For me, the emotional depth varied: some cut straight to the bone, while others, though still lovely, didn’t linger as long.

Still, as a debut, it’s a striking one. It reminded me a little of Jhumpa Lahiri’s Interpreter of Maladies in its exploration of displacement and silence, though Bindal’s voice is distinctly her own — younger, perhaps more tentative, but equally sincere. I’d recommend this book to anyone who enjoys short stories that don’t scream for attention but rather sit beside you quietly, like a companion on a long night.

When I finished, I closed the book and sat still for a while, hearing the hum of my own unspoken thoughts. That’s the gift Bindal gives us — not answers, not neat resolutions, but a mirror held up to all the things we carry but rarely say aloud.

If you’re looking for something heartfelt, relatable, and quietly powerful, this little collection is worth your time. I’d call it a 4 out of 5 — not flawless, but deeply affecting in ways that matter more than polish. And who knows? Maybe it’ll stir up some of your unsaid things too.

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