'Don't you know that it's worth every treasure on Earth to be young at heart?
For as rich as you are, it's much better by far, To be young at heart…'' Shair hummed the Frank Sinatra tune. The party had been a success; he'd reconnected with old friends and basked in the attention of the country's social and political elite.
Begum Zubaida, though amused by her son's lightheartedness, was not to be deterred. "Shair," she began, her tone turning serious, "what did you think of Abidah?"
Shair's carefree demeanour faltered. He stared at his mother for a moment, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features, before regaining his composure. "Mother, dear! Abidah is a child of fourteen. Fourteen! Please, Ma. I'm not interested in her, or the thought of marriage, for that matter." He let out a slow, exasperated sigh.
"The younger, the better," Begum Zubaida retorted, shaking her head. "Girls adapt more easily at a young age. The older they get, the more difficult it becomes for them to adjust to a new household."
"Ma, please," Shair sighed. "I just got home. Can we not discuss this now? Let's leave this for another time." He changed the subject abruptly. "Speaking of family matters, I've been meaning to ask… I was thinking about those orphanages and homes for the refugees, the ones Abba was so passionate about. Why didn't you ever complete the orphanage he had planned?"
Begum Zubaida waved a dismissive hand. "I simply didn't have the time," she said, her voice curt. Her gaze, however, flickered out the car window, a subtle shift that hinted at a deeper, unvoiced reason. A shadow, fleeting as a passing cloud, crossed her features, quickly masked by her customary composure.
"You had time for the house in Murree," Shair pressed, "and for buying and renovating commercial properties. Why not the orphanage?" His tone was insistent, bordering on accusatory. His mother, however, simply looked away, refusing to answer.
A long silence hung between them. Finally, Shair shifted the conversation again. "On a lighter note," he said, a hint of forced cheerfulness in his voice, "I'm upgrading our cars." He paused, letting the information sink in. "I've ordered a Mercedes 190 SL for myself. Would you prefer a Buick, a Chevrolet, or another Mercedes?"
As their car pulled into the driveway, Begum Zubaida turned to her son, a faint, almost predatory smile playing on her lips. Her face, moments before expressionless, now held a glint of determination. "Nawab Shair Bahadur Khan," she said, her voice firm, "this was never a matter of discussion. People of our standing do not mingle with the masses. You need a wife who will do justice to your position. Enjoy your amusements, by all means. But when you marry, you will marry Abidah."
Begum Zubaida's strength of will was evident in every aspect of her life. She was a woman who commanded respect, even in a male-dominated society. Even when she was a captivating young widow with no living relative to assist her on this side of the Indo-Pak border, she had built a life of influence and social prominence for herself and her son. No one dared cross her.
As Shair followed his mother into the house, he knew she had made her choice. Abidah was the perfect wife… for someone else. He felt no attraction to her, neither to her social standing nor to her perceived naivety. He wasn't sure what he was looking for in a wife, but he knew it wasn't her.
Oh well, he thought wearily, there's no hurry. This can wait. He was tired and eager to escape to the solitude of his room. By the time he settled into bed, the thought of marriage seemed as distant as London. He was tired, and tomorrow was Sunday; the hunting trip awaited.
***
The centuries-old ownership of thousands of acres west of Lahore and the influence that came with it had bestowed upon Shair's family the title of "Nawab" of Kot Bahadur Khan. Among the five villages encompassed by the Nawabs' lands, this one stood as the largest and most prosperous. Its agricultural product had always been sufficient for past generations, and its continued bounty promised ample financial security for future generations alike.
The day-to-day management of these vast estates fell to the munshi sahib. Loyal to his core, he represented the third generation of his family to hold this position. He took immense pride and wielded considerable power in meticulously overseeing every financial transaction. Following a long-standing tradition, he arrived at the haveli early each morning to report any issues that arose and receive instructions on how to resolve them from the head of the family. Although Shair had held signatory rights on all their bank accounts since coming of age, his mother, Begum Zubaida, educated by nuns at her convent school, maintained meticulous control over the family's investments, effectively shielding him from financial worries. The orphanage, therefore, became Shair's first independent project.
He engaged Mr Tajjudin, a renowned Karachi-based architect, recommended by Ms Jinnah, and tasked him with creating a modern, state-of-the-art facility that prioritised both comfort and practicality. To ensure the building met the specific needs of its future residents, Shair consulted with Mr and Mrs Irfan, the dedicated self-proclaimed caretakers of the makeshift orphanage set in the nawab-guest house.
Irfan was a hardworking, traditional man of simple values. The youngest of five siblings, he had achieved considerable success, owning a thriving grocery shop at a central location in Delhi. Long before Partition, he and his petite wife, Tabassum, discovered that the latter was unable to bear children. This, however, was never a concern, as they lived in his ancestral home with his extended family, who had numerous children. Tabassum, too, seemed content. Irfan deeply respected her unconditional love and devotion to him and his family, especially considering she had been a stranger to him before their arranged marriage. However, over time, he witnessed an increase in his family's relentless demands on Tabassum. Simply because she was childless, they relegated her to the role of a servant, burdening her with kitchen duties, laundry, and cleaning, taking cruel advantage of Irfan's respect for them. When his relatives, who had orchestrated the marriage, began pressuring him to remarry so he could have children, Irfan knew he had to act.
Freedom, indeed, has many facets. For Sheikh Irfan Mahmoud, it meant escaping the tyranny of his family. He sold his thriving shop and, with Tabassum, moved to the newly formed nation of Pakistan. Their first night was spent in the makeshift shelter at the guest house, and it was there, amidst the uncertainty, that Irfan experienced a profound sense of purpose. He felt it as a divine calling: what better way to spend their lives than caring for children who had lost their families? It was a perfect fit, a match made in heaven. These children would become their family, and he and Tabassum would be theirs. This new building, therefore, represented more than just an orphanage; it was to be their home, and Shair, in a way, their saviour.